Tai-Pan (12 page)

“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?”