Tai-Pan

CHAPTER TWO

“Welcome aboard, Robb,” Captain Isaac Perry said. “Tea?”

“Thank you, Isaac.” Robb sat back gratefully in the deep leather sea chair, smelling its tangy perfume, and waited. No one could hurry Perry, not even the Tai-Pan.

Perry poured the tea into porcelain cups.

He was thin but incredibly strong. His hair was the color of old hemp, brown with threads of silver and black. His beard was grizzled and his face scarred, and he smelled of tarred hemp and salt spray.

“Good voyage?” Robb asked.

“Excellent.”

Robb was happy as always to be in the main cabin. It was large and luxurious like all the quarters. The fittings throughout the ship were brass and copper and mahogany, and the sails the finest canvas and the ropes always new. Cannon perfect. Best powder. It was the Tai-Pan’s policy throughout his fleet to give his officers—and men—the finest quarters and the best food and a share of the profits, and there was always a doctor aboard. And flogging was outlawed. There was only one punishment for cowardice or disobedience, officer or seaman: to be put ashore at the first port and never given a second chance. So seamen and officers fought to be part of the fleet and there was never a berth empty.

The Tai-Pan had never forgotten his first ships and the fo’c’sles or his floggings. Or the men that had ordered them. Some of the men had died before he found them. Those that he found he broke. Only Brock he had not touched.

Robb did not know why his brother had spared Brock. He shuddered, knowing that whatever the reason, one day there would be a reckoning.

Perry added a spoonful of sugar and condensed milk. He handed Robb a cup, then sat behind the mahogany sea desk and peered out from eyes that were deep-set under shaggy brows. “Mr. Struan’s in good health?”

“As always. You expected him to be sick?”

“No.”

There was a knock on the cabin door.

“Come in!”

The door opened and Robb gaped at the young man standing there. “Great God, Culum lad, where’d you come from?” He got up excitedly, knocking his cup over. “ ‘Very important dispatches’ indeed—and of course ‘Zenith’!” Culum Struan entered the cabin and shut the door. Robb held him affectionately by the shoulders, then noticed his pallor and sunken cheeks. “What’s amiss, lad?” he asked anxiously.

“I’m much better, thank you, Uncle,” Cullum said, the voice too thin.

“Better from what, laddie?”

“The plague, the Bengal plague,” Culum said, puzzled.

Robb whirled on Perry. “You got plague aboard? In Christ’s name, why aren’t you flying the Yellow Jack?”

“Of course there’s no plague aboard! It was in Scotland months ago.” Perry stopped. “

Scarlet Cloud! She never arrived?”

“Four weeks overdue. No word, nothing. What happened? Come on, man!”

“Shall I tell him, Culum lad, or do you want to?”

“Where’s Father?” Culum asked Robb.

“Ashore. He’s waiting for you ashore. At the valley. For the love of God, what’s happened, Culum?”

“Plague came to Glasgow in June,” Culum said dully. “They say it came by ship again. From Bengal—India. First to Sutherland then Edinburgh, then it came to us in Glasgow. Mother’s dead, Ian, Lechie, Grandma—Winifred’s so weak she won’t last. Grandpa’s looking after her.” He made a helpless gesture and sat on the arm of the sea chair. “Grandma’s dead. Mother. Aunt Uthenia and the babies and her husband. Ten, twenty thousand died between June and September. Then the plague disappeared. It just disappeared.”

“Roddy? What about Roddy? My son’s dead?” Robb said in anguish.

“No, Uncle. Roddy’s fine. He wasn’t touched.”

“You’re certain, are you, Culum? My son’s safe?”

“Yes. I saw him the day before I left. Very few at his school got the plague.”

“Thank God!” Robb shivered, remembering the first wave of the plague that had mysteriously swept Europe ten years ago. Fifty thousand deaths in England alone. A million in Europe. Thousands in New York and New Orleans. Some called this plague by a newer name—cholera.

“Your mother’s dead?” Robb said, unbelieving. “Ian, Lechie, Granny?”

“Yes. And Aunt Susan and Cousin Clair and Aunt Uthenia, Cousin Donald and little Stewart and . . .”

There was a monstrous silence.

Perry broke it nervously. “When I berthed in Glasgow, well, Culum lad was on his own. I didn’t know what to do, so I thought it best to bring him aboard. We sailed a month after

Scarlet Cloud.”

“You did right, Isaac,” Robb heard himself say. How was he going to tell Dirk? “I’d better go. I’ll signal you to come ashore. You stay aboard.”

“No.” Culum said it aloud as though to himself, deep inside. “No. I’ll go ashore first. Alone. That’s better. I’ll see Father alone. I must tell him. I’ll go ashore alone.” He got up and quietly walked to the door, the ship rocking smoothly and the sweet sound of the waves lapping, and he left. Then he remembered and came back into the cabin. “I’ll take the dispatches,” he said in his tiny voice. “He’ll want to see the dispatches.”

When the longboat pulled away from

Thunder Cloud, Struan was on the knoll where the Great House would be. As soon as he saw his eldest son amidships, his heart turned over.

“Culummmm!” he roared exultantly from the top of the knoll. He ripped off his coat and waved it frantically like a man marooned six years who sees his first ship. “Culummmm!” He tore headlong through the coarse brier toward the shore, careless of the thorns and forgetting the path that led from the shore over the crest to the fishing village and pirate nests on the south side of the island. He forgot everything except that here was his darling son on the first day. Faster. And now he was racing along the shore, ecstatic.

Culum saw him first. “Over there. Put in over there.” He pointed at the nearest landing.

Bosun McKay swung the tiller over. “Pull, my hearties,” he said, urging them shoreward. They all knew now, and word was flying through the fleet—and, in its wake, anxiety. Between Sutherland and Glasgow lived many a kin and in London Town most of the rest.

Culum got up and slipped over the side into the shallows. “Leave us.” He began to splash ashore.

Struan ran into the surf that swept the beach, heading straight for his son, and he saw the tears and shouted, “Culum laddie,” and Culum stopped for a moment, helpless, drowned in the abundance of his father’s joy. Then he began running in the surf too, and finally he was safe in his father’s arms. And all the horror of the months burst like an abscess and he was weeping, holding on, holding on, and then Struan was gentling his son and carrying him ashore in his arms and murmuring. “Culum laddie” and “Dinna fash yoursel’ ” and “Oh ma bairn,” and Culum was sobbing, “We’re dead—we’re all dead—Mumma, Ian, Lechie, Granny, aunts, Cousin Clair—we’re all dead, Father. There’s only me and Win’fred, and she’s dead by now.” He repeated the names again and again, and they were knives in Struan’s guts.

In time Culum slept, spent, safe at last in the strength and warmth. His sleep was dreamless for the first time since the plague had come. He slept that day and the night and part of the next day, and Struan cradled him, rocking him gently.

Struan did not notice the passing of the time. Sometimes he would talk with his wife and children—Ronalda and Ian and Lechie and Winifred—as they sat on the shore beside him. Sometimes when they would go away he would call to them, softly lest he wake Culum, and later they would come back. Sometimes he would sing the gentle lullabies that Ronalda used to croon to their children. Or the Gaelic of his mother or Catherine, his second mother. Sometimes the mist covered his soul and he saw nothing.

When Culum awoke he felt at peace. “Hello, Father.”

“You all right, laddie?”

“I’m all right now.” He stood up.

It was cold on the beach in the shadow of the rock, but in the sun it was warmer. The fleet was quietly at anchor, and tenders scurried back and forth. There were fewer ships than before.

“Is that where the Great House’ll be?” Culum asked, pointing to the knoll.

“Aye. That’s where we could live in the autumn till the spring. The climate’s bonny then.”

“What’s the valley called?”

“It has na a name.” Struan moved into the sun and tried to dominate the brooding ache in his shoulders and back.

“It should have a name.”

“Little Karen, your cousin Karen—Robb’s youngest—wants to call it Happy Valley. We’d’ve been happy here.” Struan’s voice grew leaden. “Did they suffer much?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

“Not now.”

“Little Winifred. She died before you left?”

“No. But she was very weak. The doctors said that being so weak . . . the doctors just shrugged and went away.”

“And Grandpa?”

“The plague never touched him. He came like the wind to us and then he took Win’fred. I went to Aunt Uthenia’s to help. But I didn’t help.”

Struan was facing the harbor without seeing it. “You told Uncle Robb?”

“Yes. Yes, I think I did.”

“Poor Robb. I’d better get aboard.” Struan reached down and picked up the dispatches, half buried in the sand. They were unopened. He wiped the sand off.

“I’m sorry,” Culum said. “I forgot to give them to you.”

“Nay, lad. You gave them to me.” Struan saw a longboat making for shore. Isaac Perry was in the stern.

“Afternoon, Mr. Struan,” Perry said cautiously. “Sorry about your loss.”

“How’s Robb?”

Perry did not answer. He stepped ashore and barked at the crew, “Hurry it up!” and Struan wondered through the numbness of his torn mind why Perry was afraid of him. No reason to be afraid. None.

The men carried ashore a table and benches and food, tea and brandy and clothes.

“Hurry it up!” Perry repeated irritably. “And stand off! Get to hell out of here and stand off.”

The oarsmen shoved the longboat off quickly and pulled out above the surf and waited, glad to be away.

Struan helped Culum into dry clothes and then put on a clean, ruffled shirt and warm reefer jacket. Perry helped him off with his soaking boots.

“Thanks,” Struan said.

“Does it hurt?” Culum asked, seeing the foot.

“No.”

“About Mr. Robb, sir,” Perry said. “After Culum left he went for the liquor. I told him no, but he wouldn’t listen.” He continued haltingly, “You’d given orders. So the cabin got a bit bent, but I got it away from him. When he came to, he was all right. I took him aboard

China Cloud and put him into his wife’s hands.”

“You did right, Isaac. Thank you.” Struan helped Culum to a dish of food—beef stew, dumplings, cold chicken, potatoes, hardtack biscuits—and took a pewter mug of hot, sweet tea for himself.

“His Excellency sends his condolences. He’d like you to step aboard, at your convenience.”

Struan rubbed his face and felt the stubble of his beard, and he wondered why he always felt dirty when his face was unshaven and his teeth not brushed.

“Your razor’s there,” Perry said, indicating a side table. He had anticipated Struan’s need to spruce up. The Tai-Pan had a fanatical obsession with his personal cleanliness. “There’s hot water.”

“Thank you.” Struan soaked a towel in the water and wiped his face and head. Next he lathered his face and shaved deftly without a mirror. Then he dipped a small brush into his mug of tea and began to clean his teeth vigorously.

Must be another heathen superstition, Perry thought contemptuously. Teeth grow old and rot and fall out and that’s all there is to it.

Struan rinsed his mouth with tea and threw the dregs away. He washed the mug with fresh tea and refilled it and drank deeply. There was a small bottle of cologne with his shaving gear, and he poured a few drops on his hands and rubbed them into his face.

He sat down, refreshed. Culum was only toying with the food. “You should eat, lad.”

“I’m not hungry, thank you.”

“Eat anyway.” The wind ruffled Struan’s red-gold hair, which he wore long and uncurled, and he brushed it back. “Is my tent set up, Isaac?”

“Of course. You gave orders. It’s on a knoll above the flagstaff.”

“Tell Chen Sheng, in my name, to go to Macao and buy honey and fresh eggs. And to get Chinese herbs to cure distempers and the aftereffect of Bengal plague.”

“I’m all right, Father, thank you,” Culum protested weakly. “I don’t need any heathen witches’ brews.”

“They’re na witches as we know witches, lad,” Struan said. “And they’re Chinese, not heathen. Their herbs have saved me many a time. The Orient’s not like Europe.”

“No need to worry about me, Father.”

“There is. The Orient’s nae place for the weak. Isaac, order

China Cloud to Macao with Chen Sheng, and if she’s not back in record time, Captain Orlov and all the officers are beached. Call the longboat in.”

“Perhaps Culum should go with the ship to Macao, Mr. Struan.”

“He’s to stay in my sight till I think he’s well.”

“He’d be well looked after in Macao. Aboard there’s not—”

“God’s blood, Isaac, will you na do as you’re told? Get the longboat in!”

Perry stiffened momentarily and shouted the longboat ashore.

Struan, with Culum beside him, sat amidships, Perry behind them.

“Flagship!” Struan ordered, automatically checking the lie of his ships and the smell of the wind and studying the clouds, trying to read their weather message. The sea was calm. But he could smell trouble.

On the way to the flagship Struan read the dispatches. Profits on last year’s teas, good. Perry had made a lucrative voyage, good. A copy of

Scarlet Cloud’s bill of lading that Perry had brought from Calcutta; bad: two hundred and ten thousand pounds sterling of opium lost. Thank God the ship was insured—though that would na replace the men and the time lost while another ship was abuilding. The cargo of opium was contraband and could not be insured. A year’s profit gone. What had happened to her? Storm or piracy? Storm, more likely. Unless she’d run into one of the Spanish or French or American—aye, or English—privateers that infested the seas. Finally he broke the seal on his banker’s letter. He read it and exploded with rage.

“What is it?” Culum asked, frightened.

“Just an old pain. Nothing. It’s nothing.” Struan pretended to read the next dispatch while raging inwardly over the contents of the letter. Good sweet Christ! “We regret to inform you that, inadvertently and momentarily, credit was overextended and there was a run on the bank, started by malicious rivals. Therefore we can no longer keep our doors open. The board of directors has advised we can pay sixpence on the pound. I have the honor to be, sir, your most obedient servant . . .” And we hold close to a million sterling of their paper. Twenty-five thousand sterling for a million, and our debts close to a million pounds. We’re bankrupt. Great God, I warned Robb not to put all the money in one bank. Na with all the speculating that was going on in England, na when a bank could issue paper in any amount that it liked.

“But this bank’s safe,” Robb had said, “and we need the money in one block for collateral,” and Robb had gone on to explain the details of a complicated financial structure that involved Spanish and French and German bonds and National Debt bonds, and in the end gave Struan and Company an internationally safe banking position and a huge buying power for expanding the fleet that Struan wanted, and bought for The Noble House special privileges in the lucrative German, French and Spanish markets.

“All right, Robb,” he had said, not understanding the intricacies but trusting that what Robb said was wise.

Now we’re broke. Bankrupt.

Sweet Christ!

He was still too stunned to think about a solution. He could only dwell on the awesomeness of the New Age. The complexity of it. The unbelievable speed of it. A new queen—Victoria—the first popular monarch in centuries. And her husband Albert—he did na ken about him yet, he was a bloody foreigner from Saxe-Coburg, but Parliament was strong now and in control, and that was a new development. Peace for twenty-six years and no major war imminent—unheard of for hundreds of years. Devil Bonaparte safely dead, and violent France safely bottled, and Britain world-dominant for the first time. Slavery out eight years ago. Canals, a new method of transport. Toll roads with unheard-of smooth and permanent surfaces, and factories and industry and looms and mass production and iron and coal and joint stock companies, and so many other new things within the past ten years: the penny post, first cheap post on earth, and the first police force in the world, and “magnetism”—whatever the hell that was—and a steam hammer, and a first Factory Act, and Parliament at long last taken out of the hands of the few aristocratic rich landowners so that now, incredibly, every man in England who owned a house worth twenty pounds a year could vote, could actually vote, and any man could become Prime Minister. And the unbelievable Industrial Revolution and Britain fantastically wealthy and its riches beginning to spread. New ideas of government and humanity ripping through barriers of centuries. All British, all new. And now the locomotive!

“Now, there’s an invention that’ll rock the world,” he muttered.

“What did you say, Father?” Culum asked. Struan came back into himself. “I was just thinking about our first ride on a train,” he improvised.

“You been on a train, sorr?” McKay asked. “What’s it like? When was that?”

Culum said, “We went on the maiden trip of Stephenson’s engine, the

Rocket. I was twelve.”

“No, lad,” Struan said, “you were eleven. It was in 1830. Eleven years ago. It was the maiden run of the

Rocket, on the first passenger train on earth. From Manchester to Liverpool. A day’s run by stagecoach, but we made the journey in an hour and a half.” And once again Struan began to ponder the fate of The Noble House. Then he remembered his instructions to Robb to borrow all the money they could to corner the opium market. Let’s see—we could make fifty, a hundred thousand pounds out of that. Aye—but a drop in the bucket for what we need. The three million we’re owed for the stolen opium! Aye, but we canna get that until the treaty’s ratified—six to nine months—and we’ve to honor our drafts in three!

How to get cash? Our position’s good—our standing good. Except there are jackals salivating at our heels. Brock for one. Cooper-Tillman for another. Did Brock start the run on the bank? Or was it his whelp Morgan? The Brocks have power enough and money enough. It’s cash we need. Or a huge line of credit. Supported by cash, na paper. We’re bankrupt. At least we’re bankrupt if our creditors fall on us.

He felt his son’s hand on his arm. “What did you say, lad?

The Rocket, you were saying?”

Culum was greatly unsettled by Struan’s pallor and the piercing luminous green of his eyes. “The flagship. We’re here.”

Culum followed his father on deck. He had never been aboard a warship, let alone a capital ship. H.M.S.

Titan was one of the most powerful vessels afloat. She was huge—triple-masted—with 74 cannons mounted on three gun-decks. But Culum was unimpressed. He did not care for ships, and loathed the sea. He was afraid of the violence and danger and enormousness of it, and he could not swim. He wondered how his father could love the sea.

There’s so much I don’t know about my father, he thought. But that’s not strange. I’ve only seen him a few times in my life and the last time six years ago. Father hasn’t changed. But I have. Now I know what I’m going to do with my life. And now that I’m alone . . . I like being alone, and hate it.

He followed his father down the gangway onto the main gundeck. It was low-ceilinged and they had to stoop as they walked aft heading for the sentry-guarded cabin, and the whole ship smelled of gunpowder and tar and hemp and sweat.

“Day, sir.” the marine said to Struan, his musket pointing at him formally. “Master-at-arms!”

The master-at-arms, scarlet-uniformed, his white pipeclay trimming resplendent, stamped out of the guard cabin. He was as hard as a cannon ball and his head as round. “Day, Mr. Struan. Just a moment, sirr.” He knocked deferentially on the oak cabin door. A voice said, “Come in,” and he closed the door behind him.

Struan took out a cheroot and offered it to Culum. “Are you smoking now, lad?”

“Yes. Thank you, Father.”

Struan lit Culum’s cheroot and one for himself. He leaned against one of the twelve-foot-long cannons. The cannon balls were piled neatly, ever ready. Sixty-pound shot.

The cabin door opened. Longstaff, a slight, dapper man came out. His hair was dark and fashionably curled, his muttonchop whiskers thick. He had a high forehead and dark eyes. The sentry presented arms and the master-at-arms returned to the guard cabin.

“Hello, Dirk, my dear fellow. How are you? I was so sad to hear.” Longstaff shook Struan’s hand nervously, then smiled at Culum and offered his hand again. “You must be Culum. I’m William Longstaff. Sorry that you came under these terrible circumstances.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Culum said, astonished that the Captain Superintendent of Trade should be so young.

“Do you mind waiting a moment, Dirk? Admiral’s conference and the captains. I’ll be through in a few minutes,” Longstaff said with a yawn. “I’ve a lot to talk to you about. If you’re up to it.”

“Yes.”

Longstaff glanced anxiously at the gold jeweled fob watch which dangled from his brocade waistcoat. “Almost eleven o’clock! Never seems to be enough time. Would you like to go down to the wardroom?”

“No. We’ll wait here.”

“As you wish.” Longstaff briskly re-entered the cabin and shut the door.

“He’s very young to be the plenipotentiary, isn’t he?” Culum asked.

“Yes and no. He’s thirty-six. Empires are built by young men, Culum. They’re lost by old men.”

“He doesn’t look English at all. Is he Welsh?”

“His mother’s Spanish.” Which accounted for his cruel streak, Struan thought to himself. “She was a countess. His father was a diplomat to the court of Spain. It was one of those ‘well-bred’ marriages. His family’s connected with the earls of Toth.”

If you’re not born an aristocrat, Culum thought, however clever you are, you haven’t a hope. Not a hope. Not without revolution. “Things are very bad in England,” he told his father.

“How so, lad?” Struan said.

“The rich are too rich and the poor too poor. People pouring into the cities looking for work. More people than jobs, so the employers pay less and less. People starving. The Chartist leaders are still in prison.”

“A good thing, too. Those rabble-rousing scum should have been hung or transported, na just put in prison.”

“You don’t approve of the Charter?” Culum was suddenly on his guard. The People’s Charter had been written less than three years ago, and now had become the rallying symbol of liberty to all the discontented of Britain. The Charter demanded a vote for every man, the abolition of the property qualification for members of Parliament, equal electoral districts, vote by secret ballot, annual Parliaments, and salaries for members of Parliament.

“I approve of it as a document of fair demands. But na of the Chartists or their leaders. The Charter’s like a lot of basic good ideas—they fall into the hands of the wrong leaders.”

“It’s not wrong to agitate for reform. Parliament’s got to make changes.”

“Agitate, yes. Talk, argue, write petitions, but don’t incite violence and dinna lead revolutions. The Government was right to put down the troubles in Wales and the Midlands. Insurrection’s no answer, by God. There’s tales that the Chartists have na learned their lesson yet and that they’re buying arms and having secret meetings. They should be stamped out, by God.”

“You won’t stamp out the Charter. Too many want it and are prepared to die for it.”

“Then there’ll be a lot of deaths, lad. If the Chartists dinna possess themselves with patience.”

“You don’t know what the British Isles are like now, Father. You’ve been out here so long. Patience comes hard with an empty belly.”

“It’s the same in China. Same all the world over. But revolt and insurrection’s na the British way.”

It soon will be, Culum thought grimly, if there aren’t changes. He was sorry now that he had left Glasgow for the Orient. Glasgow was the center of the Scottish Chartists and he was leader of the undergraduates who had, in secret, committed themselves to work and sweat—and die if necessary—for the Chartist cause.

The cabin door opened again, and the sentry stiffened. The admiral, a heavyset man, strode out, his face taut and angry, and headed for the gangway, followed by his captains. Most of the captains were young but a few were gray-haired. All were dressed in sea uniform and wore cocked hats, and their swords clattered.

Captain Glessing was last. He stopped in front of Struan. “Can I offer my condolences, Mr. Struan? Very bad luck!”

“Aye.” Is it just bad luck, Struan wondered, to lose a bonny wife and three bonny children? Or does God—or the Devil—have a hand in joss? Or are they—God, Devil, luck, joss—just different names for the same thing?”

“You were quite right to kill that damned marine,” Glessing said.

“I did na touch him.”

“Oh? I presumed you did. Couldn’t see what happened from where I was. It’s unimportant.”

“Did you bury him ashore?”

“No. No point in defiling the island with that sort of disease. Does the name Ramsey mean anything to you, Mr. Struan?” Glessing asked, bluntly terminating the amenities.

“Ramsey’s a common enough name.” Struan was on guard.

“True. But Scots stick together. Isn’t that a key to the success of Scot-dominated enterprises?”

“It’s hard to find trustworthy people, aye,” Struan said. “Does the name Ramsey mean anything to you?”

“It’s the name of a deserter from my ship,” Glessing said pointedly. “He’s a cousin to your bosun, Bosun McKay, I believe.”

“So?”

“Nothing. Just passing along information. As you know, of course, any merchantman, armed or otherwise, which harbors deserters can be taken as prize. By the Royal Navy.” Glessing smiled. “Stupid to desert. Where can he go except onto another ship?”

“Nowhere.” Struan felt trapped. He was sure that Ramsey was aboard one of his ships and certain that Brock was involved and perhaps Glessing too.

“We’re searching the fleet today. You’ve no objections, of course?”

“Of course. We’re very careful who man our ships.”

“Very wise. The admiral thought The Noble House should have pride of place, so your ships will be searched immediately.”

In that case, Struan thought, there’s nothing I can do. So he dismissed the problem from his mind.

“Captain, I’d like you to meet my eldest—my son, Culum. Culum, this is our famous Captain Glessing who won us the battle of Chuenpi.”

“Good day to you.” Glessing shook hands politely. Culum’s hand felt soft and it was long-fingered and slightly feminine. Bit of a dandy, Glessing thought. Waisted frock coat, pale blue cravat and high collar. Must be an undergraduate. Curious to be shaking hands with someone who’s had Bengal plague and lived. Wonder if I’d survive. “That wasn’t a battle.”

“Two small frigates against twenty junks of war and thirty or more fire ships? That’s na a battle?”

“An engagement, Mr. Struan. It could have been a battle . . .” If it hadn’t been for that godrotting coward Longstaff, and you, you godrotting pirate, he itched to say.

“We merchants think of it, Culum, as a battle,” Struan said ironically. “We dinna understand the difference between an engagement and a battle. We’re just peaceful traders. But the first time the arms of England went against the arms of China deserves the title ‘battle.’ It was just over a year ago. We fired first.”

“And what would you have done, Mr. Struan? It was the correct tactical decision.”

“Of course.”

“The Captain Superintendent of Trade concurred completely with my actions.”

“Of course. There was little else he could do.”

“Fighting old battles, Captain Glessing?” Longstaff asked. He was standing at the door of the cabin and had been listening, unnoticed.

“No, Your Excellency, just rehashing an old engagement. Mr. Struan and I have never seen eye to eye on Chuenpi, as you know.”

“And why should you? If Mr. Struan had been in your command, his decision might have been the same as yours. If you had been in Mr. Struan’s place, then you might have been sure that they would not have attacked and you would have gambled.” Longstaff yawned and toyed with his watch fob. “What would you have done, Culum?”

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t know the complications that existed.”

“Well said. ‘Complications’ is a good word.” Longstaff chuckled. “Would you care to join us, Captain? A glass of sack?”

“Thank you, sir, but I’d better get back to my ship.” Glessing saluted smartly and walked away.

Longstaff motioned the Struans into the conference room which presently served as the private quarters of the Captain Superintendent of Trade. It was spartan and functional, and the deep leather chairs and chart tables, chests of drawers and heavy oak table were all fastened tightly to the deck. The richly carved oak desk was backed by the semicircle of mullioned windows of the stern. The cabin smelled of tar and stale tobacco and sea and, inevitably, gunpowder.

“Steward!” Longstaff called out.

At once the cabin door opened. “Yussir?”

Longstaff turned to Struan. “Sack? Brandy? Port?”

“Dry sack, thank you.”

“The same, please, sir,” Culum said.

“I’ll have port.” Longstaff yawned again.

“Yussir.” The steward took the bottles from a sideboard and poured the wines into fine crystal glasses.

“Is this your first trip aboard, Culum?” Longstaff asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“But I suppose you’re well up-to-date on our recent ‘complications’?”

“No, Your Excellency. Father didn’t write very much, and China isn’t mentioned in the newspapers.”

“But it soon will be, eh, Dirk?”

The steward offered the glasses to Longstaff, and then to his guests.

“See that we’re not disturbed.”

“Yussir.” The steward left the bottles within easy reach and went out.

“A toast,” Longstaff said, and Struan remembered Robb’s toast and regretted that he had come first to the flagship. “To a pleasant stay, Culum, and to a safe journey home.”

They drank. The dry sack was excellent.

“History’s being made out here, Culum. And there’s no one better equipped to tell you about it than your father.”

“There’s an old Chinese saying, Culum: ‘Truth wears many faces,’ ” Struan said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Just that my version of ‘facts’ is na necessarily the only one.” This reminded him of the previous viceroy, Ling, now in disgrace in Canton, because his policies had precipitated the open conflict with Britain, and presently under a death sentence. “Is that devil Ling still in Canton?”

“I think so. His Excellency Ti-sen smiled when I asked him three days ago and said cryptically, ‘The Vermilion is the Son of Heaven. How can man know what Heaven wills?’ The Chinese emperor is called the Son of Heaven,’” Longstaff elaborated for Culum’s sake. “ ‘The Vermilion’ is another of his names because he always writes in vermilion-colored ink.”

“Strange, strange people, the Chinese, Culum,” Struan said. “For instance; only the emperor among three hundred millions is allowed to use vermilion ink. Imagine that. If Queen Victoria said, ‘From now on, only I am allowed to use vermilion,’ as much as we love her, forty thousand Britons would instantly forswear all ink but vermilion. I would mysel’.”

“And every China trader,” Longstaff said with an unconscious sneer, “would instantly send her a barrel of the color, cash on delivery, and tell Her Britannic Majesty they’d be glad to supply the Crown, at a price. And they’d write the letter in vermilion. Rightly so, I suppose. Where would we be without trade?”

There was a small silence and Culum wondered why his father had let the insult pass. Or was it an insult? Wasn’t it just another fact of life—that aristos always sneered at anyone who was not an aristo? Well, the Charter would solve aristos once and for all.

“You wanted to see me, Will?” Struan felt deathly tired. His foot ached, and so did his shoulders.

“Yes. A few minor things have happened since . . . in the last two days. Culum, would you excuse us for a moment? I want to talk to your father alone.”

“Certainly, sir.” Culum got up.

“No need for that, Will,” Struan said. But for Longstaff’s sneer he would have let Culum go. “Culum’s a partner in Struan’s now. One day he’ll rule it as Tai-Pan. You can trust him as you’d trust me.”

Culum wanted to say, “I’ll never be part of this, never. I’ve other plans.” But he could say nothing.

“I must congratulate you, Culum,” Longstaff said. “To be a partner in The Noble House—well, that’s a prize beyond price.”

Na when you’re bankrupt, Struan almost added, “Sit down, Culum.”

Longstaff paced the room, and began: “A meeting with the Chinese Plenipotentiary is arranged for tomorrow to discuss the treaty details.”

“Did he suggest the time and the place, or did you?”

“He did.”

“Perhaps you’d better change it. Pick another place and another time.”

“Why?”

“Because if you agree to his suggestion, he and all the mandarins will interpret it as weakness.”

“All right. If you think so. The day after tomorrow, what? At Canton?”

“Yes. Take Horatio and Mauss. I’ll come with you if you like, and we must be four hours late.”

“But damme, Dirk, why go to such ridiculous extremes? Four hours? ’Pon me word!”

“It’s not ridiculous. By acting like a superior to an inferior, you put them at a disadvantage.” Struan glanced at Culum. “You have to play the Oriental game by Oriental rules. Little things become very important. His Excellency has a very difficult position here. One little mistake now, and the result will last fifty years. He has to make haste with extreme caution.”

“Yes. And no damned help!” Longstaff drained his glass and poured another. “Why the devil they can’t act like civilized people I’ll never know. Never. Apart from your father there’s no one who helps. The Cabinet at home doesn’t know the problems I’m facing and doesn’t care. I’m completely on my own here. They give me impossible instructions and expect me to deal with an impossible people. ’Pon me word, we have to be late four hours to prove we’re ‘superior’ when of course everyone knows we’re superior!” He took some snuff irritably, and sneezed.

“When are you holding a land sale, Will?”

“Well, er, I thought when the Cabinet approves the treaty. There’s plenty of time. Say in September.”

“Do you na remember your idea? I thought you wanted to start building in Hong Kong immediately.”

Longstaff tried to recollect. He seemed to remember talking about it to Struan. What was it? “Well, of course, the ceding of Hong Kong isn’t official until both governments approve the treaty—I mean, that’s usual, isn’t it, what?”

“Yes. But these are na usual circumstances.” Struan toyed with his glass. “Hong Kong’s ours. The sooner we start building the better, is that na what you said?”

“Well, of course it’s ours.” What

was that plan? Longstaff stifled another yawn.

“You said that all land was to belong to the queen. That until you were officially the first governor of Hong Kong, all government was to be in your hands as plenipotentiary. If you issue a special proclamation, then everything is as you planned. If I were you, I’d hold a land sale next month. Dinna forgot, Will, that you’ll need revenue for the colony. The Cabinet is sensitive about colonies that dinna pay for themselves.”

“Correct. Yes. Absolutely right. Of course. We should begin as soon as possible. We’ll hold the first land sale next month. Let me see. Should it be freehold or on lease, or what?”

“Nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine-year leases. The usual Crown agreements.”

“Excellent.” Longstaff made a helpless gesture. “As if we haven’t enough to worry about, Culum! Now we have to act like damned tradesmen. How the devil do you go about building a colony, what? Got to have sewers and streets and buildings and God knows what else. A court and a prison, by Jove!” He paused in front of Culum. “Have you any legal training?”

“No, Your Excellency,” Culum said. “Just half a university degree in the arts.”

“No matter. I’ll have to have a colonial secretary, an adjutant general, treasurer and God knows what else. There’ll have to be a police force of some kind. Would you like to be in charge of the police?”

“No, thank you, sir.” Culum tried not to show the shock he felt.

“Well, I’m sure there’s some place we can use you. Everyone’ll have to pitch in. I can’t take care of everything. Think about what you’d like to do and let me know. We’ll need people we can trust.”

“Why not put him on your staff as a deputy?” Struan said. “We’ll lend him to you for six months.”

“Excellent.” Longstaff smiled at Culum. “Good. You’re deputy colonial secretary. Let’s see. Make arrangements for the land sale. That’s your first job.”

“But I don’t know anything about land sales, sir. I don’t know anything about—”

“You know as much as anyone, and your father can guide you. You’ll be, er, deputy colonial secretary. Excellent. Now I can forget that problem. You find out what should be done and how, and let me know what’s necessary to make it official. Have an auction. That’s the fair way, I imagine.” Longstaff refilled his glass. “Oh, by the way, Dirk, I ordered the evacuation of Chushan Island.”

Struan felt his stomach turn over. “Why did you do that, Will?”

“I received a special letter from His Excellency Ti-sen two days ago asking that this be done as an act of good faith.”

“You could have waited.”

“He wanted an immediate answer, and there was, well—no way to reach you.”

“Immediate, Chinese style, means anything up to a century.” Oh Willie, you poor fool, he thought, how many times do I have to explain?

Longstaff felt Struan’s eyes grinding into him. “He was sending off a copy of the treaty to the emperor, and wanted to include the fact that we’d ordered the evacuation. We were going to hand it back anyway, what? That was the plan. Damme, what difference does it make, now or later?”

“Timing is very important to the Chinese. Has the order gone yet?”

“Yes. It went yesterday. Ti-sen was kind enough to offer us the use of the imperial horse relay. I sent the order by that.”

Damn your eyes, Struan thought. You impossible fool. “Very bad to use their service for our orders. We’ve lost face and they’ve gained a point. Nae use in sending a ship now.” His voice was cold and hard. “By the time it got to Chushan the evacuation’d be completed. Well, it’s done, and that’s that. But it was unwise. The Chinese will only interpret it as weakness.”

“I thought the act of good faith a splendid idea, splendid,” Longstaff went on, trying to overcome his nervousness. “After all, we’ve everything we want. Their indemnity is light—only six million dollars, and that more than covers the cost of the opium they destroyed. Canton is open to trade again. And we have Hong Kong. At long last.” His eyes were sparkling now. “Everything according to plan. Chushan Island’s unimportant. You said to take it only as an expedient. But Hong Kong’s ours. And Ti-sen said he’d appoint a mandarin for Hong Kong within the month and they’ll—”

“He’ll what?” Struan was aghast.

“He’ll appoint a mandarin for Hong Kong. What’s the matter?”

Hang on to your temper, Struan warned himself with a mighty effort. You’ve been patient all this time. This weak-brained incompetent’s the most necessary tool you have. “Will, if you allow him to do that, you’re giving him power over Hong Kong.”

“Not at all, my dear, fellow, what? Hong Kong’s British. The heathen’ll be under our flag and under our Government. Someone’s got to be in charge of the devils, what? There’s got to be someone to pay the customs dues to. Where better than Hong Kong? They’ll have their own customshouse and buildings and—”

“They’ll what?” the word slammed off the oak bulkheads. “God’s blood, you haven’t agreed to this, I hope?”

“Well, I don’t see anything wrong in it, Dirk, eh? ’Pon me word, it doesn’t change anything, does it? It saves us a lot of trouble. We don’t have to be in Canton. We can do everything from here.”

To stop himself from crushing Longstaff like a bedbug, Struan walked over to the bureau and poured himself a brandy. Hold on. Dinna wreck him now. The timing’s wrong. You’ve got to use him. “Have you agreed with Ti-sen that he

can appoint a mandarin for Hong Kong?”

“Well, my dear fellow, I didn’t exactly agree. It’s not part of the treaty. I just said I agreed it seemed a good idea.”

“Did you do this in writing?”

“Yes. Yesterday.” Longstaff was bewildered by Struan’s intensity. “But isn’t that what we’ve been trying to do for so long? To deal direct with the mandarins and not through the Chinese hong merchants?”

“Aye. But not on our island, by God!” Struan kept his voice level, but he was thinking. You godrotting apology for a leader, you stupid aristocratic indecisive wrong-decisioned dungheap. “If we allow that, we sink Hong Kong. We lose everything.”

Longstaff tugged at the lobe of his ear, wilting under Struan’s eyes.

“Why, Father?” Culum asked.

To Longstaff’s relief, the eyes turned to Culum and he thought, Yes, why? Why do we lose everything, eh? I thought it a simply marvelous arrangement.

“Because they’re Chinese.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know, laddie.” To put away the grief of the loss of his family that suddenly welled up inside him and to take his mind off his frantic worry over the loss of their wealth, he decided to explain—as much for Longstaff as for Culum. “First thing to understand: For fifty centuries the Chinese have called China the Middle Kingdom—the land that the gods have placed between heaven

above and the earth

beneath. By definition a Chinese is a uniquely superior being. They all believe that anyone else—anyone—is a barbarian and of no account. And that they alone have the God-given right, as the only really civilized nation, to rule the earth. As far as they’re concerned, Queen Victoria is a barbarian vassal who should pay tribute. China has nae fleet, nae army, and we can do what we like with her—but they

believe they are the most civilized, the most powerful, the richest—in this I think they’re potentially right—nation on earth. Do you know about the Eight Regulations?”

Culum shook his head.

“Well, these were the terms under which the Emperor of China agreed to trade with ‘barbarians’ a hundred and fifty years ago. The Regulations confined all ‘barbarian’ trade to the single port of Canton. All tea and silk had to be paid for in silver, nae credit whatsoever allowed, and smuggling was forbidden. ‘Barbarians’ were allowed to build warehouses and factories on a plot of land half a mile by two hundred yards at Canton; ‘barbarians’ were totally confined to this walled-in area—the Canton Settlement—and could stay only for the winter shipping season—September until March—when they must leave and go to Macao. Nae ‘barbarian’ families were allowed in the Settlement under any circumstances and all women forbidden. Nae arms whatsoever in the Settlement. Learning Chinese, boating for pleasure, sedan chairs, and mixing with Chinese were forbidden; ‘barbarian’ warships were forbidden the Pearl River estuary. All ‘barbarian’ merchant ships were to anchor at Whampoa, thirteen miles downstream, where cargoes were to be transshipped and export customs tax paid in silver. All ‘barbarian’ business was to be conducted solely through a monopoly, a guild, of ten Chinese merchants which we call the Co-hong. The Co-hong were also the sole suppliers of food, the sole licensor of a set number of servants and boatmen and compradores. And finally, the one regulation that nailed us to the Cross —and the one the treaty cancels—specified that the Co-hong were the only recipients of all ‘barbarian’ petitions, requests and complaints, which would then, and solely by them, be forwarded to the mandarins.

“The whole point of the Regulations was to keep us at arm’s length, to harass us, yet to squeeze every penny out of us. Remember another thing about the Chinese: They love money. But the ‘squeeze’ benefited only the ruling Manchu class, not all Chinese. The Manchus think our ideas—Christianity, Parliament, voting, and above all, equality before the law and a jury system—are revolutionary and dangerous and evil. But they want our bullion.

“Under the Regulations we were defenseless, our trade was controlled and could be squeezed at will. Even so, we made money.” He smiled. “We made a lot of money, and so did they. Most of the Regulations fell apart because of the greed of the officials. The important ones—nae warships, nae official contact other than through the Co-hong merchants, nae wives in Canton, nae staying beyond March or before September—remained in effect.

“And, typically Chinese, the poor Co-hong merchants were made responsible for us. Any ‘complication’ and the wrath of the emperor fell on them. Which is again so completely Chinese. The Co-hong were squeezed and are being squeezed until they go bankrupt, most of them. We own six hundred thousand guineas of their worthless paper. Brock has about as much. In Chinese fashion, the Co-hong have to buy their positions from the emperor and they’re expected to continually send huge ‘presents’ to their superiors—fifty thousand taels of silver is the customary ‘gift’ on the emperor’s birthday from each of them.

“Above the Co-hong is the emperor’s personal squeeze chief. We call him the Hoppo. He’s responsible for squeezing the mandarins at Canton, the Co-hong, and anyone he can. The Hoppo also buys his position—he’s the biggest trader of opium, by the way, and makes a fortune out of it.

“So if you allow one mandarin on Hong Kong, you allow the whole system. The mandarin will be a Hoppo. Every Chinese will be subject to him. Every Chinese trader who comes to trade will be ‘sold’ licenses and squeezed, and in turn they’ll squeeze us. The Hoppo will destroy those who will help us and help those who hate us. And they’ll never give up until they drive us out.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re Chinese.” Struan stretched to ease his shoulders, feeling the tiredness creeping over him, then walked over to the sideboard and poured another brandy. I wish I could be Chinese for an hour or so, he thought wearily. Then I’d be able to finesse a million taels from somewhere with nae trouble. If that’s the answer, he told himself, then try to think like a Chinese. You’re the Tai-Pan of the ‘barbarians,’ the mandarin, with unlimited power. What’s the point of power if you dinna use it to twist joss to help yoursel’? How can you use your power?

Who has a million taels? Whom can you pressure to get it? Who owes you favors?

“What should we do, Dirk? I mean, I quite agree,” Longstaff said.

“You’d better send Ti-sen an immediate dispatch. Tell him . . . no, order him—”

Struan stopped abruptly as his brain cleared. His fatigue vanished. You’re a stupid, blathering, half-witted gilly! Ti-sen! Ti-sen’s your key. One mandarin. That’s all you have to arrange. Two simple steps: First, cancel Longstaff’s agreement as it must be canceled anyway; second, in a week or two make a secret offer to Ti-sen that in return for a million in bullion you’ll make Longstaff reverse his stand and allow one mandarin into Hong Kong. Ti-sen will leap at the offer because he immediately gets back everything the war has forced him to concede; he’ll squeeze the Co-hong for the million, and they’ll be delighted to pay because they’ll immediately add it onto the cost of the tea they’re dying to sell us and we’re dying to buy. Poor little Willie’s nae problem and none of the other traders will object to one mandarin. We will na call the man “mandarin,” we’ll invent a new name to throw the cleverest off the scent. “Trade commissioner.” The traders will na object to the Chinese “trade commissioner” because he’ll assist trade and simplify the paying of customs. Now, who to make the secret offer? Obviously old Jin-qua. He’s the richest and the most cunning of the Co-hong and your major supplier, and you’ve known him twenty years. He’s the one, wi’out a doubt.

One mandarin will guarantee the future of The Noble House. Aye. But he will wreck Hong Kong. And destroy the plan. Do you gamble that you make the deal, knowing you’ll have to outsmart them later? That’s a terrible risk—you know one mandarin means the whole system. You canna leave that devil legacy for Robb or for Culum or for their children. But wi’out the bullion there’s nae Noble House and nae future.

“You were saying, Dirk?”

“Order Ti-sen in the queen’s name to forget a mandarin on Hong Kong.”

“My thought entirely.” Longstaff happily sat down at the desk and picked up the quill. “What should I say?”

And what should I do, poor Willie, about the second step? Struan asked himself. Does the end justify the means? “Write this: To Ti-sen at Canton. A Special Proclamation: Only Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria, has the authority to appoint officials in the British Island of Hong Kong. There will be no Chinese officials here and no customshouses whatsoever.’” He hesitated then continued deliberately, sensing that the timing was right, “ ‘And all Chinese residing in Her Majesty’s colony of Hong Kong will henceforth be British subjects and subject only to the laws of England.’ ”

“But that exceeds my authority!”

“It’s custom for plenipotentiaries to exceed their authority. That’s why they’re so carefully selected, Will. That’s why we’ve an Empire. Raffles, Hastings, Clive, Raleigh, Wellington. You have the plenipotentiary authority of Her Majesty’s Government to arrange a treaty with China. What do they know or care about China at home? But you’re an innovator, a maker of history, Will. You’re ready to accept one tiny, barren, almost uninhabited island when it’s a world custom to grab whole continents, when you could take all China if you wanted. You’re so much smarter.”

Longstaff wavered and sucked the top of the quill. “Yes, but I’ve already agreed that Chinese on Hong Kong would be subject to Chinese law, all forms of torture excepted.” A bead of sweat gathered on his chin. “It was a clause in the treaty and I issued a special proclamation.”

“You’ve changed your mind, Will. Just as Ti-sen changed his. There was no clause to appoint a mandarin.”

“But it was understood.”

“Not in your mind. Or mine. He’s trying to dupe you. As he did over Chushan.”

“Quite,” Longstaff agreed, happy to be convinced. “You’re right, Dirk. Absolutely. If we allow any control—you’re right. They’ll go back to their old devilment, what? Yes. And it’s time the Chinese saw what justice really is. Law and order. Yes. You’re right.”

“End the letter like the emperor would: ‘Fear this and tremblingly obey,’ and sign it with your full title,” Struan said and opened the cabin door.

“Master-at-arms!”

“Yes, sirr?”

“His Excellency wants his secretary, Mr. Sinclair, on the double.”

“Yes, sirr.”

Longstaff finished writing. He reread the letter. “Isn’t this a little blunt, Dirk? I mean, none of his titles and finishing up like the emperor’s edict?”

“That’s the whole point. You’ll want to publish it in the newspaper.”

“But it’s a private document.”

“It’s a historic document, Will. One you can be proud of. And one to make the admiral pleased with you. By the way, why was he angry?”

“Oh, the usual.” Longstaff mimicked the admiral. “ ‘Goddamme, sir, we were sent out here to fight the heathen, and after two landings with no resistance to speak of, you’ve made a contemptible treaty which gets us far less than the demands the Foreign Secretary has ordered you to demand. Where are the open ports you were ordered to demand?’ You’re sure, Dirk, asking less is the correct procedure? I know you’ve said so before, but, well, the merchants seem to think it was a bad error. No open ports, I mean.”

“Hong Kong’s more important, Will.”

“So long as you’re sure. The admiral’s also very irritated with some desertions and, too, with the delay in enforcing the order against smuggling. And, well, there’s been a huge outcry by all the traders.”

“Headed by Brock?”

“Yes. Ill-mannered scum.”

Struan’s heart sank. “You told the merchants that you were canceling the order?”

“Well, Dirk, I didn’t exactly tell them. But I intimated that it would be canceled.”

“And you intimated to the admiral that you were canceling the order?”

“Well, I suggested that it was not advisable to proceed. He was most irritated and said that he was making his view known to the Admiralty.” Longstaff sighed and yawned. “ ’Pon me word, he has no conception of the problems. None. I’d be most grateful, Dirk, if you’d explain ‘trade’ to him, what? I tried, but I couldn’t get sense into his head.”

And I canna get any into yours, Willie, Struan thought. If Robb’s bought the opium, we’re deeper in the mess. If he has na bought, we’re still finished. Unless a trade—one cursed mandarin for one cursed million.

“I don’t know what I’d do without your father’s advice, Culum.” Longstaff took snuff from a jeweled snuff box. Damme, he thought, I’m a diplomat, not a warmonger. Governor of Hong Kong is just the ticket. Once governor of Hong Kong, then something worthwhile. Bengal, perhaps. Jamaica . . . now, there’s a good place. Canada? No, too damned cold. Bengal or another of the Indian states. “It’s very complicated in Asia, Culum. Have to deal with so many different views and interests—the Crown’s, the traders’, the missionaries’, the Royal Navy’s, the Army’s and the Chinese—all in conflict. And, damme, the Chinese are splintered into conflicting groups. The merchants, the mandarins and the Manchu overlords.” He filled both nostrils with snuff, sniffed deeply and sneezed. “I suppose you know the rulers of China aren’t Chinese?”

“No, sir.”

“Half the damned trouble, so we’re told. They’re Manchus. From Manchuria. Wild barbarians from north of the Great Wall. They’ve ruled China for two hundred years, so we’re told. They must think we’re fools. We’re told there’s a huge wall—like Hadrian’s Wall—a fortification all across the north of China to protect it from the wild tribes. It’s supposed to be over three and a half thousand miles long, forty feet high and thirty feet thick, and wide enough at the top for eight horsemen to ride abreast. There are supposed to be watchtowers every three hundred yards. It’s made of brick and granite, and it was built two thousand years ago.” He snorted. “Ridiculous!”

“I believe it exists,” Struan said.

“Come now, Dirk,” Longstaff said. “It was impossible to build such a fortification two thousand years ago.”

“The legend, Culum, is that every third man in China was conscripted to work on the wall. It was built in ten years. They say a million men died and are buried in the wall. Their spirits guard it, too.”

Culum grinned. “If it’s so huge, Father, the Manchus could never have breached it. It can’t possibly exist.”

“The legend is that the Manchus broke through the wall by deceit. The Chinese general in charge of the wall sold out his own people.”

“That’s more than likely,” Longstaff said disgustedly. “No sense of honor, these Orientals, what? The general thought he could usurp the throne by using the enemy. But the Manchus used them, then destroyed him. In any event, that’s the story.”

Culum said, “Quite a story, sir.”

Struan’s eyes hardened. “You’d better get used to many strange stories. And a new thought, Culum—the Chinese have had civilization for five thousand years. Books, printing presses, art, poets, government, silk, tea, gunpowder and a thousand other things. For thousands of years. We’ve been civilized for five hundred years. If you can call it that.”

There was a knock on the door. Horatio hurried in. “You wanted me, Your Excellency?”

“Yes. I want you to translate this immediately into Chinese, and send it off by special courier. And send a copy to Mr. Skinner for publication.”

“Yes, sir.” Horatio took the paper and turned to Struan. “I was so sorry to hear the terrible news, Mr. Struan.”

“Thank you. This is my son Culum. Horatio Sinclair.”

They shook hands, liking each other instantly.

Horatio read the letter. “It will take me a little time to put it in the right court phrases, sir.”

“His Excellency wants it sent exactly like that,” Struan said. “Exactly.”

Horatio’s mouth dropped open. He nodded feebly. “Yes, I’ll, er, do it at once. But Ti-sen will never accept it, Mr. Struan. Never, Your Excellency. He would lose too much face.”

Longstaff bristled. “Face? I’ll show that devious heathen some face, by God. Give the admiral my compliments and ask him to send the letter by a capital ship of the line to Whampoa, with orders to proceed immediately to Canton if it’s not accepted forthwith!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Won’t accept it, indeed!” Longstaff said after Horatio had gone. “Damned insolence. They’re all heathen barbarians. All of them. Chinese. Manchus. They’ve no justice, and their contempt for human life is unbelievable. They sell their daughters, sisters, brothers. Unbelievable.”

Culum suddenly thought of his mother and brothers, and how they died. The watery vomit and stools, and the stench and cramps and agony and sunken eyes and spasms. And the convulsions and more stench and then gasping death. And after death the sudden muscle spasms and his mother, dead an hour but suddenly twisting on the bed, dead eyes open, dead mouth open.

The old fear began to sicken him, and he groped for something to think about, anything to make him forget his terror. “About the land sale, sir. First the land should be surveyed. Who’s to do this, sir?”

“We’ll get someone, don’t worry.”

“Perhaps Glessing,” Struan said. “He’s had charting experience.”

“Good idea. I’ll talk to the admiral. Excellent.”

“You might consider naming the beach where the flag was raised ‘Glessing’s Point.’ “

Longstaff was astonished. “I’ll never understand you. Why go out of your way to perpetuate the name of a man who hates you?”

Because good enemies are valuable, Struan thought. And I’ve a use for Glessing. He’ll die to protect Glessing’s Point, and that means Hong Kong.

“It would please the navy,” Struan said. “Just an idea.”

“It’s a good idea. I’m glad you suggested it.”

“Well, I think we’ll get back aboard our ship,” Struan said. He was tired. And there was still much to do.

Isaac Perry was on the quarterdeck of

Thunder Cloud, watching the marines search under tarpaulins and in the longboats and sail locker. He hated marines and naval officers; once he had been pressed into the navy. “There’re no deserters aboard,” he said again.

“Of course,” the young officer said.

“Please order your men not to make such a mess. It’ll take a whole watch to clean up after them.”

“Your ship’ll make a nice prize, Captain Perry. The ship and the cargo,” the officer sneered.

Perry glared at McKay who was by the gangplank, under armed guard. You’re a dead man, McKay, Perry thought, if you’ve helped Ramsey aboard.

“Longboat on the aft gangway,” the third mate called out. “Owner’s coming aboard.”

Perry hurried to meet Struan.

“They think we’ve a deserter aboard, sir.”

“I know,” Struan said as he came on deck. “Why is my bosun under guard?” he asked the arrogant young officer, a dangerous rasp to his voice.

“Just a precaution. He’s a relation of Ramsey and—”

“A pox on precautions! He’s innocent until proven guilty, by God,” Struan roared. “You’re here to search, not to harass and arrest my men.”

“I knowed nothin’, sorr,” McKay burst out. “Ramsey’s not aboard by my doin’. He ain’t. He ain’t.”

“God help you if he is,” Struan said. “You’re confined to the ship until I order otherwise. Get below!”

“Yes, sorr,” McKay said, and fled.

“God’s blood, Isaac!” Struan raged on. “You’re supposed to be captain of this ship. What law says the navy can arrest a man without a warrant as a precaution?”

“None, sir.” Perry quailed and knew better than to argue.

“Get the hell off my ship. You’re beached!”

Perry blanched. “But, sir—”

“Be off my ship by sundown.” Struan moved toward the gangway that led to the bowels of the ship. “Come on, Culum.”

Culum caught up with Struan in the passageway to the main cabin.

“That’s not fair,” he said. “It’s not fair. Captain Perry’s the best captain you have. You’ve said so.”

“He was, lad,” Struan said. “But he did na watch the interests of his man. And he’s afraid. What of, I dinna ken. But frightened men are dangerous and we’ve nae use for such.”

“McKay wasn’t harmed.”

“The first law of a captain of mine is to protect his ship. The second, his men. Then they’ll protect him. You can captain a ship alone, but you can’t run her alone.”

“Perry did nothing wrong.”

“He allowed the navy to put McKay under guard against the law, by God,” Struan said sharply. “A captain’s got to know more than just how to sail a ship, by God! Isaac should have stood up to that young puppy. He was afraid, and he failed one of his men when it was important. Next time he might fail his ship. I’ll na risk that.”

“But he’s been with you for years. Doesn’t that count?”

“Yes. It says we were lucky for years. Now I dinna trust him. So now he goes, and that’s the end to it!” Struan opened the door of the cabin.

Robb was seated at the desk, staring out of the stern windows. Boxes and chests and children’s clothes and playthings were strewn on the floor. Sarah, Robb’s wife, was half curled in one of the sea chairs, dozing. She was a small woman, heavy with child, and in sleep her face was lined and tired. When Robb noticed Struan and Culum, he tried unsuccessfully to force a smile.

“Hello, Dirk. Culum.”

“Hello, Robb.” Struan thought, He’s aged ten years in two days.

Sarah awoke with a start. “Hello, Dirk.” She got up heavily and came over to the door. “Hello, Culum.”

“How are you, Aunt Sarah?”

“Tired, dear. Very tired. And I hate being on a ship. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you.”

Robb watched Struan anxiously. “What can I say?”

“Nothing, Robbie. They’re dead and we’re alive and that’s the end to it.”

“Is it, Dirk?” Sarah’s blue eyes were hard. She smoothed her auburn hair and straightened her long, green, bustled dress. “Is it?”

“Aye. Would you excuse us, Sarah? I’ve got to talk to Robb.”

“Yes, of course.” She looked at her husband and despised the weakness of him. “We’re leaving, Dirk. We’re leaving the Orient for good. I’ve decided. I’ve given Struan and Company five years of my life and one baby. Now it’s time to go.”

“I think you’re wise, Sarah. The Orient is nae place for a family these days. In a year, when Hong Kong’s built, well, then it’ll be very good.”

“For some, perhaps, but not for us. Not for my Roddy or Karen or Naomi or Jamie. Not for me. We’ll never live in Hong Kong.” She was gone.

“Did you buy opium, Robb?”

“I bought some. Spent all our cash and borrowed about a hundred thousand—I don’t know exactly. Prices didn’t come down much. Then, well, I lost interest.”

So we’re deeper in the hole, Struan thought.

“Why our family? It’s terrible, terrible,” Robb said, his voice tormented. “Why all our family?”

“Joss.”

“Curse joss.” Robb stared at the cabin door. “Brock wants to see you as soon as possible.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say.”

Struan sat and eased his boot off for a moment, and thought about Brock. Then he said, “I’ve made Culum a partner.”

“Good,” Robb said. But his voice was flat. He was still staring at the door.

“Father,” Culum broke in, “I want to talk to you about that.”

“Later, laddie. Robb, there’s something else. We’ve bad trouble on our hands.”

“There’s something I must say at once.” Robb tore his eyes off the door. “Dirk, I’m leaving the Orient with Sarah and the children. By the next boat.”

“What?”

“I’ll never be a tai-pan and I don’t want to be.”

“You’re leaving because Culum’s a partner?”

“You know me better than that. You might have discussed it with me, yes, but that’s unimportant. I want to leave.”

“Why?”

“The deaths at home made me think. Sarah’s right. Life is too brief to sweat and die out here. I want some peace. And there’s more than enough money. You can buy me out. I want to go on the next boat.”

“Why?”

“I’m tired. Tired!”

“You’re just weak, Robb. Sarah’s been on to you again, eh?”

“Yes, I’m weak, and yes, she’s been on to me again, but I’ve decided. Too many deaths. Too many.”

“I canna buy you out. We’re bankrupt.” Struan handed him the bankers’ letter.

Robb read the letter. His face aged even more. “God curse them to hell!”

“Aye. But we’re still bankrupt.” Struan pulled on his boot and stood up. “Sorry, Culum, the partnership is worthless. There was a run on our bank.”

The air in the cabin seemed to thicken.

“We’ve a hundred thousand in Scotland,” Robb said. “Let me have half of that and you take the rest.”

“Thanks, Robbie. Spoken like a man.”

Robb slammed the desk with his fist. “It’s not my fault the bank closed its doors!”

“Aye. So dinna ask for half our money when we’ll need every penny!”

“

You will, not me. You’ll find the answer, you always have.”

“Fifty thousand pounds won’t last Sarah five years.”

“That’s my worry! The money’s not on the books, so it’s fairly ours. I’ll take half. My share of the business’s worth twenty times that!”

“We’re bankrupt! Can you na get that through your head?

Bankrupt!”

The cabin door opened and a little golden-haired girl came into the room. A straw doll was in her hands. She wore a frown. “Hello, Daddy. Hello, Uncle Dirk.” She stared up at Struan. “Are I ugly?”

With an effort Struan pulled his eyes off Robb. “What, Karen lassie?”

“Are I ugly?”

“No. No. Of course not, Karen.” Struan lifted her up. “Who’s been saying such terrible things to you, lassie?”

“We was playing school on

Resting Cloud. It were Lillibet.”

“Lillibet Brock?”

“Oh, no. She’s my best friend. It were Lillibet Somebody-else.”

“Well, you’re na ugly. You tell Lillibet Somebodyelse that it’s na nice to say such things. You’re very pretty.”

“Oh, good!” Karen smiled hugely. “My daddy always says I’m pretty, but I wanted to ask you ’cause you know. You know everything.” She gave him a big hug. “Thank you, Uncle Dirk. Put me down now.” She danced to the door. “I’m glad I aren’t ugly.”

Robb slumped in his chair. At length he said. “God damn the bankers. I’m sorry. It’s my fault—and I’m sorry I said . . . sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, lad.”

Robb tried in vain to think. “What can we do?”

“I dinna ken. Will you na do this, Robb? Give me a couple of months. We’ll send Sarah and the children off by the first ship. The sooner the better, then they’ll miss the typhoon season.”

“Maybe I can arrange a loan somehow. We’ve got to pay the sight drafts. We’ll lose the ships—everything.” Robb forced his mind away from Sarah. “But how in the little time we have?” His fingers twisted nervously. “The mail packet came in yesterday. Nothing of importance for us. No news from home. Perhaps others know about the run on our bank. We bought a little stock in Brock’s bank to keep an eye on it. Perhaps he knows about the run on ours. Is that why he wants to see you?”

“Perhaps. In any case, he’ll be on our necks right smartly, if he finds out. If he did na start it himsel’. He’ll buy up our paper and ruin us.”

“Why?” Culum asked.

“Because I’ll ruin him if I get half a chance.”

Culum wanted to ask why, and to tell them that he, too, was going home on the next ship. But his father looked so gaunt and Robb was so morose. Tomorrow he would tell him.

“I’ve got to get a few hours’ sleep,” Struan said. “I’m going ashore. You and Sarah go back to

Resting Cloud, eh? Perry’s ordered off by sundown. I beached him.”

“Who’s going to take his place?”

“I dinna ken,” Struan said as he went out. “Send word to Brock I’ll see him ashore at sundown.”