Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 4: Flashman and the Dragon, Flashman on the March, Flashman and the Tiger. George Fraser MacDonald
all by the way now. If he cannot sell the cargo … and he could have built our church and to spare, too!”
With enough over to start a couple of brothels, no doubt, the way Josiah did business. “Hold on,” says I. “Why can’t he sell it – where is it, by the way?”
“At Macao. Josiah is gone over today to see it put aboard the fast crabs and scrambling dragons.” Not two years out of the schoolroom, sink me, and she was talking like a taipan.a
“Well, there you are – he can send it up Pearl River to the Canton factories tomorrow, and sell it to the Hongs.”
“Oh, if it were so simple! But you see, Sir Harry, with all the war talk there is word that the Chinese merchants have been forbidden to buy from our people … and … and Josiah and his friends have no influence to persuade them.”
“Then get Dent or Jardine to run it in – they’ll persuade anybody – and get a better price than Josiah could, I dare say.”
“And take all our profit in commission! They are the greediest persons, you know,” says this tender child. “Besides, the price is settled. Josiah vows to take no less than eight pounds a chest.”
“Jesus – I mean, dear me!” says I. “Two thousand chests – why, that’s near a ton, isn’t it? Sixteen thousand quid!” I was no expert, but you couldn’t be in Hong Kong five minutes without knowing the going figures. “Phew! Well, my dear, he’d better get it to Canton somehow before the war starts – stay, though: can’t he put it in bond until things are more settled?”
“It is prepared chandoo, not raw cake,” says the Opium Queen pathetically. “Unless it goes directly, it must spoil. Oh, is it not wretchedly unlucky? Those who could run it will do so only on extortionate terms; those who would, for a fair consideration, are not people who could deal with the Chinese officials and merchants. Josiah has a skipper, a Mr Ward, but he cannot speak Chinese, even!”
And it was then, with another superb sigh, that she turned those great misty eyes on me in undoubted appeal, and said in a little voice: “It would be so easy … for the right person, you see.” She looked away, downcast. “Josiah says he would pay him ten per cent.”
Lady Geraldine had been rather more subtle … but she hadn’t been offering sixteen hundred quid. Handsome pocket money, if you like – and easier to earn than falling off a log, for whatever the Pekin government said, the Hong merchants would cut Confucius’s throat to buy a ton of chandoo, whoever offered it. And she was right – all that was needed was someone with bold front and bearing who could brush aside inconvenient officials on the run up-river, stick out his jaw at any Chink jack-in-the-office who threatened confiscation, and see that Josiah’s ignorant skipper found his way safe to Jackass Point. Nothing in that.
Mind you, she had a hard bark, asking a British Army colonel to nursemaid her shipload of puggle – yet why not? Here was I, friendly disposed, officer and gentleman, knew the ropes, spoke the lingo (well, I could understand a Mandarin, and make myself enough understood in turn; with the coolies I had to use pigeon and my boots), and just the chap to stare down any yellow office-wallahs. A week till my ship sailed, ample time … sixteen hundred … Mrs Carpenter swooning with gratitude … h’m …
You must remember that these thoughts ran through my mind with those innocent-wanton eyes fixed on mine, and that excellent bosom heaving between us. And if you think she was a froward piece, or that I should have smelled a battalion of rats … well, it was a plausible tale, and not even a scent of risk. With our garrison at Canton, the Pearl was as safe as the Avon, and there was no stigma – well, not to signify. It was “trade”, not “opium”, that would have raised an eyebrow at Horse Guards. And sixteen hundred … for a jolly sail on the river?
“We … I … should be so grateful,” she murmured, and gave me a quick slantendicular.
“You little goose!” says I indulgently, “if you want me to do it … why not say so?” I gave her my sad Flashy smile. “Don’t you know I’d do anything for you?” And with a light laugh I kissed her masterfully, munching away, and I dare say we might have done the business there and then if a gaggle of brats with a governess hadn’t hove in view, causing us to break clean and remark on the splendid view, such a perfect day for picnicking.
We settled the details in the tonga back to town, myself making light of it and pinching her palm, she all flushed confusion and breathless gratitude. How could she and dear Josiah ever thank me? Well, Josiah could stump up the rhino on my return, and she would certainly do the rest, if I could judge by the light in her eye and the way she shivered when I squeezed her knee. They’re all alike, you know.
Aye. I should have remembered Lady Geraldine.
I don’t know who ran the first chest of opium into China, but he was a great man in his way. It was as though some imaginary trader had put into the Forth with a cargo of Glenlivet to discover that the Scots had never heard of whisky. There was a natural appetite, as you may say. And while the Chinks had been puffing themselves half-witted long before the first foreign trader put his nose into the Pearl River, there’s no doubt that our own John Company had developed their taste for the drug, back in the earlies, and before long they couldn’t get enough of it.
This didn’t suit the ruling Manchoos, for while they were as partial to a pipe as the next heathen, they saw that it was ruining the commonalty, and who would hew the wood and draw the water then? These Manchoos, you see, were fierce warriors who had swept in from the north centuries earlier, and dealt with China much as our English forebears did with Ireland (not that we ever forced the Paddies to wear pigtails as a badge of serfdom). They established a Manchoo ruling class, took all the plum posts, ran the country with a sloth, inefficiency, and waste that would have shocked a Bengali babu, treated the conquered Chinese like dirt – and sat back in complacent luxury, growing their finger-nails long, cultivating the more rarefied arts, galloping their concubines, developing a taste for putrefied food, preaching pure philosophy and practising abominable cruelties, exalting the trivial and neglecting the essential, having another romp at the concubines, and generally priding themselves on being lords of creation. Which, since they hardly admitted the existence of the world outside China, is what they were.
So you can see they resented white interlopers who bade fair to undermine their Empire with poppy drug, and did their damnedest to stop the trade, but couldn’t. To their chagrin they discovered that their God-given superiority, their highly-refined taste in eggshell pottery, and their limitless lines of ancestors, availed nothing against any Dundee pirate with a pistol on his hip and a six-pounder in his bows who was determined to run his opium in. Which made the Manchoo Mandarins wild with outraged pride, and more high-handed towards foreigners than ever, with the result that war broke out in 1840. Being Chinese and useless, they lost, and had to cede Hong Kong to us and open up Treaty Ports to European trade. And the poppy-running went on as before, only more so.
You’d have thought that would teach ’em manners, but not a bit of it. Instead of realising that foreign trade had come to stay, they convinced themselves that we were only there on sufferance, and they could treat our traders and emissaries as dirt, evil-smelling foreign savages that we were. They knew China was the centre and master of the world, and that everyone else was barbarian filth, lurking on their outskirts plotting mischief, and needing to be brought to heel like untrained curs. What, admit us as equals? Trade freely with us? Receive our ambassadors at Pekin? (The Chinese for “ambassador” is “tribute-bearer”, which gives you some notion of their conceit.) It was unthinkable.
You have to understand this Chinese pride – they truly believe they have dominion over us, and that our rulers are mere slaves to their Emperor. Haven’t I heard a red-button Mandarin, a greasy old profligate so damned cultivated that his concubines had to feed him and even carry him to the commode to do his business, because