“Could be,” John said.
“Must be quite a young lady,” Read said with a smile, “to get you into the opium trade.”
—
An hour later, when Captain McBride saw the blunt square-rigged vessel slowly approaching, he cursed.
“War junk,” he explained. “Government ship. Officials aboard.”
“What will they do?”
“Depends. They could impound the cargo.” He glanced at Trader and saw him go very pale. “We can give up and go home. I can outrun them. Or we can head out to sea and try another approach. But they might still be waiting for us.”
John was silent. He’d chosen to make this run. How was he going to explain the loss of fifty chests of opium to his new partners? He couldn’t afford to lose them, in any case. He turned to Read. For once, the worldly American looked doubtful.
To his surprise, it was Van Buskirk who made the decision.
“Proceed, gentlemen,” he said calmly. His fleshy face was impassive. “Put your trust in me.” He turned to the skipper. “When we get close, McBride, please heave to, so that the official can board. I shall also require a table placed on deck, two chairs, and two wineglasses. Nobody should speak. Just listen politely, even if you have no idea what he is saying. I will do the rest.”
Trader watched as the war junk drew close. Its high wooden sides were certainly impressive. The vessel’s masts were huge, as were the sails of bamboo matting. The massive stern was painted like a Chinese mask. On either side of the bow was a staring eye. The deck looked cluttered, but the cannon were plain to see.
Only a single man, a mandarin, came across. He was rowed over to them in a tiny boat, in which he sat, very composed. He was middle-aged, with long, drooping mustaches, and he wore a black cylindrical hat. Over his embroidered robes was a blue three-quarter-length surcoat, emblazoned on the chest with a big square, designating his rank. When he came aboard, he looked around him calmly. Obviously he had no fear that these Western barbarians would dare to offer him any violence. Then he took out a scroll and began to read from it. The document was written in the official Mandarin Chinese, which sounded to Trader strangely like birdsong.
“What’s he saying?” he whispered to Van Buskirk.
“That the emperor, considering the health and safety of his people, expressly forbids the selling of opium. Should our ship contain any, it will be taken away and destroyed immediately.”
John Trader winced. “That’s it, then.”
“Patience,” the Dutchman murmured.
When the mandarin had concluded his announcement, Van Buskirk stepped forward and made him a low bow. Gesturing to the table that had been set up, he politely asked the mandarin if he would care to sit and talk a little. Once he and the mandarin were seated, he drew from his coat a silver flask and filled both glasses before them with a rich brown cordial. “Madeira, gentlemen,” he remarked to the onlookers. “I always keep some with me.”
Ceremoniously he toasted the mandarin, and for some time the two men sipped their drink and conversed politely. At one point, Trader noticed, the missionary looked concerned and seemed to be questioning the mandarin closely. Then he beckoned to Trader.
“I shall require you to give me one thousand silver dollars from your strongbox, Mr. Trader,” he remarked blandly. “McBride will reimburse you for his share later.”
“This is for…?”
“Just bring me the money,” the Dutchman said. “In a bag.”
A minute or two later, having handed over the bag of silver coins, Trader watched as the Dutchman gravely gave it to the mandarin, who took it and, without being so rude as to count it, rose to depart.
Only when the official was on his way back to the war junk did John speak. “Did you just bribe a government official?”
“It was not a bribe,” the Dutchman replied. “It was a present.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth, of course. I explained to him that, were he to ask you or the captain or even Read here if there was any opium stowed below, I had every confidence that you would say that there was not. He was courteous enough to agree that, this being the case, your word would suffice. I then gave him a small present. He might have asked for more, but he did not.”
“A thousand silver dollars is small?”
“You got off very lightly. Do you wish me to summon him back to dispute the matter?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then we are free to proceed.” Van Buskirk nodded to the captain to indicate that the ship should get under way again.
“So much,” Trader remarked wryly, “for Chinese morality.”
“It is you, Mr. Trader,” the missionary gently reminded him, “not he, who is in the drug trade.”
—
They reached their rendezvous—a small island with a sheltered anchorage—that evening. The receiving ship, flying a pair of red flags, was already there. Half of McBride’s original cargo had been presold, paid for with silver at Canton, and the letters of credit were duly passed across. But when the Chinese merchant discovered that they had another hundred, plus Trader’s remaining fifty, he paid cash for those as well.
By nightfall, the business of the voyage was therefore complete. Both the ships had dropped anchor and would go their separate ways at dawn. In the meantime, the Chinese merchant gladly agreed to dine with his new Western friends.
It was a pleasant meal. Simple food, some drinkable wine. A little Madeira supplied by Van Buskirk. Mostly the missionary and the Chinese merchant spoke together in Cantonese, while the others conversed in English. The surprise came at the end of the meal.
“Gentlemen,” the missionary announced, “you have no need of me now. But our Chinese friend has agreed to take me farther up the coast before he returns here to meet another British opium ship, on which I can make my return. During my days with him, I may even be able to go ashore.”
McBride frowned. “That’s
