Tai-Pan (22 page)

“Nonsense! We can take the whole of China—any time.”

Brock started guffawing.

“What’s so funny, 
hein
?” Mauss asked impatiently.

“This mean war again,” Brock said. “Good, says I.” He glanced at Struan, mocking him. “I told thee, lad. This be wot thee gets for making a soft treaty with the scum.”

“It’s a ruse of some kind,” Struan said calmly. But inwardly he was stunned by what was happening. “Ti-sen’s the richest man in China. The emperor’s got a whipping boy, a scapegoat. And all Ti-sen’s wealth. It’s a matter of face. The emperor’s saving face.”

“Thee and thy face, lad,” Brock said, no longer amused. “ ’Tis thy face that be red. Treaty be finished, trade finished, Hong Kong finished, thee be finished, and all thee talks about be face.”

“You’re so wrong, Tyler. Hong Kong’s just begun,” Struan said. “A lot of things have just begun.”

“Yus. War, by God.”

“And if there’s war, where’s the base for the fleet, eh? Macao’s as useless as it always has been—it’s part of the mainland and the Chinese can fall on that at whim. But na our island, by God. Na with the fleet protecting it. I’ll agree that wi’out Hong Kong we’re finished. That wi’out it we canna launch a campaign north again. Never. Nor protect whatever mainland ports or settlements we get in the future. You hear, Tyler? Hong Kong’s the key to China. Hong Kong’s got you by the short and curlies.”

“I knowed all about havin’ a island fortress, by God,” Brock blustered above the chorus of agreement. “Hong Kong baint the only place, I be saying. Chushan be better.”

“You can na protect Chushan like Hong Kong,” Struan said exultantly, knowing that Brock was committed as they were all committed. “That ‘barren, sodding rock,’ as you call it, is your whole godrotting future.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Brock said sourly. “We be seeing about that. But thee baint be enjoying Hong Kong nohow. I be having the knoll, and thee be finished.”

“Dinna be too sure.” Struan watched the square again. The lash still rose and fell. He pitied Ti-sen, who had been caught in a trap not of his own choosing. He had not sought the job as Chinese Plenipotentiary—he was ordered to take it. He was trapped by the era in which he lived. Just as Struan himself, and Longstaff and Brock and the Hoppo and all of them were trapped now that the first move had been made. The result would be as inexorable as the flail. There would be a move against Canton just as before. First take the forts at the approaches to Canton and then only threaten the city. There would be no need to capture it, for Canton would pay ransom first. Then, when the winds were ripe in the summer, north once more to the Pei Ho River mouth and landings, and once more the emperor, trapped like everyone else, would immediately sue for peace. The treaty would stand because it was fair. Then, over the years, the Chinese would gradually open up their ports willingly—seeing that the British had much to offer: law, justice, the sanctity of property, freedom.

For the ordinary Chinese want what we want, he thought, and there’s nae difference between us. We can work together for the benefit of all. Perhaps we’ll help the Chinese to throw out the barbaric Manchus. That’s what will happen so long as there’s a reasonable treaty now, and we’re patient, and we play the Chinese game with Chinese rules, in Chinese time. Time measured not in a day or year, but in generations. And so long as we can trade while we’re waiting. Without trade the world will become what it was once—a hell where only the strongest arm and the heaviest lash was law. The meek will never inherit the earth. Aye, but at least they can be protected by law to live out their lives as they wish.

When Ti-sen had had a hundred blows, the bannermen picked him up. Blood was streaming from his face and neck, and the back of his robe was shredded and bloody. The mob jeered and hooted. A bannerman banged the gong but the mob paid no attention and the bannermen cut into them, slashing and chopping. There were screams, and the mob backed away and fell silent again.

The Hoppo waved an imperious hand toward the garden. The sedan chair was lifted and the bannermen moved ahead of it, wielding their flails to clear the way toward the traders.

“Come on,” Struan said to Mauss and Brock. “The rest of you get ready in case there’s an attack.” He dashed out into the garden, Brock and Mauss close behind.

“Be thee sick in the head?” Brock said.

“No.”

They watched tensely as the mob parted and the bannermen appeared at the garden gate. The Hoppo stayed in his chair, but he called out to them imperiously.

“He orders you to take a copy of the edict, Mr. Struan,” Mauss said.

“Tell him that we are not dressed in ceremonial clothes. Such an important matter needs great ceremony to give it the dignity it merits.”

The Hoppo seemed puzzled. After a moment he spoke again.

“He says, ‘Barbarians have no ceremony and are beyond contempt. However, the Son of Heaven has urged clemency on all those who fear him. A deputation will come to my palace in the morning, at the Hour of the Snake.’ ”

“When the hell be that?” Brock asked.

“Seven A.M.,” Mauss said.

“We baint about to put our heads in his godrotting trap. Tell him to dung himself.”

“Tell him,” Struan said, “according to the Eight Regulations we’re na allowed to meet personally with the exalted Hoppo but must receive documents through the Co-hong here in the Settlement. The Hour of the Snake gives us na enough time.” He looked up; dawn was streaking the sky. “When’s eleven o’clock at night?”

“The Hour of the Rat,” Mauss said.

“Then tell him that we will receive the document from the Co-hong here with ‘due ceremony’ at the Hour of the Rat. 
Tomorrow
 night.”

“ ‘Due ceremony’ be clever, Dirk,” Brock said. “That be plenty of time to prepare a bleeding welcome!”

Mauss listened to the Hoppo. “He says that the Co-hong will deliver the edict at the Hour of the Snake—that’s nine A.M.—today. And all British barbarians are to leave the Settlement by the Hour of the Sheep—that’s one P.M.,— today.”

“Tell him that one P.M. today gives us na enough time. At the Hour of the Sheep tomorrow.”

“He says we must evacuate the Settlement at three P.M. today—the Hour of the Monkey—that our lives are spared until that time and that we can leave without harm.”

“Tell him: the Hour of the Monkey tomorrow.”

The Hoppo replied to Mauss, and barked an order. His chair was lifted and the procession began to form again.

“He said we must leave today. At the Hour of the Monkey. Three o’clock this afternoon.”

“Curse him to hell!” Struan said, enraged. The procession was heading for Hog Street. One of the bannermen shoved Ti-sen behind the sedan chair and flailed him as he stumbled after it; more began to close on the mob, which coursed out of the square. The bannermen who remained split into two groups. One moved closer to the factory, cutting it off from Hog Street; the other was posted to the west. The factory was surrounded.

“Why was you pressing for delay?” Brock said.

“Just normal negotiation.”

“Thee knowed right well, be more’n the Hoppo’s life be worth to delay after wot happened to Ti-sen! Wot be so important to stay another night, eh? Most of us was leaving today, anyway. For the land sale.”

Good sweet Christ! Struan thought, knowing that Brock was right. How can I wait for the bullion?

“Eh?” Brock repeated.

“No reason.”

“There be a reason,” Brock said, and entered the factory.

Promptly at the Hour of the Snake the full complement of Co-hong merchants came into the square, escorted by fifty bannermen with gongs and drums sounding. The guard bannermen let them through and then closed ranks again. Again Jin-qua was absent. But his son How-qua, the leading Co-hong merchant, was there. How-qua, a middle-aged, roly-poly man, always smiled. But today he was somber and sweating, so terrified that he almost dropped the neatly rolled imperial edict, bound with vermilion ribbon. His fellow merchants were equally panic-stricken.

Struan and Brock were waiting to receive them in the garden, dressed in their best frock coats and white cravats and top hats. Struan was freshly shaved and Brock had had his beard combed. Both wore ostentatious flowers in their buttonholes. They knew that ceremony gained them much face and made the Hoppo lose face.

“Right you are,” Brock had said with a hoarse laugh. “Struan an’ me’ll take the godrotting edict, an’ if we baint acting proper like they, then mayhaps they be burning us up like rats in a trap an’ not waiting the time they give us. Now, do exactly as Struan sayed.”

The party halted at the gate. Mauss opened it and Struan and Brock went to the threshold. The bannermen glowered at them. Struan and Brock were grimly aware of the rewards that were still on their heads, but they showed no fear, for they were covered by unseen guns in the windows behind them and by the cannon on Brock’s lorcha anchored in midstream.

The chief bannerman spoke heatedly, gesticulating with his flail.

“He says come out and get the edict,” Mauss interpreted. Struan merely raised his hat and held out his hand and planted his feet firmly. “The Hoppo said the edict was to be delivered. Deliver it.” He kept his hand out.

Mauss translated what he had said, and then after a nervous moment the bannerman cursed at How-qua and How-qua hurried forward and gave Struan the rolled paper. Struan and Brock and Mauss immediately doffed their top hats, and shouted at the top of their voices, “God save the queen.” At this signal Gorth put a taper to the firecrackers and tossed them into the garden. The Co-hong merchants leaped back, and the bannermen drew their bows and swords, but Struan and Brock, their faces solemn, stood perfectly still, holding their hats in the air.

The exploding firecrackers filled the garden with smoke. When the explosions ceased, to the Co-hong’s horror Mauss, Struan and Brock shouted, “God rot all Manchus!” and from inside the factory there were three resounding cheers. The chief bannerman strode forward belligerently and harangued Mauss.

“He asks what this is all about, Tai-pan.”

“Tell him, just like I told you.” Struan caught How-qua’s eye and winked covertly, knowing his hatred of the Manchus.

Mauss said in loud, ringing, perfect Mandarin, “This is our custom on a very important occasion. Not every day are we privileged to receive so estimable a document.”

The bannerman cursed him for a moment, then ordered the Co-hong away. The Co-hong went, but now they were emboldened.

Brock started laughing. And laughter spread through the factory and was echoed from the far end of the square where the American factory was situated. A Union Jack appeared from one of its windows and waved bravely.

“We’d best be getting ready t’move,” Brock said. “That were very good.”

Struan did not answer. He tossed the edict to Mauss. “Give me an accurate translation, Wolfgang,” he said, and went back to his suite.

Ah Gip bowed him in and went back to her cooking pots. May-may was dressed but she was lying on the bed.

“What’s the matter, May-may?”

She glared at him and turned her back, pulling up her robe and revealing her bruise-tinted buttocks.

“That’s wat’s matter!” she said, with mock rage. “Look what you’ve done, you brute barbarian fan quai. I must either stand or lying on my belly.”

“ ‘Must lie on,’ ” he said, and slumped moodily in a chair.

May-may pulled down her robe and gingerly got off the bed. “Why do you na laugh? I thought that would make you laugh.”

“Sorry, lass. I should have. But I’ve a lot to think about.”

“Wat?”

He motioned to Ah Gip. “You dooa out, heya, savvy?” and bolted the door after her. May-may knelt beside the pot and stirred it with a chopstick.

“We’ve got to leave at three o’clock,” Struan said. “Say you wanted to stay in the Settlement until tomorrow, what would you do?”

“Hide,” she said immediately. “In a—how you say—a small up room near the roof.”

“Attic?”

“Yes. Attic. Why you want to stay?”

“Do you think they’ll search the factory when we’ve left?”

“Why stay? Very unwise to stay.”

“Do you think the bannermen will count us as we leave?”

“Those godrotting scum canna count.” She hawked noisily and spat in the fire.

“Will you na spit!”

“I tell you many times, Tai-Pan, it is important, wise Chinese custom,” she answered. “There is poisons in the throat always. You become very sick if you dinna expectorate it. It is very wise to expectorate it. The louder the hawk, the more the spit-poison god is frightened.”

“That’s nonsense, and it’s a disgusting habit.”

“Ayee yah,” she said impatiently. “Do you na understand English? Sometimes I wonder why I trouble to explain all so many civilizationed Chinese wisdoms to you. Wat for should we hide here? It is dangerous na to go with the others. It will be dangerous badly if the bannermen see me. We will need protections. Why should we hide?”

He told her about the lorcha. And about the bullion.

“You must trust me very much,” she said very seriously.

“Aye.”

“What must you give Jin-qua in returns?”

“Business concessions.”

“Of course. But what else?”

“Just business concessions.”

There was a silence.

“Jin-qua is a clever man. He would na want just business concessions,” she mused. “Wat concessions I would ask if I am Jin-qua! To anything you must agree. Anything.”

“What would you want?”

She stared at the flames and wondered what Struan would say if he knew that she was Jin-qua’s granddaughter—second daughter of his eldest son How-qua’s fifth wife. And she wondered why she had been forbidden to tell Struan—on pain of the removal of her name from the ancestral scrolls forever. Strange, she told herself, and shuddered at the thought of being cast out of the family, for it meant that not only she but her offspring and their offspring and theirs forever would be lost from the mainstream, and therefore deprived of the protective mutual help that was the single rock of Chinese society. A perpetual rock. The only real thing of value that five thousand years of civilization and experimenting had taught was safe and worthwhile. The family.