Shireen took a deep breath and turned to her brothers: Tell me; is there any chance at all that some part of my husband’s investments may be recovered?
They glanced at each other and began to murmur in low, regretful voices, as if to apologize for quashing her hopes.
There was indeed a chance, they said, that some of the money might be recovered. Bahram was not the only foreign merchant to have his goods seized; many others, including several important British businessmen, had surrendered their cargoes to Commissioner Lin. The authorities in London would not allow these confiscations to pass unchallenged: they were not like Indian rulers, who cared nothing for the interests of businessmen — they understood full well the importance of commerce. It was rumoured that they were already planning to send a military expedition to China, to demand reparations. If there was a war and the Chinese lost, as was likely, there was a good chance that some of Bahram’s money would be returned.
But …
Yes? said Shireen.
But when the time arrived for the distribution of the recovered funds, there would be no one at hand to represent Bahram. There was sure to be a scramble for the funds and the other merchants would be there in person, present and ready to claim their share.
Shireen’s mind cleared as she thought about this. But couldn’t we send someone to represent us? she asked. What about Vico?
They shook their heads. Vico had already declined, they said. He was after all only Bahram’s purser and had no standing either with the Canton Chamber of Commerce or the British government. The foreign merchants of Canton were a tight little circle, impossible for outsiders to penetrate. Bahram had himself been a member of that group, so they might well be sympathetic to his family’s claims if approached by a blood relative — but unfortunately there was no one to play that part for Bahram.
Shireen knew exactly what was being implied — that things would have been different if she and Bahram had had a son to represent their interests. She had so long tormented herself with this thought that she had no patience for it now. But what about me? she said, blurting out the first words that came to mind: What if I were to go myself?
They stared at her, aghast. You?
Yes.
You? Go to China? You’ve never even stepped out on the street by yourself!
Well, why shouldn’t I go? Shireen retorted. After all, your wives and daughters go out in public, don’t they? Don’t you boast to your English friends about how ‘advanced’ our family is and how we don’t keep purdah?
Shireenbai, what are you talking about? It’s true that our wives don’t keep strict purdah but we have a certain standing in society. We would never allow our sisters and daughters to wander around the world on their own. Just imagine the scandal. What would people say?
Is it scandalous for a widow to want to visit her husband’s grave?
At that point, they seemed to decide that she needed to be humoured and their voices softened.
You should talk to your daughters, Shireen. They’ll explain the matter to you better than we could.
August 11, 1839
Canton
Yesterday I ran into Compton while walking down Thirteen Hong Street. Ah Neel! he cried. Zhong Lou-si wants to see you!
I asked why and Compton explained that Zhong Lou-si had been very impressed by his report on opium production in Bengal. On hearing of my part in it, he’d said that he wanted to yam-chah (drink tea) with me.
Of course I could not say no.
We agreed that I would come by Compton’s print shop the next day, at the start of the Hour of the Rabbit (five in the afternoon).
I arrived a few minutes before Zhong Lou-si’s sedan chair came to the door. He looked older than I remembered, stooped and frail, with his wispy white beard clinging to his chin like a tuft of cobwebs. But his eyes were undimmed with age and they twinkled brightly at me.
So, Ah Neel! I hear you’ve been learning to speak Cantonese? Haih Lou-si!
Zhong Lou-si is not Cantonese himself but he has been in Guangdong so long that he understands the dialect perfectly. He was very patient with my faltering efforts to speak the tongue. I did not acquit myself too badly I think, although I did occasionally have to seek help from Compton, in English.
It turned out that Zhong Lou-si had asked to meet with me for a special reason: he is composing a memorandum about British-ruled India — he used the word Gangjiao, which is the commonly used term for the Company’s territories — and he wanted to ask me some questions.
Yat-dihng, yat-dihng, said I, at which Zhong Lou-si said that rumours had reached Canton that the English were planning to send an armed fleet to China. Did I have any knowledge of this?
I realized that the question was deceptively simple and had probably been phrased to conceal the full extent of Zhong Lou-si’s intelligence on the subject. I knew that I would have to be careful in choosing my words.
Among foreigners, I said, it had long been rumoured that the British would soon be sending a military expedition to China.
Haih me? Really? Where had I heard this? From whom?
I explained that many men from my province Bengal — (Ban-gala is the term used here) — were employed as copyists and ‘writers’ by British merchants. There were some Bengali copyists even in the staff of Captain Elliot, the British Plenipotentiary, I told him. We often exchanged news amongst us, I said, and it was common knowledge that Elliot had written to the British Governor-General in Calcutta, in April this year, asking for an armed force to be assembled for an expedition to China. I told him that I had overheard Mr Coolidge and his friends talking about this recently, and they appeared to believe that the planning for the expedition had already begun, at British military headquarters in Calcutta. But nothing would be made public until authorization was received from London.
What did it mean, Zhong Lou-si asked, that the planning was being done in Yindu — India. Would the troops be British or Indian?
If past experience was a guide, I told him, it was likely that the force would include both English and Indian troops: this was the pattern the British had followed in all their recent overseas wars, in Burma, Java and Malaya.
This did not come as a surprise to Zhong Lou-si. He told me that as long back as the reign of the Jiajing Emperor, the British had brought shiploads of Indian sepoys — xubo bing he called them — to Macau. But Beijing had reacted strongly and the troops hadn’t landed. That had happened thirty years ago. Ten years later, in the second year of the present Daoguang Emperor’s reign, the British had come back with another contingent of Indian sepoys. This time they had briefly occupied Macau, before being forced to leave.
Then Zhong Lou-si said something that startled me: he said that at the time Chinese officials had concluded that the sepoys were slaves and the British did not trust them to fight; that was why they had left Macau without putting up much resistance.
But sepoys are not slaves! I protested. Like British soldiers, they are paid.
Are they paid the same wage as red-haired English troops?
No, I had to acknowledge. They are paid much less. About half.
Are they treated the same way? Do the Indian and British troops eat together and live together?
No, I said. They live apart and are treated differently.