Sea Cloud, one of his clippers in the Hong Kong roads, and sent her urgently to Manila to load spices instead of to Whampoa to load teas, and ordered her home to England with all speed via the Cape of Good Hope. Robb instructed Vargas to buy up every available yard of cotton cloth, yarn and sewing cottons, to unload all their stocks of molasses and to step up their order of opium to be bought at Calcutta, and unload their present stocks as soon as possible.
And before the mail packet was at rest in harbor,
Sea Cloud had sailed for Manila and their three hours of dealing had made them potentially forty thousand guineas richer. For in three hours they had cornered the market on available imported supplies of lamp oil, cotton goods, yarn, sewing cottons, and spices, and had booked up in advance all the available cargo space on all available American and English ships—outside of Brock and Sons. They knew that as soon as the packet anchored and the news was spread, buyers would be rushing to their doors to buy cottons and spices, and to charter ships to rush for home. No one would know, outside the brothers, that
Sea Cloud had the bit between her teeth, at least a day’s start, and would take the cream off the London market.
“Pity that it will take us at least two days to fill all our customers’ orders and get the Manila ships away,” Robb said gleefully.
“Sad, Robb, very sad.”
“I’d say that we’ve done a fine morning’s work.”
They were standing at the door of the tent watching the mail ship let go her anchors. Swarms of cutters surrounded her, packed with men anxious for their mail. Struan glanced over the incoming passenger list. “Good God, look at this!” He shoved over the paper.
Robb’s eyes fled down the list of names. They fixed. H.R.H. Archduke Zergeyev. “What’s a Russian grandee doing in Asia, eh?”
“Nay, na him, lad, though he’s curious, right enough. Finish the list.”
Robb read on. Wives of merchants, three returning merchants, names of men who meant nothing to him. Finally he came to it. “Maureen Quance and family?” He laughed uproariously.
“Dammit, it’s no laughing matter,” Struan said. “What about the judging?”
“Oh my God!”
Six years ago Aristotle’s wife had furiously boarded a ship in Macao for home, believing—as they all had—that Aristotle, who lived in mortal terror of her, had escaped to England. But instead of fleeing he had been hiding in Mrs. Fortheringill’s Establishment for Refined Young Ladies—the “F and E,” or, as the locals called the whorehouse, the “Fornicating Eels.” Aristotle had come out of hiding a week after Maureen had sailed, and it had taken him months to become his old self again and overcome the “vapors.” The traders ascribed his “vapors” to an overtaxing of his welcome in the house. He had denied it vehemently: “When one finds oneself in such an extremity, by God, one hardly has an inclination to partake of what—for want of a better word—I can only describe as quent. Delectable, to be sure, but quent. No, my dear misguided friends, terror and quent are not bedfellows.” No one believed him.
“What’ll we do?” Robb asked.
“If Aristotle hears, he’s sure to vanish. He’ll go up to Canton and then we’re sunk. We’ve got to find him first and keep him out of the way until tonight.”
“Where is he?”
“I dinna ken. Send out search parties. Every man. Take him aboard
Thunder Cloud—any pretext—and keep him there until we’re ready for the judging. Send Cudahy aboard the packet at once. Tell Maureen that she and the family are our guests—put them aboard the small hulk. Perhaps we can keep her busy until tomorrow.”
“You’ll never do it. She has a nose for Aristotle.”
“We have to try. Are you prepared to be the judge?”
“What about the prizefight? He won’t miss that!”
“For a portrait of Sarah, or one of the children, he will.”
Robb rushed out.
Struan glanced at his watch. He was not due aboard the flagship for an hour. He sent for Gordon Chen and asked him to recruit thirty Chinese to be watchmen.
“I think it would be wise, Tai-Pan, as an added precaution, to have watchmen on your house too,” Gordon said. “I’d feel happier if you did.”
“Good idea, Gordon. Increase the men to thirty-five.”
“I’m afraid most of the Chinese who have come into Tai Ping Shan are very bad people. Most are wanted for crimes in Kwangtung and, well, here in Hong Kong they’re beyond the reach of the mandarins.” He produced a parchment scroll from the deep sleeve of his robe. “Oh, by the way, I made an arrangement with the King of the Beggars for your ball tonight.” He put the scroll on the desk. “Here’s his receipt. Perhaps I can be reimbursed by the compradore?”
“Receipt? For what?”
“Three taels. This modest squeeze insures that none of your guests will be harassed tonight. I also made a most reasonable monthly arrangement with him—three taels—on your behalf, for beggars to stay away from the confines of your home and The Noble House.”
“I’ll na pay it,” Struan exploded. “I dinna care if Macao has its Beggar King, or every town in China likewise. We’re na starting that on Hong Kong, by God.”
“But he’s already here and organized,” Gordon Chen said, his voice calm. “Who else will license beggars? Who else will be responsible? Who else can one pay squeeze to to insure special treatment due to people of wealth and position like ourselves? I beg you to reconsider, Tai-Pan. I would most strongly advise it. I assure you it will be money well spent. At least try it for a month. That’s not too much to ask. Then you’ll see the wisdom of the custom. Certainly, too, it will protect your property, for the beggars will inform on thieves. It’s very necessary, believe me.”
“Very well,” Struan said at length, “but one month, no more.” He initialed the receipt, knowing that there would be a permanent fee to the Beggar King. There was no way to fight the custom—except by excluding all Chinese from Hong Kong.
“You can get this from Chen Sheng tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“What gives this particular man the right to be King of the Beggars, eh?”
“I suppose the others trust him, Tai-Pan.” Gordon Chen made a mental note to talk to the man this afternoon to make certain all went as planned for the next month. He was very pleased, not only with the very low rate of squeeze that he had negotiated on Struan’s account—two taels for tonight and two taels a month, the balance of one tael to be his own rightful squeeze—but also with his own foresight in asking Jin-qua to provide a “King” from Canton. This man was the younger brother of the Beggar King of Canton, which meant he was a professional, a man well versed in the methods of extracting the most with the least effort. And this man had, of course, been inducted as a lesser Hung Mun official into the Hong Kong lodge. A perfect arrangement, Gordon told himself. The squeeze from the beggars would be a valuable and permanent part of the tong’s revenues. Then he heard his father ask the question he had been waiting for.
“Have you heard of the Triads, Gordon?”