“Remember that artist we had in to make sketches of us all for a group picture?” they cried. “That was the miniature painter. It was you he was sketching all the time.”
Trader thanked them solemnly. And indeed, he was delighted with the present. Said he’d keep it all his life in memory of the good days spent in their company. And he might have said more if they hadn’t shouted, “Shut up! Shut up! It’s time for a song.”
Young Crosbie, a small, sandy-haired Scotsman, was at the piano. He’d made up a song. Well, to be precise, he was making up a song, aided by all the other good fellows there. Garstin, Standish, Swann, Giles, Humphreys—jolly chaps from all the agencies. And Charlie Farley, too, of course.
—
Ernest Read smiled and took a leisurely puff at his cigar. The American was a barrel of a man. Short-cropped hair, big brown mustache. Twenty-eight years old, but as worldly-wise as a man of forty. A good oarsman. A man’s man. A ladies’ man, too. He glanced at John Trader. “They’re giving you a pretty good send-off, Trader. When do you leave?”
“Three days.”
“We may meet again, then. I’m taking a trip to Macao before I make my way back home.”
“I’m always glad of good company,” John answered. He didn’t ask the American what his own business was. Read seemed the kind of man who would give information if and when he wanted to.
“So you’re going into the China trade,” Read continued. “How do you feel about selling opium?”
“It’s a medicine.” Trader shrugged. “In England, people give laudanum to their children.”
“And if people overindulge…it’s their problem, right?”
“Same as wine and spirits. Would you prohibit them?”
“No.” Read considered. “Though they say opium’s more addictive. Fact remains, the Chinese emperor doesn’t approve. Sale or consumption of the said article is illegal in his domain.”
“Well, I’m not under Chinese law, thank God.” Trader shot a swift glance back at Read. “Your own countrymen sell opium.”
“Oh yes.” Read grinned. “Russell, Cushing, Forbes, Delano—some of the best names in old Boston. But American participation in the China trade’s nothing compared to you British.” He took another draw on his cigar. “I hear you’ve entered into a partnership.”
“Yes. A small firm. Odstock and Sons. It’s really two brothers these days. One here, one in Canton.”
“I’ve heard of them,” said Read with a nod. “Good operators. I guess you’re fortunate you have money to invest.”
“A small inheritance. That’s all.”
“And you want to make a fortune in a hurry,” said Read.
John Trader nodded thoughtfully. “Something like that,” he said quietly.
—
The next day was Sunday. Charlie usually liked going to his aunt’s on Sundays. The main meal was in the early afternoon and was usually followed by a leisurely afternoon stroll to aid the digestion. Often there were guests, but it was only family today.
“Tell me about the party last night,” said Aunt Harriet.
“It was what you’d expect. Jokes about China. Crosbie tried to compose a song. They all teased John about how rich he was going to be.”
“He’s not poor now, from what I understand,” said Harriet.
“He needs more.” Charlie gave her a confidential look. “He’s in love.”
“Really? With whom?”
“Agnes Lomond.”
“So tell me about Agnes Lomond. I’ve met her, but that’s all.”
“Nothing to tell, really. I don’t know what he sees in her.”
“When did it start?”
“The day we had luncheon with her father. He was struck with a thunderbolt. A few days later I discovered he’d been to call on her mother. He never told me he was going to.”
“Colonel Lomond likes him?”
“Not at all. Hates him. But after he called, Mrs. Lomond decided he was charming.” He thought for a moment. “It’s difficult for the colonel, I suppose. Agnes looks well enough, but she’s nothing special. Aristocratic, of course, but she ain’t rich. So even the colonel has to be careful. Fathers don’t want to get a reputation for chasing young men away, you see. Puts people off.”
“So is Trader paying his addresses to Miss Lomond?”
“Hasn’t got to that yet. He’s allowed to call on her mother and meet her. Sees her at other gatherings, I daresay. But I think he wants to strengthen his hand before he goes further.”
“So he’s going to China to make a quick fortune. And while he’s away?”
“The colonel will be scouring the British Empire to find a young man he likes better.” He chuckled quietly. “He must have got the wind up. He even asked me if I’d be interested.”
“I can understand that. He was friendly with your father. He likes you. Any girl would be glad to marry you. Are you interested?”
“Not my type.”
“And do we know what Miss Lomond herself thinks of all this?”
“Not the least idea.” Charlie grinned.
March 1839
China seas. A warm night. A light breeze. Oily slicks of cloud lay along the horizon, and above them, a silver quarter-moon hung among the stars.
The China seas could be treacherous—terrible during the monsoons. But tonight the black water parted, smooth as lacquer, under the clipper’s bow.
The cargo, stowed below in five hundred mango-wood chests—a hundred of them Trader’s, a large part of his wealth—was also black.
Opium.
—
John Trader stared from the deck across the water, his face still as a gambler’s. He’d made his choices. There was no turning back now.
He’d been lucky the Odstocks had been looking for a junior partner. He’d known the younger brother, Benjamin, for some time before he’d approached him about joining the business. As it happened, he’d chosen a good time.
“My brother Tully’s fifty now,” the stocky merchant told him. “Been in Canton for years. Wants to go back and join our father in London.” He’d smiled. “Wouldn’t be my choice. Father’s a crusty old cove. So Tully
