Foreign Mud Read online

  Foreign Mud

  - Nobody’s Child Series Book 2 -

  Andrew Wareham

  Copyright © 2020 Andrew Wareham

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  “China needs nothing that the gwailos have to offer. The Middle Kingdom is self-sufficient in everything and kindly allows foreigners to purchase of its bounteous production. Payment must be made in money, which in China is silver. There is no more to be said.”

  I knew that was bullshit.

  So did Mr Fong.

  Why then did he insist on saying the words to me?

  Thinking back over the years, I much doubt even that he knew. He dared not admit to the failure of the Empire. The presence of the heavily gunned ships of the foreigners had made it clear that China was not, and possibly never had been, all-powerful. But, if he accepted that truth, how could he still be Chinese? To men educated in their system, China was the centre of the world which looked in awe to their example. He had to repeat the formulae which were a part of him – China was ruler of the world, all foreigners were gwailos, barbarians who had yet to be brought to the light. Denying any part of his creed was to destroy himself.

  I had sense enough not to challenge him directly. Calling him a liar was not the best way of opening trade negotiations. I attempted an oblique approach.

  “Regrettably, Mr Fong, the supply of silver is limited. So much of the world’s stock of the precious metal is held in China that there is little left to trade with.”

  That was almost true. The mines in Bohemia were running dry, their production falling off each year. The Spanish mines of South America were still producing but they were sending less back to Europe for some reason. Possibly the Spanish colonists were keeping some of their own silver for themselves.

  There were mines somewhere in Africa that sent the metal to the Arab countries – and that was all that we knew of them. Still is, for that matter.

  The result was that we had to sell to China to obtain the silver we needed to buy Chinese goods.

  Sat in Macao in the off season, that was obvious to me. I had a substantial stock of goods that Chinese merchants desperately wanted to buy – if their own people would permit them. The triads were as obdurate as the Hoppo and his officials in Canton – China needed nothing that we could possibly supply.

  Mr Fong had sailed to Macao for no reason other than to talk to me, as the representative of Mr Ainslie and other country merchants and as a voice of the Company. He had not done that out of friendship but for the purposes of trade, which he could not admit to desiring.

  I had to find a way out of the impasse.

  “There are some plants that unfortunately do not grow in China, Mr Fong. Their products can be of some value.”

  “If they do not grow in China, then it is clear that the people of China do not need them.”

  “Possibly true, Mr Fong. Many products are not needed, as such, but do make pleasant luxuries. Consider putchuk, Mr Fong, which grows, I believe, in the far hills of Kashmir, north of India and south of the great mountains. Not, one might think, so far distant from the Silk Road yet inaccessible to Chinese merchants because of the Himalayas. Much of the valuable incense is taken south to Bombay, and also to Calcutta, I am told. It would be easy enough to load our ships to Canton. I am told that joss sticks of the better kind use much putchuk and are in short supply for the inability to purchase the rare plant.”

  For some reason which I could not understand then – still can’t for that matter – trading on the Silk Road, overland from China through Samarkand and across to Stamboul or Aleppo or Alexandria on the Mediterranean coast, was perfectly acceptable to the Empire. It was the new commerce through Canton that upset them. Perhaps it was simply history - merchants had travelled the Silk Road for at least two thousand years thus making the trade legitimate. The Chinese are great ones for tradition.

  I knew that furs from Muscovy and carpets out of Persia had long sold in Peking. I suspected that the great junks, as big as East Indiamen, which had sailed as far as Africa and through the whole of the waters of the East had brought back many other goods which were greatly valued. Why I did not know, but the junks had almost ceased their oceanic voyages and traders from India had replaced them, or would do so, if they could gain acceptance.

  “Dyes as well, Mr Fong, are in short supply in Canton. If the weavers of Canton cannot dye their cloths, then people will cease to buy them and they will be replaced by English cottons – very bright and colour-fast. Redwood; catch; moco stones; stone blue – all have to be brought in if the cloth-makers are to prosper.”

  I did not mention that I had stocks of all those sat in the warehouse I had rented in Macao. I had no need to – the triad would know more of my business than I did.

  “You say nothing of foreign mud, Mr Jackson.”

  I was immediately alert – the purpose of Mr Fong’s visit was about to become clear.

  “I have no opium in my godowns, Mr Fong.”

  He knew what I said was both true and dishonest. Opium was kept in the hulks hidden out of immediate sight behind Lintin Island, close to Canton but not visible to the Hoppo and his enforcers – provided they kept their eyes closed. I had responsibility for no small fraction of the amount stored there, as he well knew.

  “My master believes that only a small part of the foreign mud that you send through Canton is placed in his hands. Bearing in mind his many kindnesses to you, Mr Jackson, this surprises him.”

  That was dangerous, and untrue.

  “It surprises me too, Mr Fong. I act directly for Mr Ainslie of Bombay, as you know. I also represent a few of lesser merchants, but only in those goods which they willingly consign to me. I have no control over them – I cannot order them to use my services. The Company pays me a fee to report to them on the nature of the annual trade. The Governor of Bombay encourages all parties to avail themselves of my knowledge and position in Canton, but he is in a less powerful position than, for example, the Hoppo. Should the Hoppo give an order to your merchants or ours in Canton, then they must obey, and quickly! The Governor has no power to give orders direct to the merchants in Bombay and must speak kindly indeed to the Company. He persuades, sir, and is not always successful in so doing.”

  Mr Fong had spent some months in Bombay and had failed to discover exactly how it was governed. It was not obvious to the beholder.

  “I am to tell my master that you place in his hands all that you control of the opium?”

  “No, Mr Fong, more than that.
I send to your people all that I directly have power over. I also have managed in these last few months to persuade three of the smaller shippers to do the same. Two others have outright refused, having no wish to see their independence curtailed in the future. It might be to their advantage this year, they agree, but they want freedom for next year. Four of the other shippers have formed their own little cartel and sell through their own agent in Macao; he does not talk to me.”

  Mr Fong showed comprehension.

  “You tell me these separate men are truly independent of you, Mr Jackson? I had thought they might be branches of the one tree, disguising their nature here in Canton.”

  I shook my head vigorously.

  “Not at all, Mr Fong. The Company is itself and very powerful. The Country Merchants, as we are called, are each wholly separate. The company has great power over us, mainly because it is so much bigger. We each are small, compared to John Company, and we are utterly distinct, one from another. Each firm has its own family and they rarely marry their sons and daughters to each other and almost never come together in any union against the Governor or the Company. Because we are distant from London, and far from Bombay, we have a degree of freedom in Canton and can choose which British laws and orders we wish to obey; even so, we must tread with some care.”

  “Then you are pirates?”

  “Not quite, sir. We must purchase our opium from the Company and pay them in silver if we are to take a cargo next year. The Company’s naval forces, the Bombay Marine, will ensure that we do not prey upon each other at sea. There are some laws we must obey and others that are useful to us. The Company much prefers us to carry its opium into China, having a liking for clean hands, and gives us some latitude, but we cannot push the Company too far or it will squash us like irritating bugs.”

  Mr Fong began to understand the nature of the trade. He had been blinded by his own preconceptions, it seemed. China was a land of law, commonly prescriptive – the general run of people were strictly governed and were in the habit of obeying orders in the bulk of their daily lives. It had not occurred to him that this state of affairs did not exist in India and Britain.

  “Thus, Mr Jackson, if we are to demand that the opium coming through Canton is placed in the right hands, we must ensure all of the importers are aware that they must not choose to disobey.”

  “Exactly so, Mr Fong. I am unable to force free Country Merchants to use my services. I can but ask them to do so. They are at liberty to refuse – there is no law to coerce them.”

  I chose the last words with some care. Mr Fong picked up on it.

  “Coercion is clearly necessary, Mr Jackson. If there is no law, then we must create one.”

  “I would beg you to bear in mind, sir, that if I return to Bombay and face the charge of having forced the Country Merchants to sell through me, then I might be hanged by the Governor. The British value their freedom, sir.”

  “How may I protect you from such a charge, Mr Jackson?”

  “Price, sir. If I can arrange for the cargoes I sell to fetch an amount more than those moved by my competitors, then the shippers will wish to use my services. As you know, all of my goods will pass through your esteemed hands.”

  Mr Fong made his farewells, very politely, and left for his lorcha and the quick trip to Canton. I was much relieved – he would not have bowed so politely had it been his intention to put a price on my head.

  For a month, nothing happened. I did not expect it to, China was a land of long deliberation prior to any action. It was the opinion of the gwailos that they delayed in the hope that any problem might go away so that they might take no action at all.

  Suddenly, early in the morning as I lazily rose from my breakfast table and kissed my handmaidens farewell after another energetic night, I was disturbed by my shroff banging at the door of the large and comfortable house I had taken. I believe the house had belonged to a previous Portuguese commander of the Macao garrison – as such, it suited my dignity. The Portuguese commonly remained on posting in Macao for thirty years and consequently tended to look after their comfort – large kitchens; a dozen bedrooms; a dining room that could feast the governor. It was a house for a big man, therefore the occupant must be important – a simple logic.

  The shroff nodded briefly to me as he entered the breakfast room. Worth mentioning him because he was essential to the work in Macao. I talked a great deal and was seen to be the man in charge, but it was the shroff who knew the business and told me how much stock was to hand and what it might be sold for and who I could deal with and who was not ever to be trusted. He also performed all of the paperwork. I was the figurehead; if anything went wrong, I would be thrown to the wolves – the shroff was too important to be disciplined. He was far older than me – somewhere between thirty and fifty years of age, a small, lean, shrunken figure, almost bald and with a wispy goatee. He habitually wore blue-tinted lenses in a gold frame, protecting his eyes and veiling his expression. He dressed Western, much as I did, but what his nationality was, I could not tell. He lived in a small house in the old town but was said to own the dozen tiny places on either side and behind and to have them full of a large family from wife and several concubines – but whether that was true, I did not know.

  “A message from Mr Fong, sir. You are requested to call upon his master in Canton. There is a fast lorcha waiting. Four junks have also tied up, sir, with the order that they are to be loaded with dyes and putchuk, specific quantities of each that will almost exhaust our stock.”

  “Load them, if you please. Permit them to depart as well. Either we will be paid, or we will lose everything, but if we do not load, then you may guess what will happen.”

  The shroff scowled.

  “Obey or we will be burned out, no doubt with myself sat on top of the fire – next to you, sir.”

  I nodded and called for Fred and ran up to my rooms to change into dress correct for approaching Mr Fong’s master, the lord of his triad. Ordinary working dress was not correct for such an audience.

  Fred oversaw the maids who looked after my clothes, ensuring that I was turned out European style. Particularly, he polished my boots.

  Best English – gleaming boots at calf length; tan breeches; white shirt with a high neckcloth; a new frockcoat, jet black; a new tricorne. There was lace at my cuffs and throat. I slipped a signet ring on the smallest finger of my left hand. I had no knowledge of my coat of arms at that time – didn’t even know I had one – but a jeweller in Bombay had produced a most authentic piece of false heraldry for me. It looked right.

  Down to the wharfs at a stroll, the shroff scurrying at my side, Fred behind, armed to the teeth, making a display of being the bodyguard to an important man, and then aboard the lorcha where I was bowed to a well-appointed cabin and begged to take a seat. Tea was made on the instant and I was invited to take my leisure while the boat cast off and raised all the sail it possessed. A young Chinese man appeared and bowed very low and informed me that the wind was fair and they had every expectation of making the passage to Canton in a mere seven hours. I was offered a selection of English books and the young gentleman bowed himself out. I had not read Richardson’s Clarissa and settled down with some enjoyment; a little too moralistic a tale but well written and in parts amusing – it passed the day well although, unsurprisingly, I did not finish it, there being a million words to get through.

  I was told a few years ago that the ending to Clarissa was ‘weak’. I suggested that the author was exhausted and suffering from writer’s cramp. I was accused of frivolity. That, as so often, is merely a diversion from my story.

  I arrived at Whampoa and was shifted to a sampan for the journey along the Pearl to Canton itself and on the following morning was escorted to the residence – ‘house’ is far too small a word – of the lord of Mr Fong’s Triad.

  The old gentleman sat on his throne-like chair, raised on a three step stone dais, and inclined his head to me. I bowed and dropped to my knees and bow
ed lower still. The lord shifted his body at least half an inch forward in response – a remarkable condescension. He said something to Fong.

  “My lord is pleased once again to observe your courtesy, Mr Jackson. He regrets much that other gwailos cannot offer such a simple politeness. Converse is made easier by good manners.”

  “I was taught always to be polite to all men, Mr Fong.”

  “And very right too, Mr Jackson.”

  He translated my comment to his lord, received a nod.

  “It has been decided that all foreign mud to enter Canton this year will pass through your hands, Mr Jackson. Deliveries will be made as usual to the hulks, but no other foreign agents will be permitted to sell. All that you offer will be taken up at a proper price and you will be paid a commission of a small percentage.”

  I bowed my instant assent.

  The value of the opium would top a million rupees, possibly several times over. That meant a small fortune if I saw no more than one per centum.

  “You will also be permitted to trade, Mr Jackson. Dyes will be especially welcome and will fetch a high price. In exchange, you will be given access to the best of jade and ivories as well as certain items of porcelain. The bulk of your cargoes will be comprised of silks. There is a desire, Mr Jackson, to purchase cannon and muskets of a higher quality than are cast in China.”

  That would not be popular with the Company. If war came, they would not be pleased to face the fire of English-made cannon.

  There was no hint of conflict between England and China in the offing – or not at that precise moment – so it was lawful to trade in arms of war.

  “Purchase could not be made in India, Mr Fong. The Company watches all foundries most carefully to ensure they do not arm its enemies in India. The orders would have to be sent to England - and paid for in advance I am sure. That would take the most of a year to send the order to the foundries and then months for the casting and another nine months on the high seas. We are looking at three years, sir, between making an order and delivery. Would it not be possible to purchase a storm-damaged ship that had limped into Whampoa and could not sensibly sail again? All ships carry guns, sir, and storms are deplorably frequent.”