Tai-Pan

CHAPTER FIVE

Struan was in the garden. It was just before midnight. There was an uneasy stillness in the air. He knew that most of the traders would be sleeping in their clothes, weapons beside them. He peered through the gate at the bannermen. Some were sleeping; others were jabbering over a fire that they had built in the square. The night was chill. There was scant movement on the river.

Struan left the gate and sauntered pensively around the garden. Where the devil was May-may? He knew that she would not casually leave the Settlement. Perhaps she had been enticed away. Perhaps—God’s blood, that was nae way to think. But he knew that the richest warlord in China would not hesitate to take her—by force if necessary—once he had seen her.

A shadow jumped over the side wall and Struan’s knife was instantly in his hand.

It was a Chinese who tremulously held out a piece of paper. He was a short, lithe man with broken teeth, his face stretched and opium-yellowed. Imprinted on the paper was Jin-qua’s chop, a private seal used only on contracts and special documents.

“Mass’er,” the Chinese said softly. “Dooa follow. Alone.”

Struan hesitated. It was dangerous to leave the protection of the Settlement and his men. Foolhardy. “No can. Jin-qua here can.”

“No can. Dooa follow.” The Chinese pointed at the chop. “Jin-qua wantshee, quick-quick.”

“Tomollow,” Struan said.

The Chinese shook his head. “Now. Quick-quick, savvy?”

Struan realized that possibly Jin-qua’s chop had fallen into other hands and that this could easily be a trap. But he dared not take Mauss or any of his men because the meeting must be very secret. And the sooner the better.

He studied the paper under the lantern and made absolutely sure that the chop was correct.

He nodded. “Can.”

The Chinese led the way to the side wall and clambered over it. Struan followed, ready for treachery. The Chinese hurried along the side wall of the factory and turned into Hog Street. Incredibly, the street was deserted. But Struan could feel eyes watching him.

At the end of Hog Street the Chinese turned east. There were two curtained sedan chairs waiting. The sedan-chair coolies were terrified. Their fear intensified when they saw Struan.

Struan got into one sedan chair, the Chinese into the other. Immediately the coolies picked up the chairs and loped along Thirteen Factory Street. They turned south into narrow, deserted alleyways unfamiliar to Struan. Soon he had lost all sense of direction. He settled back and cursed his stupidity, at the same time exulting in the expectation of danger. At length the coolies stopped in a filthy, high-walled alley strewn with rotting offal. A festering dog was foraging.

The Chinese gave the coolies some money and when they had evaporated into the darkness, he knocked on a door. It opened, and he stepped aside for Struan to enter. Struan motioned him to go first, then warily followed him into a rancid stable where another Chinese was waiting with a lantern. This man turned and walked silently across the stable through another door and did not look behind him. Now they picked their way through a huge warehouse and up rickety steps and down more steps into another warehouse. Rats scurried in the darkness.

Struan knew they were somewhere near the river for he could hear water lapping and hawsers creeking. He was ready for an instant fight, the haft of his knife in his cupped hand, the blade concealed up his sleeve.

The man with the lantern ducked under a bridge of packing cases and led the way to another half-hidden door. He knocked and then opened the door.

“Halloa, Tai-Pan,” Jin-qua said. “All same no seea longa time.”

Struan came into the room. It was another filth-strewn warehouse dimly lit with candles and cluttered with packing cases and mildewed fishing nets. “Halloa, Jin-qua,” he said, relieved. “No seea longa time.”

Jin-qua was ancient, fragile, tiny. His skin was like parchment. Thin wisps of graying beard fell to his chest. His robes were richly brocaded, and his hat jeweled. He wore thick-soled embroidered shoes and his queue was long and shiny. The nails of his little fingers were protected by jeweled sheaths.

Jin-qua nodded happily and shuffled to a corner of the warehouse and sat at a table set with food and tea.

Struan sat opposite him, his back to the wall. Jin-qua smiled. He had only three teeth. They were gold-capped. Jin-qua said something in Chinese to the man who had brought Struan, and the man left by another door.

“Tea-ah?” Jin-qua asked.

“Can.”

Jin-qua nodded to the servant who had carried the lantern, and he poured the tea and helped Jin-qua and Struan to some food. Then he moved to one side and watched Jin-qua. Struan noticed that the man was muscular and armed with a knife at his belt.

“Plees,” Jin-qua said, motioning Struan to eat.

“Thank you.”

Struan nibbled at his food and drank some tea and waited. It was necessary to let Jin-qua make the first opening.

After they had eaten in silence, Jin-qua said, “You want see my?”

“Jin-qua dooa good trade out of Canton?”

“Bis’ness good bad all same, never mind.”

“Trade stoppee now?”

“Stoppee now. Hoppo very bad mandarin. Sodjers many, many. My payee big squeezze for sodjers. Ayee yah!”

“Bad.” Struan sipped his tea. Now or never, he told himself. And now that the right moment had at last arrived, he knew that he could never sell out Hong Kong. A pox on the mandarin! While I’m alive there’ll be nae god-rotting mandarin on Hong Kong. It’ll have to be Brock. But murder’s nae way to solve bankruptcy. So Brock’s safe, because everyone expects me to remedy the problem that way. Or

is he safe? Where the hell’s May-may?

“Hear One-Eye Devil Brock have Tai-Pan by troat.”

“Hear Devil Hoppo have Co-hong by troat,” Struan said. Now that he had decided not to make a deal, he felt much better. “Ayee yah!”

“All same. Mandarin Ti-sen anger-anger have got.”

“Why so?”

“Mass’er ‘Odious Penis’ writee werry bad-bad letter.”

“Tea-ah werry number-one good-ah,” Struan said.

“Mass’er ‘Odious Penis’ dooa what Tai-Pan say, heya?”

“Sometimes can.”

“Bad when Ti-sen anger have got.”

“Bad when Mass’er Longstaff anger have got.”

“Ayee yah.” Jin-qua fastidiously picked some food and ate it, his eyes narrowing even more. “Savvy Kung Hay Fat Choy?”

“Chinese New Year? Savvy.”

“New year begin soon. Co-hong have got bad debts from old years. Good joss start new year when no debts. Tai-Pan have got plenty Co-hong paper.”

“Never mind. Can wait.” Jin-qua and the other Co-hong merchants owed Struan six hundred thousand.

“One-Eye Devil can wait?”

“Jin-qua paper can wait. Finish. Chow werry number-one good-ah.”

“Werry bad.” Jin-qua sipped his tea. “Hear Tai-Pan Supreme Lady and chillo dead. Bad joss, solly.”

“Bad joss, plenty,” Struan said.

“Never mind. You plenty young, plenty new cow chillo. Your one piece cow chillo May-may. Why Tai-Pan have got ony one bull chillo? Tai-Pan wantshee med’cine maybe. Have got.”

“When wantshee, I ask,” Struan said affably. “Hear Jin-qua have got new bull chillo. What number son this?”

“Ten and seven,” Jin-qua said, beaming.

Great God, Struan thought. Seventeen sons—and probably the same number of daughters, which Jin-qua does na count. He bowed his head and whistled in appreciation.

Jin-qua laughed. “How muchee tea-ah wantshee this season?”

“Trade stop. How can trade?”

Jin-qua winked. “Can.”

“Doan knowa. You sell Brock. When I wantshee tea-ah I tell you, heya?”

“Must knowa two days.”

“No can.”

Jin-qua said something sharply to his servant, who went to one of the mildewed packing cases and removed the lid. It was full of silver bullion. Jin-qua motioned at the other packing cases. “Here forty lac dolla.”

A lac was approximately twenty-five thousand pounds sterling. Forty lacs was a million sterling.

Jin-qua’s eyes slitted even more. “I borrow. Werry hard. Werry expensee. You want? Jin-qua lend, maybe.”

Struan tried to conceal his shock. He knew there would be a hard deal attached to any loan. He knew that Jin-qua must have gambled his life and his soul and his house and his future and that of his friends and his sons to amass so much bullion secretly. The bullion had to be secret or the Hoppo would have stolen it and Jin-qua simply would have disappeared. If news leaked into the pirate and bandit nests that abounded in or near Canton that there was even a hundredth part of so much treasure close at hand, Jin-qua would have been obliterated.

“Many lac dolla,” Struan said. “Man dooa fav’r must return fav’r.”

“Buy this year double tea-ah last year, same price last year. Can?”

“Can.”

“Sell double opium this year same price last year. Can?”

“Can.” Struan would pay over market price for the tea and would have to sell the opium at less than the present market price, but he would still make a vast profit. If the other conditions are possible, he reminded himself. Perhaps he was not finished after all. If Jin-qua did not want the mandarin. Struan said a silent prayer that a mandarin was not part of the deal. But he knew that if there was no mandarin on Hong Kong there could be no Co-hong. And if there was no Co-hong and no monopoly, Jin-qua and all the other merchants would be out of business. They had to have the system too.

“Only buy Jin-qua or Jin-qua son ten year. Can?”

Great God, Struan thought, if I give him a monopoly on the house, he can squeeze us at will. “Can—when tea price, silk price all same other Co-hong.”

“Twenty year. Market price add ten p’cent.”

“Plus five p’cent—add five p’cent. Can.”

“Eight.”

“Five.”

“Seven.”

“Five.”

“Seven.”

“No can. No profit. Too plenty muchee,” Struan said.

“Ayee yah. Too much plenty profit. Seven!”

‘Ten year six p’cent—ten year five p’cent.”

“Ayee yah,” Jin-qua replied hotly. “Bad, plenty bad.” He waved a frail hand at the chests. “Huge cost! Big interest. Werry muchee. Ten year six, ten year five, add new ten year five.”

Struan wondered if the anger was real or pretended. “Suppose no Jin-qua, no Jin-qua son?”

“Plenty son—plenty son of son. Can?”

“New ten year add four p’cent.”

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Bad, bad. Werry high interest, werry. Five.”

Struan kept his eyes off the bullion but could feel it surrounding him. Dinna be a fool. Take it. Agree to anything. You’re safe, laddie. You’ve everything.

“Mandarin Ti-sen say one mandarin Hong Kong,” Jin-qua said abruptly. “Why you say no?”

“Jin-qua doan like mandarin, heya? What for I like mandarin, heya?” Struan replied, a knot in his stomach.

“Forty lac dolla, one mandarin. Can?”

“No can.”

“Plenty easy. Why for you say no can? Can.”

“No can.” Struan’s eyes never wavered. “Mandarin no can.”

“Forty lac dolla. One mandarin. Cheep.”

“Forty times ten lac dolla no can. Die first.” Struan decided to bring the bargaining to an end. “Finish,” he said harshly. “By my fathers, finish.” He got up and walked for the door.

“Why for goa?” Jin-qua asked.

“No mandarin—no dolla. Why talk, heya?”

To Struan’s astonishment Jin-qua cackled and said, “Ti-sen want mandarin. Jin-qua no lend money belong Ti-sen. Jin-qua lend Jin-qua money. Add new ten year five p’cent. Can?”

“Can.” Struan sat down again, his head dizzy.

“Five lac dolla buy Jin-qua land in Hong Kong. Can?”

Why? Struan asked himself helplessly. If Jin-qua lends me the money, he must know that the Co-hong’s finished. Why should he destroy himself? Why buy land in Hong Kong?

“Can?” Jin-qua said again.

“Can.”

“Five lac dolla keep safe.” Jin-qua opened a small teak box and took out two chops. The chops were small square sticks of ivory two inches long. The old man deftly held them together and dipped the ends, which were intricately carved, into the solid ink and made a chop mark on a sheet of paper. Jin-qua gave Struan one of the chops and put the other back in the box. “Man bring this piece chop, give land and dolla, five lac, savvy?”

“Savvy.”

“Nex’ year I send one my bull chillo Hong Kong. You send all same your son school Lond’n. Can?”

“Can.”

“Your bull chillo, Gord’n Chen. Good? Bad maybe?”

“Good chillo. Chen Sheng say plenty good think-think.” Obviously Struan was supposed to do something with Gordon Chen. But why and how did Gordon fit into Jin-qua’s machinations? “I think-think give Gord’n maybe bigger job.”

“What for bigger job?” Jin-qua said contemptuously. “Think you lend one lac dolla Chen bull chillo.”

“What inter’st?”

“Half profit.”

Profit on what? Struan felt that Jin-qua was playing him like a fish. But you’re off the hook, laddie, he wanted to shout. You’ll get the bullion wi’out the mandarin. “Can.”

Jin-qua sighed and Struan assumed that the deal was concluded. But it was not. Jin-qua put his hand into his sleeve pocket and brought out eight coin halves and put them on the table. Each of four coins had been crudely broken in two. With one of his fingernail protectors Jin-qua pushed a half of each coin across the table. “Last. Four fav’r. Man bring one thees, you grant fav’r.”

“What fav’r?”

Jin-qua leaned back in his chair. “Doan knowa, Tai-Pan,” he said. “Four fav’r sometime. Not my life maybe, son maybe. Doan knowa when, but ask four fav’r. One half coin fav’r. Can?”

Sweat chilled Struan’s shoulders. Agreeing to such a demand was an open invitation to disaster. But if he refused, the bullion was lost to him. You put your head into a devil trap, he told himself. Aye, but make up your mind. Do you want the future or na? You’ve known Jin-qua for twenty years. He’s always been fair. Aye, and the shrewdest man in Canton. For twenty years he’s helped you and guided you—and together you’ve grown in power and riches. So trust him; you can trust him. No, you canna trust any man, least of all Jin-qua. You’ve prospered with him only because you’ve always held the last card. Now you’re asked to give Jin-qua four jokers in your pack of life and death.

Once more Struan was awed by the subtlety and diabolic cunning of a Chinese mind. The majesty of it. The ruthlessness of it. But then, Struan told himself, they were both gambling for huge stakes. Both gambling on each other’s fairness, for there was nothing to guarantee that the favors would be granted.

Except that you will grant them and must grant them because a deal is a deal.

“Can,” he said, holding out his hand. “My custom, shake hand. Na Chinese custom, never mind.” He had never shaken hands with Jin-qua before, and he knew that the shaking of hands was considered barbaric.

Jin-qua said, “Fav’r perhaps again’ law. My, yours, savvy?”

“Savvy. You frien’. You or son no send coin ask bad fav’r.”

Jin-qua closed his eyes for a moment and thought about European barbarians. They were hairy and apelike. Their manners were repulsive and ugly. They stank beyond belief. They had no culture or manners or graces. Even the lowest coolie was ten thousand times better than the best European. And what applied to the men applied even more to the women.

He remembered his one visit to the Chinese-speaking English barbarian whore at Macao. He had visited her more for curiosity than for satisfaction, encouraged by his friends who said it would be an unforgettable experience for there was no refinement she would not diligently practice if encouraged.

He shuddered at the thought of her hairy arms and hairy armpits and hairy legs and cleft, the coarseness of her skin and face, and the stench of sweat mixed with the foul perfume.

And the foods that the barbarians ate—hideous. He had been to their dinners many times and had to sit through the innumerable courses, almost faint with nausea and pretending not to be hungry. Watching, appalled, at the stupendous quantities of half-raw meats they knifed into their mouths, blood gravy dripping down their chins. And the quantities of maddening spirits they swilled. And their revolting boiled, tasteless vegetables. And indigestible, solid pies. All in monstrous amounts. Like pigs—like sweating, gluttonous Gargantuan devils. Unbelievable!

They have no attributes to recommend them, he thought. None. Except their propensity to kill, and this they can do with incredible brutality although with no refinement. At least, they are the medium for us to make money.

Barbarians are Evil personified. All except this man—this Dirk Struan. Once Struan was like other barbarians. Now he is partially Chinese. In the mind. The mind is important, for to be Chinese is partially a mental attitude. And he is clean and smells clean. And he has learned some of our ways. Still violent and barbarian and a killer. But a little changed. And if one barbarian can be changed into a civilized person, why not many?

Your plan is a wise one, Jin-qua told himself. He opened his eyes and reached across and delicately touched Struan’s hand with his. “Frien’. ”

Jin-qua motioned for the servant to pour tea.

“Men my bring bullion your factory. Two days. Night. Werry secret,” Jin-qua said. “Plenty danger, savvy? Werry plenty.”

“Savvy. I give paper and chop my for bullion. Send tomollow.”

“No chop, no paper. Word better, heya?”

Struan nodded. How would you explain it—say, to Culum—that Jin-qua’ll give you one million in silver, will give you a fair deal knowing that he could ask any conditions, will give you everything you want on a handshake?

“Three times ten lac dolla pay Jin-qua, Co-hong debts. Now new year no debt. Good joss,” Jin-qua said proudly.

“Aye,” Struan said. “Good joss for me.”

“Werry plenty danger, Tai-Pan. No can help.”

“Aye.”

“Werry werry plenty danger. Mustee wait two nights.”

“Ayee yah danger!” Struan said. He picked up the four half coins. “Thank you, Chen-tse Jin Arn. Thank you very much.”

“No thanks, Dir’ Str’n. Frien’.”

Suddenly the man who had guided Struan to Jin-qua burst in. He spoke urgently to Jin-qua, who turned to Struan, frightened. “Servant dooa go! Gone Sett’ment. All gone!”