The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (36 page)

How well I knew, from observing Branwell.

“The poor wretch will do anything rather than give up his opium,” Kuan continued. “When he has spent all his funds on the drug, he will steal. Money has vanished from the government treasury, stolen by officials. Thieves roam the city. And the problems extend far beyond Canton. Across the kingdom, merchants, peasants, soldiers, priests, and the finest young men and ladies of society have taken up the habit. So have the emperor’s bodyguards and court eunuchs. It is estimated that China harbors some twelve million opium smokers.”

I was amazed to hear that what I’d thought a private problem was such a vast calamity in the faraway Orient.

“And the scourge continues,” Kuan said. “Every autumn, the ships arrive in Canton, laden with thousands of chests of opium from British poppy plantations in India. British merchants in the foreign settlements strike deals with Chinese opium brokers. Chinese silver pours into foreign hands, while the opium is carried inland along creeks and rivers, like poison flowing through the kingdom’s blood.”

Kuan suddenly addressed me: “What did you do when your brother fell under the evil spell of opium?”

Startled into frankness, I said, “I tried to stop him using it.” Indeed, I’d searched the house for bottles of laudanum, thrown them away, and remonstrated with Branwell.

“That is exactly what we in China attempted with our many opium smokers,” Kuan said. “Imperial edicts were issued, outlawing opium use and trade. Under orders to stem the scourge, I led raids on opium dens, arrested dealers. I seized Chinese opium boats and confiscated the cargo. Smokers were punished by beheading. Dealers and opium den operators were strangled. By discharging my duty, I made myself unpopular with the users whose opium I made scarce, the officials who profited by the trade, and the dealers whose property I destroyed.” Kuan’s expression turned dark with memory. “There was a price on my head.”

His crusade to save his people had earned him threats. I had experienced the same from Branwell by trying to save him. I began to see another piece of his intention in telling me his story: Kuan meant to forge our common experience into a bond between us—and in spite of my awareness, he was succeeding.

“But the profits from the opium trade were so great,” Kuan said, “that new dealers replaced those executed. The only solution was to attack the source of the opium: the British merchants. They who brought their foreign mud to poison our people must be banished from China.”

The hatred I saw in his eyes when he spoke of the British merchants surprised me. I had never thought to hate the people who supplied opium to Branwell; I had blamed him alone for his condition. Now I felt my perspective revolving, like a globe turning in Kuan’s hand to reveal new continents.

“The importation of opium was banned,” Kuan went on. “British ships were searched, and their opium cargo seized. But corrupt officials pocketed bribes from British merchants and turned a blind eye to the trade. Although opium ships were barred from Chinese waters, they still came, for we lacked a navy strong enough to repel them. Chinese brigands formed secret societies to smuggle opium from the ships into China. Nonetheless, during the winter of 1838, we executed more than two thousand opium smugglers.”

Kuan sat motionless while he spoke, yet radiated the fire of a zealot championing his cause. I watched him like a disciple mesmerized by a prophet.

“A new imperial commissioner arrived from Peking the next spring. Under his orders, I investigated civil servants and army officers suspected of collusion in the opium trade. By summer, I had caused the downfall of some sixteen hundred people. The commissioner ordered the British merchants to surrender all their opium and pledge to refrain from the trade forever. But they refused. The commissioner then halted all trade and imprisoned them inside their settlement. Finally, after many days under armed guard, the British surrendered their twenty thousand chests of opium, which we dumped into the ocean.

“But our triumph was brief. The British were outraged by our treatment of them, and their financial loss. They demanded reparations. They concentrated fifty battleships and several thousand troops at Hong Kong. There, the first shots of the war over opium were fired. The British forces began arriving in Canton the following year, in June 1840.”

An image of battleships in full sail, heavy with guns and troops, advancing on a harbor, filled my mind. I saw the scene in more vivid detail than Kuan depicted in words. Was this my vision, or was his memory transmitted to me by some magical power?

“We were aghast at the size and strength of the fleet,” Kuan said. “When it began to bombard our fortresses, we were horrified that our actions had provoked such retaliation.”

My heartbeat sped with the fear that he must have experienced. I heard cannons booming across water, saw towers on shore in flames. Kuan’s consciousness seemed to merge into mine, so that I lived his story—as he intended me to do.

“Our army fought valiantly, but it was no match against the British,” Kuan said. “They blockaded the river and seized Chinese merchant junks. As they stormed nearby coastal cities, they revived the opium trade. They furnished arms to Chinese smugglers, who fought their way past our army. Sentiment in the kingdom turned against those of us who had most zealously pursued the crusade against opium. We were blamed for the war. The emperor decided that the British could be pacified, and the war halted, if he punished us. That August, I was among various officials relieved of their duties and assigned to faraway posts. My dedication had brought me the worst disgrace.”

My perspective revolved further beyond my own moral foundation. I could not help but view Kuan as heroic and unjustly disgraced for trying to protect a kingdom from the ills that Branwell suffered.

“I did not leave Canton at once,” Kuan continued. “The war required the military expertise I’d gained at my previous post. I stayed until the next spring. During that time, the British captured our forts and occupied Hong Kong. Their ships roved the Canton delta, sinking war junks and destroying defenses, then mounted an assault on the waterfront. Thousands of citizens fled Canton. Thieves looted abandoned houses. The troops I commanded built batteries along the shore, mounted guns, and fired on the British . . . in vain. British troops disembarked in May 1841 and amassed outside the city wall.”

His mesmeric voice fostered in me visions of a city in chaotic peril. I saw the flames, smelled the smoke; I heard the screams of people fleeing the horde that besieged them.

“A general panic ensued,” Kuan said. “Soldiers deserted their posts and plundered the city. Riots broke out. The governor of Canton called a meeting of his officials. I advised that we continue fighting. I reasoned that although the British were likely to take Canton, they could not conquer all of China; they would weaken before they reached the interior. But other officials advised negotiating a truce.”

Kuan grimaced in contempt. “Their cowardice prevailed, and I, the lone dissenter, was ordered to leave for my new post. That evening, while the British clamored outside the city wall and the officials prepared to accept defeat, I hurried about town, settling my affairs. My son T’ing-nan and my personal retinue of ten men accompanied me. When we arrived home late at night . . .”

Kuan paused, and I perceived that powerful emotions were getting the best of his customary self-control. I sat alert, sensing that his story was approaching its climactic revelation. Rising, he said, “Come with me, Miss Brontë. I wish to show you something.”

He led me to the room next door. It was unfurnished except for a table upon which stood a miniature framed portrait, painted in Oriental style, of a pretty Chinese woman and two little girls, dressed in bright, exotic costume, their hair studded with ornaments. Candles flamed before the portrait. A brass vessel held sticks of smoking incense. At last I identified the source of the perfume in this house and in the Belgian chateau.

“These are my wife, Beautiful Jade, and my young daughters, Precious Jade and Pure Jade,” said Kuan. “That night I arrived home to find them brutally murdered.”

Reader, these were the murders I described earlier. I learned of them from Kuan, at this moment in my tale, and his spell and my imagination breathed life into his recital of the facts. Now I was to discover how the murders had set in motion the events I experienced.

“They lay slashed to death, awash in blood, in the wreckage of the bedchamber,” Kuan said in a tone of deliberate detachment as we contemplated the funeral altar. “While I was gone, the servants had deserted my estate, leaving my wife and daughters alone. Someone had entered the mansion and slaughtered them.”

The entirety of his motive for relating the events of his life to me became clear at last. Kuan wanted to engage my sympathy for his cause. A part of me understood that he was manipulating me; yet I couldn’t but pity a man who’d lost his family by violence.

“On the wall, written in their blood, was the insignia of a secret society whose members traded in opium,” Kuan said. “The insignia was their notice to me that they had murdered my family as revenge for my crusade against them.”

Alas, his portrayal of himself as a hero and martyr was having the desired effect upon me, even as I knew him to be a murderous blackguard himself!

“Had I been home,” said Kuan, “they would have killed me, too, and collected the price offered for my death. As I fell to my knees beside my wife and children—as I howled in grief—I felt rage leap like flames within me. My spirit demanded retribution. I wanted to punish the murderers for their crime, but how? I had no official standing in Canton; I couldn’t mount a search for the killers, nor order their execution.” The helplessness Kuan must have felt colored his tone. “And Canton had become a lawless place. What hope had I of justice?

“It was then that I broke the bonds of duty that I had honored all my life. I swore that I would pursue my family’s killers and deliver them to justice myself.” Kuan’s eyes glittered. “I removed the gown and cap that had signified my official rank. I gave my son into the care of a trusted friend. Then I armed myself, and the ten loyal men from my retinue, with muskets and swords. I prayed one last moment over my wife and daughters, and I promised them that I would avenge their deaths. Then my men and I went hunting for the killers. We tracked them to their opium dens and we shot them dead. I did not care that I had become an outlaw and murderer myself. All I cared for was to kill every last one of them.”

I pictured him and his henchmen bursting upon the surprised scoundrels, gunning them down amidst screams and blood. Though his remorseless violence horrified me, my spirit applauded him. I know what it is to hate someone with such venom, and I might have done similar harm to those who had wronged me, had I the power and not feared the consequences.

“During the next few days, we slew eighteen men,” Kuan said. “In that time, the Canton officials and the British negotiated a truce. It was agreed that China would pay six million pounds—an enormous sum—to the British. In return, the British would spare the city and withdraw their ships from the waterfront. Despite the blood on my hands, my need for vengeance remained unsatisfied. The deaths of eighteen miserable opium smugglers could not restore my wife and daughters to life. And China had suffered a terrible defeat.”

I thought that at last Kuan had explained why he’d left China. His womenfolk had been slain, his country humiliated; China harbored memories he must have longed to escape. I understood that Kuan, once a civilized, honorable man, had turned into a criminal because rage had twisted his mind. Yet still I didn’t know why he had chosen to come to Britain—or what he wanted with me. Before I could ask, Hitchman appeared.

“What do you want?” Kuan frowned in annoyance at Hitchman.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Hitchman said, “but I must speak to you. It cannot wait.”

The two of them went out to the corridor, where they exchanged low, urgent words. Then Kuan hurried down the stairs without bidding me farewell. Hitchman came to me.

“Kuan asked that you excuse his abrupt departure,” Hitchman said. “He’ll resume your conversation later. In the meantime, he wants you to remain in your room.”

As Hitchman escorted me there, not a word of explanation did he give; but clearly there was trouble. I would not learn until later what had happened—and later still, how its repercussions would ultimately put me in peril.

I
LANGUISHED IN MY ROOM, WONDERING WHAT HAD HAPPENED. FOG swept in from the sea, and a malaise enshrouded the house, which was as silent as a tomb until that evening, when I heard footsteps. I went to the door, and to my surprise it opened at my turn of the knob; Hitchman had forgotten to lock it. I crept to the stairway and spied Kuan and Nick in the hall below.

“Have you found any sign of my son?” Kuan asked.