Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

Often, at teatime, Zadig would come by; he was lodging with an Armenian merchant, a few streets away. He and Shireen would sometimes go for walks together, strolling through the town’s winding lanes to the Praya Grande — a sweeping bayside corniche, lined with luxurious villas.

As they walked, Zadig Bey would fill her in on all the latest news.

The north-bound British fleet had called at the ports of Amoy and Ningpo on their way to Chusan. At every stop they had tried to hand over Lord Palmerston’s letter to the Emperor, outlining Britain’s demands and grievances, but the task had proved impossibly difficult: no one would accept it. The British emissaries had been repeatedly rebuffed by the mandarins of the ports they had visited; on a couple of occasions hostilities had broken out.

At Chusan the fleet had entered the harbour to find a small fleet of war-junks at anchor there. The Plenipotentiaries had tried to persuade the local defence forces to surrender without a fight, but to no avail. The Chinese commanders had declared that they would resist, come what may, so the British warships had lined up for battle and opened fire. In exactly nine minutes they had destroyed the Chinese fleet and all the defences along the island’s shore. The troops of the expeditionary force had landed without any further opposition and the next day they had seized the island’s capital, the city of Ting-hae. The Union Jack had been raised above the city and a British colonel had been given command of the island’s civil administration.

Everything had gone exactly as Commodore Bremer and Captain Elliot had planned.

*

Around the middle of July 1840, no doubt because of the pressure of events, Neel’s journal entries became a series of hasty jottings, written mainly in Bangla but sometimes in English as well.

It was around this time that officials in Guangzhou received news of the seizure of Chusan and the fall of Ting-hae. It was then too that the city’s officials learnt that a large number of British merchant vessels had accompanied the expeditionary fleet and were actively engaged in selling opium, up and down the coast.

These developments came as bitter blows to Commissioner Lin who had, even until then, nurtured the hope that a negotiated settlement, leading to a resumption of trade, would be worked out. But now, seeing that hostilities had already been launched by the British, he became convinced that the only way the opium trade could be brought to a halt was by wholly evicting the invaders from China. To that end notices were distributed along the coast offering rewards for the capture of enemy aliens. Not all foreigners fell under this head: Portuguese, Americans and some others were exempted. The notices were targeted solely at British subjects, which included Parsi merchants as well as Indian soldiers and sepoys.

Macau was the one place on the mainland where there was still a substantial British presence: it was there, if anywhere, that the notices were expected to produce results. And soon enough a courier came hurrying to Guangzhou to report that an Englishman had been captured in Macau, along with two Indian servants: they had been spirited into the mainland and were now in the custody of provincial officials.

The courier was sent back post haste: the captives were to be treated with the utmost consideration, wrote Commissioner Lin, and they were to be brought immediately to Guangzhou.

Over the next few days Guangzhou was swept by rumours: it was said that the captured Englishman was a personage of great consequence, possibly Commodore Bremer himself. This created great excitement, for the commodore had by this time achieved an almost mythic stature, being credited with all manner of demonic attributes: he was said to be fantastically tall, with burning eyes, an enormous mane of red hair and so on.

Much to everyone’s disappointment the Englishman, on arrival, proved to be a short, slight young man, much given to striking extravagant poses, sometimes knitting his legs together as though in need of a chamber-pot, and sometimes rolling his eyes at the heavens, like a farmer yearning for rain. On questioning it turned out that his name was George Stanton, and that he was a twenty-three-year-old Christian evangelical who had interrupted his studies at Cambridge in order to save souls. Since there was no ordained clergyman in Macau he had claimed the preacher’s pulpit for himself and had proceeded to deliver a series of sermons to the remnants of the city’s English community.

Being a man of strict habits it was Mr Stanton’s daily practice to bathe in the sea at sunrise, usually in the company of some other young men in whom he had tried to inculcate certain improving practices. It turned out that it was his diligence in this regard that had led to his capture: one morning Mr Stanton and his servants had arrived at Macau’s Cacilhas beach to find it deserted. Mr Stanton had proceeded with his swim, as usual — and this was when a group of agents from the mainland had effected his capture, whisking him away in his still-wet breeches and banyan, along with his two servants.

It fell to Neel to question the two servants, whose names had been recorded by the captors as Chan-li and Chi-tu: it turned out that they were actually Chinnaswamy and Chhotu Mian, from the Madras and Bengal presidencies respectively. They were both in their late teens and had previously been employed as lascars, of the rank of kussab. They had entered Mr Stanton’s service in Singapore where they had been stranded after a dispute with their former serang.

While corroborating Mr Stanton’s account in a general sense the two lascars were emphatic in dissociating themselves from him, describing him as the worst, most foolish master that could be imagined, a complete ullu and paagal. He had made them rise before dawn every day to walk with him to the beach, all the while exhorting them to take cold baths themselves — this was the only sure method, he had assured them, of foiling the constant temptations of a horrible, debilitating disease.

It had taken them a long time to figure out what he was talking about and when they did, they had realized that he was completely insane. They had resolved to leave his service as soon as possible, but no opportunity for escape had arisen, and now here they were, captives in Guangzhou!

Bas! said ChhotuMian with bitter relish. At least Stanton-sahib will get his punishment too. Without his bath he will be helpless, no? His hands will have no mercy on him.

But the lascars’ satisfaction was misplaced: on Commissioner Lin’s orders Mr Stanton was provided with excellent accommodation, in Canton’s Consoo House. He was also given a Bible, writing materials and every facility that he desired.

As for Chinnaswamy and Chhotu Mian, on Neel’s recommendation they were sent off to join Jodu, on the Cambridge .

After it had been determined that Mr Stanton was a person of no consequence there was no particular reason to detain him in Guangzhou. He would have been set free if the matter had not taken another turn: the Portuguese Governor of Macau sent a letter — evidently written under pressure from British officials — demanding Mr Stanton’s immediate release, on the grounds that he had been illegally captured on Portuguese territory (of the lascars and their fate, Neel noticed, there was no mention).

The letter infuriated Commissioner Lin. This was not the first time he had been forced to remind the governor that Macau was not foreign territory but a sovereign part of China, on which the Portuguese had been allowed to settle as a special favour: he now decided that the time was ripe for an assertion of this principle. To that end a large squadron of war-junks was sent to Macau, through the inner channels of the Pearl River delta, in order to evade the British blockade. In addition a force of some five thousand troops was also sent down, to take up positions along the massive barrier wall that marked Macau’s northern boundary.