Tai-Pan (16 page)

Brock belched. “Beg pardon.” Then he sipped again. “Champagne be proper belch water, baint it?”

“Did you start the run on the bank?”

“No. If I’d a thort of it I would’ve, long since. That be a right clever idea. Fancy thee getting caught with thy balls in the noose.”

“If it was deliberate I’ll find out.”

“It were deliberate, lad.”

“Who was it?”

“Morgan,” Brock said. “I’ve to hand it to him—the young nipper be growed up. Yes. My boy be the one, and I’m mortal proud.” He scratched contentedly at the lice that were a way of life. “So thee be broke, Dirk. After all these years. Finished.”

“A lot can happen in thirty days.”

“Yes, it can. I heared yor son’s in charge of the land sale.”

“Aye. But it’ll be fair. The highest bidder gets the land. We dinna cheat, Tyler. Others do. We’ve nae need.”

“Damn yor eyes!” Brock bellowed. “You be saying I cheat?”

“You cheat all the time,” Struan said, flaring. “You cheat your men and cheat your ships and that’s what’ll destroy you. You can’t build forever wi’ the lash.”

“I do no more than others, by God. Just because thee be having weak-gutted newfangled notions doan mean others be wrong. The lash keeps scum in line. Scum!”

“You live by the lash and you’ll die by it.”

“Thee be wantin’ to settle our score now? Lash against lash? Knife to knife? Now, by God! Or be thee still coward?”

“I told you once and I’ll tell you a last time. One day I’ll come after you with a lash—perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the next day. But, by God, one day I’ll come after you. And I’ll tell you another thing. If by chance you die before I’m ready, I’ll go after Gorth and Morgan and I’ll wreck your company.”

Brock’s knife was out. “Maybe, lad, I cut thy throat now.”

Struan poured more champagne. Now the bottle was empty. “Open another bottle. There’s plenty more.”

Brock laughed. “Ah, Dirk lad, you be a rare ’un. You be busted an’ you still pretends. You be finished, you hear, lad? Yor Noble House be on its uppers. An’ you be coward!”

“Oh, I’m na a coward, Tyler. You know that.”

“You knowed the hillock where yor Great House’s to go?” Brock asked, his eye glittering.

“Aye.”

“It’s mine, lad. I be buyin’ it. Wotever you bid, I bid more.”

Struan felt the blood rush to his head, for he knew that he did not have the bullion to compete with Brock now. Na unless he made the deal with Ti-sen. Na unless he sold Hong Kong out. “God rot you to hell!”

“It be mine, lad. An’ all this stinking rock.” Brock drained his glass and belched again. “After yor company’s broked, I’m hounding you an’ yors outa these seas.” He took out a purse and counted out twenty gold guineas. Then he tossed them on the floor of the tent. “Buy thyself a coffin.”

He swaggered out.

“Beggin’ yor pardon, sorr,” McKay said.

Struan came out of his reverie. “Aye?”

“Mr. Culum’s ashore. He wants to see you.”

Struan was startled to see that the watery moon was high in the sky and the night deep.

“I’ll see him.”

“Others came, sorr. That Chinee, Gordon Chen. Miss Sinclair. A couple I don’t know. Old Quance. I said you’d see ’em tomorrer. Hope I did right not to let Mr. Culum come without asking.” McKay saw the golden guineas on the floor, but said nothing.

“As long as you obey orders you’re never wrong, McKay.”

Culum was at the tent door. “Am I disturbing you, Father?”

“Nay, lad. Sit down.”

Culum saw the sovereigns on the floor and started to pick them up.

“Leave them where they are.”

“Why?”

“Because I want them left there.”

Culum sat down. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“I’m na in a mood to talk, lad.”

“Were you serious about making me a partner?”

“Aye.”

“I don’t want to be a partner. I don’t want to stay in the Orient. I want to go home.”

“I know better than you, Culum. Give it time.”

“Time won’t make any difference.”

“You’re young, lad. There’s plenty of time for you. Be patient with me. And with China. Did Robb tell you how to go about the land sale?”

“Yes.” Damn Uncle Robb, Culum thought. If only he hadn’t exploded with Father and said that he was leaving. Damn, damn, damn. Blast that cursed bank. Ruined everything. Poor Father. “I think I’ll be able to do it.”

“You’ll have nae trouble so long as it’s run fairly. The highest bidder gets the land.”

“Yes, of course.” Culum stared at the guineas. “Why do you want the coins left there?”

“They’re my coffin money.”

“I don’t understand.”

Struan told him what had happened with Brock. “Better you know about him, Culum. Watch your back because he’ll come after you like I’m going after Gorth.”

“The sins of the father are not the fault of the son.”

“Gorth Brock’s a pattern of his father.”

“Doesn’t Christ teach forgiveness?”

“Aye, lad. But I canna forgive them. They’re everything that’s rotten on earth. They’re tyrants and they believe the lash answers all questions. A fact of life, on earth: Money is power—whether you’re king or laird or chieftain or merchant or crofter. Without power you canna protect what you have nor improve the lot of others.”

“Then you’re saying that the teachings of Christ are wrong?”

“Na wrong, lad. I’m saying that some men are saints. Some are happy being meek and humble and unambitious. Some men are born content to be second-best—I canna be. Nor Brock. Are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll be put to the test sometime. Then you’ll know about yoursel’.”

“Then you mean that money is everything?”

“I’m saying that without power you canna be a saint in this day and age. Power for its own sake is a sin. Money for its own sake is a sin.”

“Is it so important to have money and power?”

“Nay, laddie,” Struan said with an ironic grin. “The lack of money’s what’s important.”

“Why do you want power?”

“Why do you, Culum?”

“Perhaps I don’t.”

“Aye. Perhaps. You’d like a drink, lad?”

“I’ll have a little champagne.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes, thank you. I don’t know very much about myself yet,” Culum said.

“There’s time, laddie. I’m so glad you’re here. Very glad.”

Culum looked back at the coins. “It really doesn’t matter, does it? About the partnership and everything. The company’s finished. What are you going to do?”

“We’re na finished for twenty-nine days. If joss is against us, this version of The Noble House dies. Then we start again.” Dinna fool yoursel’, he thought, you can never start again.

“A never-ending battle?”

“What do you think life’s supposed to be, lad?”

“Can I resign as a partner if it doesn’t please me, or if I think I’m no good and not worth it? At my whim?”

“Aye. But na if you’re ever Tai-Pan. The Tai-Pan can never resign until he’s sure that the house is in good hands. He 
must
 be sure. That’s his final responsibility.”

“If we’re owed so much by the Chinese merchants, can’t we collect it? Then we’ve the money to pay Brock.”

“They’ve na got it.” Devil take it, Struan told himself, you’re trapped. Make up your mind. It’s Ti-sen or nothing.

“What about His Excellency? Can’t he give us an advance? From the ransom money?”

“It belongs to the Crown. Maybe Parliament’ll honor his paper, maybe it’ll repudiate it. The bullion will na pass hands for almost a year.”

“But we’ll get it. Surely Brock’ll take your surety?”

Struan’s voice harshened. “I’ve already told you the measure of Brock’s charity. I’d na give him twenty guineas if I had him trapped equally. God damn him and his Goddamned whelps.”

Culum shifted uneasily in his chair. His shoe moved one of the guineas and it glittered suddenly. “His Excellency’s not very—well, isn’t he rather simple?”

“He’s out of his depth in Asia—that’s all. Wrong man for the job. I’d be lost in the courts of Europe. But he’s plenipotentiary. That’s all that counts. Aye, he’s simple—but watch him too. Watch everyone.”

“Does he always do what you tell him to do?”

Struan looked out the tent door at the night. “He takes my advice, most times. Provided I’m the last giver.”

Culum moved another guinea. “There must be something—someone to turn to. You must have friends.”

Inexorably Struan’s mind was filled with the name of the only person who could unspring the trap: Ti-sen. Brock’ll take the ships right smartly, he thought, seething with impotent rage. Wi’out the ships you’re lost, laddie. The house, Hong Kong, the plan. Aye, you can start again, but dinna fool yoursel’. You canna build and man such a fleet again. You’ll never catch up with Brock again. Never. You’ll be second-best. You’ll be second-best forever.

Struan felt the veins in his neck throbbing. His throat was parched. I’ll na be the second-best. By the Lord God, I canna. I canna. I canna. To Brock or to anyone. “Tomorrow, when 
China Cloud
 returns, I’m going to Canton. You’ll come with me.”

“What about the land sale? Should I start that?”

“Devil take the land sale! We’ve the house to save first. Go aboard 
Resting Cloud,
 lad. We’ll leave as soon as possible.”

“All right.” Culum stood up.

“Good night, laddie.”

The coins caught Culum’s eyes, mesmerizing him. He began to pick them up.

“I told you to leave them alone!”

“I can’t.” There were beads of sweat on Culum’s forehead. The coins seemed to burn his fingers. “I’ve . . . I’ve got to have them.”

“Why, for God’s sake, eh?”

“I don’t know. I—I just want them.” He put the coins in his pocket. “They’re mine now. Good night, Father.”

Struan was eating dinner alone in the spacious dining room of their stately factory in the Canton Settlement. The vast three-story mansion had been built by the East India Company forty years ago. Struan had always coveted it as a perfect setting for The Noble House. Eight years ago he had bought it.

The dining room was on the second floor facing the Pearl River. Below this floor was a labyrinth of offices and warehouses and storerooms. Above were living quarters, and the Tai-Pan’s private rooms, carefully separate. There were courtyards and walks and suites and dormitories within and throughout its length. Forty to fifty Portuguese clerks lived and worked in the building, ten to fifteen Europeans. A hundred Chinese menservants. Women servants were not allowed by Chinese law.

Struan pushed his carved chair away from the table and irritably lit a cheroot. A huge fire warmed the marble that sheathed the walls and floor. The table could seat forty and the silver was Georgian, the chandelier crystal and bright with candles. He walked over to a window and looked down at the traders strolling in the garden below.

Beyond the garden was a square that ran the length of the Settlement and adjoined the wharf at the riverbank. The square was, as usual, teeming with Chinese hawkers, bystanders, sellers and buyers, soothsayers, letter writers, beggars and dogs. Outside their factories it was only in the English Garden, as it was called, that the merchants could move about in relative peace. Chinese, other than servants, were forbidden the garden and the factories. There were thirteen buildings in the colonnaded terrace that ran the length of the Settlement but for two narrow lanes—Hog Street and Old China Lane. Only Struan and Brock owned complete buildings. The other traders shared the remainder, taking space to suit their needs, and paid rent to the East India Company, which had built the Settlement a century ago.

On the north the Settlement was bounded by Thirteen Factory Street. The walls of Canton City were a quarter of a mile away. Between the city walls and the Settlement was an anthill of houses and hovels. The river was congested with the inevitable floating towns of the boat people. And over all was the perpetual pulsating, singsong murmur suggesting an enormous beehive.

To one side of the garden Struan noticed Brock deep in conversation with Cooper and Tillman. He wondered if they were explaining the intricacies of the Spanish tea-opium sale to Brock. Good luck to them, he thought without rancor. All is fair in love and trade.

“Where the godrotting hell is Jin-qua?” he said out loud.

For twenty-four days Struan had tried to see Jin-qua, but each day his messenger returned to the Settlement with the same reply: “Him no dooa back all same. You wait can. Tomollow he dooa back to Canton never mind.”

Culum had spent ten days in the Canton Settlement with him. On the eleventh day an urgent message had come from Longstaff asking Culum to return to Hong Kong: There were problems about the land sale.

Along with Longstaff’s message was a letter from Robb. Robb wrote that Skinner’s editorial about the Struan bankruptcy had provoked consternation among the traders, and most had sent immediate dispatches home spreading their money through various banks; that most were waiting for the thirtieth day; that no credit was to be had, and all the suggestions he had made to Brock’s enemies were fruitless; that the navy had been incensed when Longstaff’s official negation of the opium-smuggling order was made public, and the admiral had dispatched a frigate home with a request that the Government give him the permission he sought direct; and last, that Chen Sheng, their compradore, was inundated with creditors demanding payment on all the lesser debts that normally would wait their time.

Struan knew that he was beaten if he did not reach Jin-qua in the next six days, and he asked himself again if Jin-qua was avoiding him or if he was truly away from Canton. He’s an old thief, Struan thought, but he’d never avoid me. And if you do see him, laddie, are you really going to make the offer to that devil Ti-sen?

There was the sound of angry singsong voices and the door burst open, admitting a filthy young Hoklo boat woman and a servant who was trying to restrain her. The woman wore the usual huge, conical sampan hat and grimy black trousers and blouse and over them a grimy padded jacket.

“No stop can this one piece cow chillo, Mass’er,” the servant said in pidgin English, holding on to the struggling girl. Only through pidgin could the traders converse with their servants, and they with them. “Cow” meant “woman.” “Chillo” was a corruption of “child.” “Cow chillo” meant “young woman.”