Longstaff cleared out his private desk and put his cipher book and secret papers into his dispatch box and joined Zergeyev in the garden. “Are you all packed, Your Highness?”
“There is nothing of importance. I find all this extraordinary. Either there is danger or there isn’t. If there’s danger, why aren’t your troops here? If there’s none, why run away?”
Longstaff laughed. “The heathen mind, my dear sir, is very different from a civilized one. Her Majesty’s Government has been dealing directly with it for more than a century. So we’ve come to learn how to cope with Chinese affairs. Of course,” he added dryly, “we’re not concerned with conquest, only with peaceful trade. Though we do consider this area a totally British sphere of influence.”
Struan was going through his safe, ascertaining that all their vital papers were aboard.
“I’ve already done that,” Culum said as he barged into the room and slammed the door. “Now, what was the answer, by God?”
“You’re engaged to be married,” Struan said mildly, “by God.”
Culum was too stupefied to speak.
“Brock’s delighted to have you as a son-in-law. You can get married next year.”
“Brock said yes?”
“Aye. Congratulations.” Struan calmly checked his desk drawer, and locked it, pleased that his talk with Brock had gone as planned.
“You mean he says yes? And you say yes?”
“Aye. You have to ask him formally, but he said he’d accept you. We have to discuss dowry and details, but he said you can be married next year.”
Culum threw his arms around Struan’s shoulders. “Oh Father, thank you, thank you.” He did not hear himself say “Father.” But Struan did.
A burst of firing shattered the night. Struan and Culum ran to the window in time to see the front ranks of a mob at the western entrance to the square reeling under the fusillade. The hundreds in the rear shoved those in front forward, and the soldiers were pathetically engulfed as the screaming torrent of Chinese poured into the far end of the square.
The mob carried torches and axes and spears—and Triad banners. They swarmed over the westernmost factory, which belonged to the Americans. A torch was thrown through a window and the doors were rushed. The mob began to loot and fire and rape the building.
Struan grabbed his musket. “Nae word of Tess—keep it very private till you’ve seen Brock.” They charged out into the hall. “To hell with those, Vargas,” he shouted as he saw him staggering under an armload of duplicate invoices. “Get aboard!”
Vargas took to his heels.
The square in front of Struan’s factory and the garden was filled with traders in full flight to the lorchas. Some of the soldiers were stationed on the garden wall ready for a last-ditch stand, and Struan joined them to help cover the retreat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Culum run back into the factory, but he was distracted when the van of the second mob surged down Hog Street. The soldiers protecting this entrance fired a volley and retreated in good order toward the English garden, where they took up their positions with the other soldiers to defend the last of the traders who were running for the boats. Those already on the ships had muskets ready, but the mob concentrated solely on the factories on the far side of the square and, astonishingly, paid little attention to the traders.
Struan was relieved to see Cooper and the Americans aboard one of the lorchas. He had thought that they were still in their factory.
“ ’Pon me word, look at those scalawags,” Longstaff said to no one in particular as he stood outside the garden and watched the mob, walking stick in hand. He knew that this meant the end of negotiations, that war was inevitable. “Her Majesty’s forces will soon put a stop to this nonsense.” He stamped back into the garden and found Zergeyev observing the havoc, his two liveried servants armed and nervous beside him.
“Perhaps you’d care to join me aboard, Your Highness,” he said above the noise. Longstaff knew that if Zergeyev were injured there would be an international incident, which would give the tsar a perfect opening to send reprisal warships and armies into Chinese waters. And that’s not going to happen, Goddamme, he told himself.
“There’s only one way to deal with those carrion. You think your democracy will work with them?”
“Of course. Have to give them time, what?” Longstaff replied easily. “Let’s board now. We’re fortunate it’s a pleasant evening.”
One of the Russian servants said something to Zergeyev, who simply looked at him. The servant blanched and was silent.
“If you wish, Your Excellency,” Zergeyev said, not to be outdone by Longstaff’s obvious contempt for the mob. “But I think I’d rather wait for the Tai-Pan.” He took out his snuff box and offered it, and was pleased to see his fingers were not shaking.
“Thank you.” Longstaff took some snuff. “Damnable business, what!” He strolled over to Struan. “What the devil started them off, Dirk?”
“The mandarins, that’s certain. There’s never been a mob like this before. Never. Best get aboard.”
Struan was watching the square. The last of the traders boarded the ships. Only Brock was not accounted for. Gorth and his men were still guarding the door to their factory on the east side, and Struan was infuriated to see Gorth fire into the looting mob, which was not threatening them directly.
He was tempted to order an immediate retreat; then, in the confusion, to raise his musket and kill Gorth. He knew that no one would notice in the melee. It would save him a killing in the future. But Struan did not fire. He wanted the pleasure of seeing the terror in Gorth’s eyes when he did kill him.
Those on the lorchas cast off hastily, and many of the boats eased into midstream. Queerly the mob still ignored them.
Smoke was billowing from the Cooper-Tillman factory. The whole building caught as a squall of tinder wind hit it, and flames licked the night.
Struan saw Brock storm out of his factory, a musket in one hand, a cutlass in the other, his pockets bulging with papers. His chief clerk Almeida ran ahead toward the boat under the weight of the books, Brock, Gorth and his men guarding, and then another mob hit the east entrance, swamping the soldiers, and Struan knew it was time to run.
“Get aboard!” he roared, turning for the garden gate. He stopped in his tracks. Zergeyev was leaning on the garden wall, a pistol in one hand, his rapier in the other. Longstaff was beside him.
“Time to run!” he yelled above the tumult.
Zergeyev laughed. “Which way?”
There was a violent explosion as the flames reached the American arsenal, and the building shattered, spilling burning debris into the mob, killing some, mutilating others. The Triad banners crossed Hog Street, and the berserk pillaging mob followed, systematically tearing into the eastern factories. Struan was through the gate when he remembered Culum. He shouted to his men to cover and rushed back.
“Culum! Culum!”
Culum came charging down the stairs. “I forgot something,” he said, and tore for the lorcha.