Tai-Pan (14 page)

“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.”