‘But…’
Before Mr King could say any more an outcry ripped through the room.
‘… you’ve said enough already sir…’
‘… don’t even belong here…’
‘… prating Yankee hypocrite…!’
Mr King cast a glance around the room and then, pushing back his chair, he quietly exited the room.
‘… good riddance…!’
‘… grow a long-tail sir, it’d suit you well…’
When silence had been restored Mr Dent rose to his feet and went to join Captain Elliot and Mr Slade at the fireplace. Turning to face the room he said: ‘I am completely of a mind with Mr Slade: Commissioner Lin’s demands amount to a straightforward act of robbery. But as Mr Slade has pointed out, there is a silver lining: if the Commissioner persists in this course he will present Her Majesty’s government with an excellent opportunity to avenge the humiliations to which we have been subjected – and that while also placing our commercial relations with China on a sounder footing. What years of attempted negotiations have failed to achieve will be quickly settled by a few gunboats and a small expeditionary force.’
Mr Slade, not to be outdone, thumped his cane on the floor again: ‘Let me remind you, gentlemen, of what King William the Fourth said when he sent his commissioners to the Canadas: “Remember, the Canadas must not be lost!” Needless to add that the British trade with China is of vastly greater commercial importance to Britain than the Canadas. It reaps an annual revenue of five million pounds and involves the most vital interests of the mercantile, manufacturing, shipping and maritime interests of the United Kingdom. It affects, in an eminent degree, the territorial revenue of our Indian empire. It must not be lost by any wavering imbecility in meeting the present difficulties.’
Now, seeing the tide turn in his favour, Captain Elliott permitted himself a smile: ‘It will not be lost, gentlemen, I can assure you of that.’
Mr Dent nodded: ‘If it comes to a passage of arms, as it surely will, no one who has any familiarity with the state of China’s defences can doubt that our forces will prevail. Nor can there be any doubt that once the outcome is decided the British government will ensure that we are repaid for our losses, and at rates that are to our advantage.’ Now, steepling his fingertips, Dent looked around the library. ‘We are all businessmen here, so I need hardly explain to you the implications of this. In effect we will not be giving up our cargoes to Commissioner Lin.’ Here he paused to flash a smile at his listeners: ‘No, we will be extending him a loan – one that will be repaid at a rate of interest that will serve both as a punishment for his arrogance and a reward for our patience.’
Glancing around the room Bahram saw that many heads were nodding in agreement. He realized suddenly that he was alone in being utterly dismayed by this turn of events. His alarm grew deeper when not a single voice was raised in protest, even when Captain Elliott rose to his feet to say: ‘I take it there are no further objections?’
To speak in public, in English, was not something Bahram had ever liked to do, but he could not stifle the cry that now burst from his throat. ‘Yes, Captain Elliott! I object.’
Captain Elliott’s face hardened as he turned to look in his direction. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said with a raised eyebrow.
‘You cannot give in, Captain Elliott!’ cried Bahram. ‘Please – you must stand fast. Surely you can see, no? If you give in now, this man will win – this Commissioner. He will win without harming a hair on our heads, without touching a weapon. He will win just by writing these things -’ Bahram pointed at the papers in the translator’s hands – ‘he will win by writing these, what do you call them? Hookums? Chitties? Letters?’
Captain Elliott’s face creased into a smile. ‘I assure you, Mr Moddie, the Commissioner’s victory will be short-lived. As a naval officer I can tell you that battles are not won by letter-writers.’
‘And still he has won, hasn’t he?’ said Bahram. ‘At least this battle is his, is it not?’ He had no other words in which to express his desolation, his sense of betrayal. He could not bear to look at Captain Elliott any more: how could he ever have imagined that this man would somehow conjure up an outcome that was favourable to himself?
Mr Burnham had swivelled around in his chair, and he broke in with a broad smile.
‘But Mr Moddie, don’t you see? The Commissioner’s victory – if such it is – will be purely illusory. We will get back everything we give up, and more. Our investors stand to make handsome profits. It is just a matter of waiting.’
‘That is just it,’ said Bahram. ‘How long will we have to wait?’
Captain Elliott scratched his chin. ‘Perhaps two years. Maybe three.’
‘Two or three years!’
Bahram remembered the angry letters that had been accumulating in his office; he tried to think of how he would explain the circumstances to his investors; he thought of the reactions of his brothers-in-law when the news reached them; he could almost hear them exulting, in their discreet way; he could imagine what they would say to Shireenbai: We warned you; he’s a speculator, you shouldn’t have let him squander your inheritance…
‘Surely your investors would wait, Mr Moddie, would they not?’ Burnham insisted. ‘It is just a question of a little time after all.’
Time!
Every man in the room was looking in Bahram’s direction now. He was too proud to tell them that time was the one thing he did not have; that a delay of two years would mean certain default; that for him the results of Captain Elliott’s betrayal would be ruin, bankruptcy and debtor’s prison.
None of this could be said, not here, not now. Somehow Bahram managed to summon a smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course. My investors will wait.’
The heads nodded and turned away. Once freed of their scrutiny Bahram tried to sit still, but it was impossible – his limbs would not obey him. Gathering the skirts of his angarkha together, he slipped noiselessly out of the library. With his head down he walked blindly through the Consulate’s corridors and out of the compound. He passed the Co-Hong merchants without sparing them a glance and was halfway across the Maidan when he heard Zadig’s voice behind him: Bahram-bhai! Bahram-bhai!
He stopped. Yes, Zadig Bey?
Bahram-bhai, said Zadig breathlessly. Is it true that Captain Elliott has asked everyone to surrender their opium?
Yes.
And they have agreed to do it?
Yes. They have.
So what will you do, Bahram-bhai?
What can I do, Zadig Bey? Tears had come to his eyes now, and he brushed them away. I will surrender my cargo, like everyone else.
Zadig took hold of his arm and they began to walk towards the river.
It is only money, Bahram-bhai. Soon you will recover your losses.
The money is the least of it, Zadig Bey.
What is it then?
Bahram could not speak; he had to stop and choke back a sob.
Zadig Bey, he said in a whisper, I gave my soul to Ahriman… and it was all for nothing. Nothing.
*
‘Ah Neel! Ah Neel!’
Neel was crossing the Maidan when Young Tom called out to him from the linkisters’ tent: ‘Ah Neel, have got message for you, from Compton. He say tomorrow you come Old China Street, at noon. He meet there.’
‘At the barricade?’
‘Yes. At barricade.’
‘All right.’
The next day, at the appointed time, Neel made his way to Old China Street. The barricade at the far end was a formidable-looking affair, and looked all the more so because the street was deserted and all the shops were shut: it was made of sharpened bamboo staves and the soldiers who were deployed around it were armed with matchlocks and cutlasses.
Neel’s steps slowed involuntarily as he walked up to the picket: on the far side, on Thirteen Hong Street, a large crowd of curious onlookers had gathered. The spectators were packed closely together and Neel would not have caught sight of Compton if he hadn’t held up a hand to wave: ‘Hei! Neel! Ah Neel! Here!’