In truth, the entire British Empire had not united in some great chorus of hypocrisy while singing "We Are the World."
It was, after all, the British who had first launched large-scale movements demanding the abolition of slavery.Britain was the nation that outlawed the slave trade and eventually abolished slavery itself.And there were also Britons who argued that no matter how desperate the empire might be for profit, selling something as vile as opium to another nation crossed a moral line.
Of course, that did not erase Britain's remarkable talent for hypocrisy.
No other country had conducted the slave trade on such an enormous scale as Britain.And no other country had flooded China with opium and condemned millions of Qing subjects to addiction quite like Britain either.
The British Empire was a nation where brilliance and darkness existed side by side.
Yet there was a reason modern Britain had earned its reputation as the greatest practitioner of hypocrisy on Earth.
Whenever the weight of money collided with the weight of conscience, the scales of the British Empire almost always tipped toward profit.
Conscience only won when the business in question had already begun to decline.
The abolition of slavery was the perfect example.
When the slave trade had still been a goose that laid golden eggs, a handful of idealists declaring that Africans possessed reason and emotions just like anyone else had been ignored outright.
Why listen to moral arguments when unimaginable wealth flowed in by simply looking the other way?
Whether enslaved people died from disease or were treated worse than livestock hardly mattered when money multiplied endlessly.
The opium trade was no different.
There were certainly voices within Britain arguing that indiscriminately flooding China with opium was morally questionable.
But the profits were simply too large to ignore.
Before my arrival, the British plenipotentiary in Qing territory had been Charles Elliot—a man who had struggled deeply with this dilemma.
"So in the end, the government intends to continue selling opium to the Qing Empire at all costs," Elliot said quietly. "And as Foreign Secretary, you are obliged to carry out that policy."
"Does that displease you?" I asked.
"As a servant of the Crown, I must follow the directives handed down from above. Personal judgments are irrelevant."
He paused before adding with a bitter smile,
"Still… I do hope that history will not remember us as the embodiment of moral corruption."
From the reports I had studied in London, Elliot had never been particularly fond of the opium trade.
He had tolerated it because it was an essential pillar of Britain's economy, but he had frequently voiced his personal distaste. Witnesses had reported him frowning at opium merchants or showing visible relief when I assumed full authority over negotiations.
When I first read those reports, I had already thought he might be the perfect man for a certain role.
Perhaps one more push would confirm it.
"I understand your feelings completely, Superintendent," I said with a faint smile. "Every time I hear William Jardine insisting that opium is no more harmful than alcohol, I struggle not to laugh."
Elliot barked out a short laugh.
"Ha! I would very much like to see him replace every drink he consumes with opium. If he still claims it is harmless afterward, I'll gladly concede the point."
Even in an age before modern science had fully defined addiction, people were not fools.
In the late eighteenth century, the dangers of opium had not yet been clearly understood.
But this was now the mid-nineteenth century.
Opium had been produced and exported in massive quantities for decades. There were now hundreds of thousands—millions—of observable examples of its effects.
While addiction had not yet been scientifically categorized, Britain's ruling class already understood through experience that opium destroyed lives.
They simply refused to admit it.
The reason was simple.
If Britain officially acknowledged the harm of opium, it would mean cutting open the belly of its own golden goose.
So instead, the argument went like this:
"Is there any proof opium destroys lives?""Opium is no different from alcohol. The Chinese are simply lazy."
As long as they insisted loudly enough, the massive trade deficit with China could continue to be balanced by opium sales. Politicians in London were more than willing to pretend ignorance.
"Most politicians in Britain understand perfectly well that opium is harmful," I said. "Which is precisely why its domestic use is tightly controlled. Medical applications are permitted, but the sort of mass consumption seen in China is carefully prevented."
"…I suspected as much."
Elliot sighed.
"But I am hardly in a position to criticize others. If I truly possessed the courage of my convictions, I would have refused this assignment altogether. Instead, I came."
"That is hardly surprising," I replied. "A man in government service cannot simply rebel because he dislikes a policy."
In truth, Elliot represented a very common type of person.
He disliked the opium trade morally but could not abandon his career to oppose it outright.
And people like that were often easy to guide—if you provided them with a way to ease their conscience.
"Let me ask you something," I said carefully.
"If there were a way to protect Britain's interests while avoiding the disgrace of openly profiting from opium… would you not choose that path?"
Elliot blinked.
"But… I was told the government intends to resume the opium trade."
"That is merely the official policy," I replied. "And I have been granted full discretion to adjust policy according to local conditions."
Elliot hesitated.
"Even so… you are still quite young, Minister. Defying the Prime Minister or Parliament would be an enormous risk."
Ah.
So that was his concern.
In other words:
Why should I risk my career trusting a young upstart like you?
A perfectly ordinary, cautious mindset.
And one I rather liked.
"You misunderstand," I said calmly. "Do you truly believe someone my age could overturn the government's position without powerful backing?"
Elliot's eyes widened.
"You mean… you have support in London?"
"Of course."
I leaned back slightly.
"Surely you've heard of Charles Wellesley, son of the Duke of Wellington."
"Ah—the Wellesley faction?"
If Wellington had heard me name-dropping like this from the comfort of his bed in London, he might have sat bolt upright.
But he had already given me permission to invoke his name if necessary.
Connections were meant to be used.
"That's right," I continued smoothly. "A group of young reform-minded MPs—men of conscience and intelligence. The future of the Conservative Party."
Elliot nodded slowly.
"So that explains how someone so young became Foreign Secretary."
"Precisely. And our goal is simple: to protect Britain's interests without sacrificing the empire's dignity."
I leaned forward and extended my hand.
"We believe you are exactly the sort of man who belongs with us. If you are willing to join our cause, I will explain the plan in detail."
"If I agree," Elliot asked cautiously, "does that mean I become part of the Wellesley faction?"
He was already halfway convinced.
"Think of it that way if you wish," I said.
"And if things go well… someone will eventually need to remain here to oversee the region. A Foreign Secretary cannot stay in Canton forever, after all."
Elliot's eyes widened.
"The next governor…"
I smiled warmly and held out my hand.
"Well then? Will you accept my proposal?"
* * *
As the saying goes, if you want to capture the general, you first shoot his horse.
In order to convincingly play the role of Killian Gore—the man striving for a peaceful resolution, I arranged a meeting with one of Lin Zexu's closest subordinates.
Technically, I didn't arrange it myself.
William Jardine and James Matheson had poured money and connections into securing the meeting.
And surprisingly, they had succeeded in bringing exactly the man I wanted.
"Pleasure to meet you," the official said. "My name is Yang Shengyuan. May I address you as Minister?"
"Of course," I replied. "And I must thank you for agreeing to meet. It is an honor to speak with the governor's right-hand man."
"Right-hand man is too generous," Yang replied modestly. "But since the governor himself wishes to maintain good relations with you, it would have been improper for me to refuse."
He studied me closely.
"Your mandarin is truly impressive. If someone overheard you, they might believe you were born in Beijing."
"High praise indeed," I said with a laugh. "But I'm afraid I've never had the pleasure of visiting Beijing."
"Then have you never been to Qing territory before? Did you spend your entire childhood in Joseon?"
Ah.
So that was the real reason he had come.
They wanted to investigate me.
Not surprising.
A Western official who spoke flawless Chinese and claimed to have been born in Joseon would naturally arouse suspicion.
In fact, provoking that curiosity had been my goal from the start.
"I spent my childhood in Joseon and learned a great deal about East Asia there," I said casually. "Who would have thought those experiences would prove so useful later in life?"
Yang nodded thoughtfully.
"And how were you treated in Joseon? I understand the country is rather closed to foreigners."
I smiled faintly.
"In truth, I was treated quite kindly. Everyone was very generous to me."
Which was, of course, a complete lie.
But Yang did not need to know that.
"Because of that," I continued, "I've always hoped to serve as a bridge between Britain and Joseon someday."
"I see…"
Yang's tone shifted slightly.
"But you must understand—Joseon is a tributary state of the Qing Empire."
"Of course I know that," I said immediately. "Britain has no intention of interfering with Qing authority over Joseon."
His shoulders visibly relaxed.
"I merely hope that Britain, Qing, and Joseon can coexist peacefully."
"Your understanding of our customs is impressive," Yang said with a satisfied nod.
Of course he was relieved.
The moment Joseon had entered the conversation, he had panicked.
What if Britain tried to establish influence there?
To men steeped in the Sinocentric worldview, that possibility was deeply unsettling.
Which was exactly why I had planted the seed.
By the time Yang left the meeting, the pleasant conversation we had shared meant nothing.
His expression was heavy with worry.
Suspicion, once ignited, is difficult to extinguish.
Especially when someone keeps feeding it more fuel.