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“It is to our shame that we have many stains in our history, gentlemen, but one of the most shameful episodes in all of our nation’s long life is that of the Opium Wars. There have been glorious times of courage and honor, intellectual genius and Christian humanity. The wars embody the opposite: greed, dishonor, and barbarous cruelty. Britain is addicted to tea, which at the time of those conflicts we could buy only from China. We are also very fond of porcelain, and of silk, similarly purchased largely from China. The only currency they will accept in exchange is silver bullion, of which we have very little.”
Rathbone glanced across at Monk, but neither of them interrupted.
Gladstone’s voice was edged with shame when he continued. “We responded with arguments and pleas, and when those failed to influence the Chinese, we began to sell them opium from India. They may have begun to use it for the relief of pain, but that swiftly changed to smoking it for pleasure. I have not the time, or desire, to spell out the progress of that abomination for you, but within a few years tens of thousands of Chinese became so addicted to it that they were incapable of work, or even of sustaining themselves or their families.
“We brought in ever more, smuggled it in, despite every effort on the part of the Chinese government to prevent the trade. Finally we poisoned a nation and reduced much of it to a state of helplessness, even death. Of course, many of us choose to deny it. It is peculiarly powerful to acknowledge that your country has behaved with dishonor. There are many who believe it is patriotism to deny it, conceal it, even to lie and blame others. Men have been murdered to cover up less, and those who did it felt justified.” His voice was low and hoarse. “ ‘My family, my country-right or wrong.’ It is the ultimate betrayal of God.”
Neither Monk nor Rathbone responded, not knowing how to. And the depth of Gladstone’s emotion seemed to make it not only unnecessary but intrusive.
As if recalling himself to their presence he began again.
“It might have started in our own minds as a reasonable trade. Indeed there are those who argue that had we not supplied the Chinese from India, then others would have done so. The French and the Americans are involved.”
“Is that true?” Rathbone asked, then wished he had kept silent. He should not have interrupted the prime minister.
Gladstone looked up at him momentarily. “Yes, but a specious argument. One man’s sin does not justify another’s.”
“And the wars, sir?” Monk asked.
“Against the Chinese, of course,” Gladstone replied. “They tried to reason with us to prevent us selling opium, with argument, trade tariffs, very little diplomacy. Even the emissaries of the queen were treated as if they were servants bringing tribute from some subject princeling.” He was so affronted he found it difficult to say the words. “As the most powerful nation on earth, we did not respond well to such insult. Tempers were controlled with difficulty.” He lowered his voice. “Or not at all.”
Rathbone could imagine it, but he did not speak.
“There were incidents of violence,” Gladstone continued, “some of them bestial beyond belief, and we are not free from blame. Although I cannot imagine that we descended to such things as I have heard tell.” He shook himself very slightly. “But that is not an excuse. We have dealt with savages before, and we should not assume that because a man can create exquisite beauty or invent such blessings for mankind as paper and porcelain, even gunpowder with all its uses, that he is a civilized creature in his soul. And whatever he is, it does not excuse us from our own duty to God as Christian men.” His face was dark with anger and his body shook.
Rathbone looked across at Monk and saw the pity in his face, and also a degree of confusion.
Gladstone regained his self-control and went on with his lesson. “Incident after incident escalated until the Chinese confiscated thousands of pounds of opium, an act in which they were justified. Some deny this, but it is the truth. It was a contraband substance, smuggled into China by us. The Royal Navy attacked. The Chinese ships were small, and their weapons and armor medieval. Our broadsides sank them, drowned their sailors with barely any loss to us. We attacked the land fortifications at river mouths, bombarded city walls, and the women and children sheltering within them. Our ships-such as Nemesis, which was steel-hulled, and a paddle-wheeler, independent of wind and tide-were beyond their power to fight. Some of them had primitive firelock guns; others merely bows and arrows, God help them. Our victory was total.”
The enormity of it slowly took shape in Rathbone’s mind.
“Three hundred million people,” Gladstone went on quickly, as if in haste to get the entire tale out. “We made them ransom their own port of Canton for six million silver dollars. By 1842 we controlled Shanghai, and the whole mouth of the Yangtze River, and we forced on them one shameful treaty after another. We took from them the island of Hong Kong, and the ports of Canton, Amoy, Foochow, Shanghai, and Mingbo, and nine million dollars, which is nearly two million pounds in reparation for the contraband opium they had seized and destroyed.”
He shook his head. “That was only part of it. There were other concessions as well. In 1844, France and the United States exacted the same concessions, but that does not excuse us. It was our war, our weapons and our greed that began it and forced it to a conclusion.”
Finally he faced Rathbone and Monk. “The Second Opium War, a few years later, was no better. Again we grew rich on the ruin of another race. France, the United States, and this time Russia as well joined us in war and plunder. But we played the major part, and most certainly took the largest gain in treaties, and seizures of further ports along the coast. All the while we continued to sell opium to a wretched people, who were drowning in a sunless sea of addiction. It is an episode of appalling shame, and you will find many who would deny it.”
Rathbone cleared his throat. “And the Pharmacy Act will regulate the sale and labeling of all medicines in Britain, and prevent them being sold by people who have no medical knowledge or skill?”
“It will,” Gladstone agreed. He looked from one to the other of them. “Mr. Wilkie Collins, a writer of considerable skill and, more important, a great reputation, is a keen supporter of the bill, but it was Dr. Lambourn who was going to provide the professional evidence. His death was a great blow; his discredit an even greater one. But we will surmount it, I promise you. However, I would dearly like to know what it was that he discovered that would make anyone wish both to kill him and then to discredit him. Perhaps, gentlemen, we need to know.
“Sinden Bawtry told me the report was too ill-conceived to be of use and that out of respect for Lambourn’s memory it was destroyed. I believed him at the time, but what you have said has caused me grave doubt. I have known Bawtry for some years, a man of skill, intellect, and great generosity to the country. Even so, he may have been deceived. There are ugly truths that Dr. Lambourn might have uncovered accidentally in his research.”
Gladstone smiled with bleak goodwill but no pleasure at all. “Do what you can to save Mrs. Lambourn,” he urged. “I shudder to think of our shame exposed in the courts, but it would be doubly evil to conceal it by sacrificing an innocent woman. To do so would be to defile not only our trade but our justice as well. But I warn you, it will earn you some bitter enemies, Sir Oliver. Do what you can, gentlemen. And keep me apprised. Good day to you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rathbone said gratefully.
OUTSIDE, IN THE SOMBER dignity of Downing Street, Rathbone turned to Monk.
“I’m not sure if this makes it better or worse. Nothing is what I thought it was. I had assumed a clever but deeply flawed man whose distorted sexual appetites had finally ended his life in tragedy and suicide; and a wife whose grief and sense of betrayal had driven her to an obscene revenge. Instead it now seems we have a remarkable man whose only flaw was to leave his opium-addicted wife without the formality of a divorce. He lived with the woman he truly loved, without deceiving her as to her situation. Out of compassion, or sense of duty, he maintained support for his wife both financial and emotional.
“He could not be misled or bought off from writing a report on the dangers of opium use without restrictions, and was murdered for his courage. His widow, or apparent widow, loved him enough to risk her own life to redeem his reputation. His wife was not a prostitute at all, as assumed, but a woman supported by one decent man who asked nothing whatever from her. Is anything the way it appears to be?”
Monk shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Rathbone thought of other times in his life when suddenly nothing turned out as he had expected. The familiar had unaccountably become alien and all his confidence was swept away. Did that happen to everyone?
He kept pace with Monk, their footsteps all but silent in the quiet street.
