The porters had already put the strongbox and trunks on a handcart. They started towards the British factory.
“They tell me sales are slow,” said Trader.
Tully gave him a swift look. “You haven’t heard the news, then?” And seeing that Trader looked blank: “Suppose you couldn’t have. Only happened this morning. Not too good, I’m afraid.” He gave a short puff. “Of course, it’ll all blow over. Not to worry.”
“What exactly,” Trader asked suspiciously, “are we talking about?”
“Chinese playing up a bit about the opium. That’s all. I’ll tell you over dinner. We eat quite well here, you know.”
Trader stopped. “Tell me now,” he said, surprised at his own firmness towards the older man. “How much do we stand to lose?”
“Hard to say. Quite a bit, I should think. Talk about it over dinner.”
“How much?”
“Well…”—Tully puffed out his purple cheeks—“I suppose…in theory you understand…you might say…everything.”
“I could lose everything?”
“It’ll all blow over,” said Tully. “Let’s have dinner.”
◦
Snow in the mountain passes had added a week to his journey, and Shi-Rong had been afraid he might keep Commissioner Lin waiting. So when he finally reached Guangzhou, he was relieved to discover that the mandarin had still not arrived.
He’d decided to make good use of his time. Whatever Lin might require of him, the more he knew about the locality, the better.
As soon as he’d found temporary lodgings, he set out in search of a guide, and after a few inquiries he found exactly what he needed: a Cantonese student preparing to take the mandarin provincial exams. Fong was a skinny, bright young fellow who was only too pleased to earn a little money in this way.
For three days, they toured the bustling old city, the suburbs, and the foreign factories. Young Fong proved to be well informed and a good teacher, too. Under his guidance, Shi-Rong continued to improve his Cantonese, and he soon found that he could understand a good deal of what he heard in the streets. For his part, young Fong would ply Shi-Rong with questions each time they ate together, anxious to know what this important visitor thought of all he saw.
“You like our Cantonese food?” he asked during their first meal. “Too much rice?”
“The dishes smell so rich. And everything tastes too sweet,” Shi-Rong complained.
“Sweet and sour. That’s southern Chinese. Try the white cut chicken. Not so sweet. And spring rolls.”
At the end of the second day, as they sat drinking rice wine together, Fong asked him if Guangzhou was what he’d expected.
“I knew everyone would be in a hurry,” Shi-Rong confessed, “but the crowds in the market and the alleys…You can hardly move.”
“And we all have darker skins.” Young Fong grinned. “And we only care about money. That’s what you say about us in Beijing, isn’t it?” And when Shi-Rong couldn’t deny it: “All true!” Fong cried with a laugh.
“And what do the people of Guangzhou say about us?” Shi-Rong asked in return.
“Taller. Paler skin.” Fong was naturally treading carefully. But Shi-Rong coaxed him until the young Cantonese admitted: “We say the northern peasants just sit around on their haunches all day long.”
Shi-Rong smiled. The peasants of the northern plains would often squat together in this manner when they were resting from their work. “But they still get the crops in,” he replied.
He was especially interested in what Fong thought about the opium traffic. At first, knowing Shi-Rong’s position, Fong was noncommittal. But by the fifth day, he trusted Shi-Rong enough to be honest.
“The orders come from Beijing. Raid the opium dens. Arrest the opium smokers. So they make a big sweep, right out into the countryside. Put a lot of people in jail. But the people still want opium. Waste of time, really. Even the governor thinks so. Doesn’t matter what you do. Wait a year, all back to normal.”
A week had passed before Commissioner Lin arrived. He was pleased to find Shi-Rong already there, and still more so when his young assistant told him how he’d used the time. “Your diligence is commendable. You will be my secretary, but also my eyes and ears.”
Lin at once commandeered a house in the suburb close to the foreign factories and told Shi-Rong he was to lodge there also. The first evening he outlined his plan of action.
“I have read all the memorials from the province on my journey here. During the next week, we shall talk to the governor of the province, the local mandarins, the merchants of Guangzhou—and their servants, who will tell us more—so that I can make my own assessment. Then we shall smash the opium trade. Who do you think we should strike first?”
Repeating what Fong had told him and other things he had seen for himself, Shi-Rong confessed frankly that he thought it would be a long and difficult task to dissuade people from using the drug.
“I will burn all their opium pipes,” Lin said grimly. “But you are right. The only way to root out this poison is to stop the supply. So, young Mr. Jiang, who is our greatest enemy?”
“The Fan Kuei—the red-haired foreign devils who bring the opium into the kingdom.”
“And what do we know about them?”
“I have been to their factories. It seems they are not all the same. They come from many countries. And only a few of them have red hair.”
“The largest criminals are from a country called Britain. Nobody seems to be sure exactly where it is. Do you know?”
“No, Excellency. Shall I make inquiries?”
“Perhaps. Though it does not really matter where these inferior peoples dwell. I have learned, however, that this country is ruled by a queen. Also that she has sent some kind of official here.”
“Yes, Commissioner. His name is Elliot. From a noble family. At present he is in Macao.”
“Perhaps this queen does not even know what these pirates from her country are doing. Perhaps her servant has not told her.”
“It is possible, Commissioner.”
“I am writing this queen a letter. It is being translated into her
