“Knowing that you may have put the remainder of your resources, if any, into your cherished island, I write to give you the opportunity to extricate yourself and save something from the disaster. It may be that you have made some form of settlement with Brock—I pray you have— though if the arrogant Morgan Brock is to be believed, the only settlement that will please them is the obliteration of your house. (I have good reason to believe that Morgan Brock and a group of Continental banking interests— French and Russian, it is further rumored—started the sudden run on the bank. The Continental group proposed the ploy when news somehow leaked out about Mr. Robb Struan’s planned international structure. They broke your bank in return for fifty percent of a similar plan which Morgan Brock is now trying to effect.)
“I’m sorry to bear such bad tidings. I do so in good faith, hoping that somehow the information will be of value and that you will be able to survive to fight again. I still believe your plan for Hong Kong is the correct one. And I intend to continue to try to put it into effect.
“I know little about Sir Clyde Whalen, the new Captain Superintendent of Trade. He served with distinction in India and has an excellent reputation as a soldier. He’s no administrator, so I believe. I understand that he leaves tomorrow for Asia; thus his arrival would be imminent.
“Last: I commend my youngest son to you. He is a wastrel, black sheep, ne’er-do-well whose only purpose in life is to gamble, preferably on horses. There is a debtor’s warrant out for him from Newgate Prison. I told him that I would—a last time—settle his debts here if he would forthwith undertake this dangerous journey. He agreed, wagering that if he achieved the impossible feat of arriving in Hong Kong in under sixty-five days—half the normal time—I would give him a thousand guineas to boot.
“To insure as fast a delivery as possible, I said five thousand guineas if under sixty-five days; five hundred guineas less for every day over that stipulated period; all provided that he stayed out of England for the rest of my life—the money to be paid at five hundred guineas per year until finished. Enclosed is the first payment. Please advise me by return mail the date of his arrival.
“If there is any way you could use his ‘talents’ and control him, you would earn a father’s undying gratitude. I’ve tried, God help both me and him, and I’ve failed. Though I love him dearly.
“Please accept my sorrow at your bad luck. Give my best to Mr. Robb, and I end on the hope that I will have the pleasure of meeting you personally under more favorable circumstances. I have the honor to be, Sir, your most obedient servant, Charles Crosse.”
Struan gazed out at the harbor and the island. He remembered the cross that he had burned on the first day. And Brock’s twenty golden guineas. And Jin-qua’s remaining three coins. And the lacs of bullion that were to be invested for someone who, one day, would come with a certain chop. Now all the sweat and all the work and all the planning and all the deaths were wasted. Through the stupid arrogance of one man: Lord Cunnington.
Good sweet Christ, what do I do now?
Struan overcame the shock of the news and forced himself to think. The Foreign Secretary’s a brilliant man. He would not repudiate Hong Kong lightly. There must be a reason. What can it be? And how am I to control Whalen? How to fit a “soldier and no administrator” into the future? Perhaps I should stop buying the land today. Let the rest of the traders buy and to hell with them. Brock’ll be crushed along with the others, for Whalen and the news will na arrive for a month or more. By that time they’ll be deep into desperate building. Aye, that’s one way, and when the news is common knowledge, we all retire to Macao—or to one of the treaty ports that Whalen will get—and everyone else is smashed. Or hurt very badly. Aye. But if I can get this information, Brock can too. So perhaps he’ll na be sucked in. Perhaps.
Aye. But that way you lose the key to Asia: this miserable threadbare rock, without which all the open ports and the future will be meaningless.
The alternative is to buy and build and gamble that—like Longstaff—Whalen can be persuaded to exceed his directives, that Cunnington himself can be got at. To pour the wealth of The Noble House into the new town. Gamble. Make Hong Kong thrive. So that the Government will be forced to accept the colony.
That’s mortal dangerous. You canna force the Crown to do that. The odds are terrible, terrible. Even so, you’ve nae choice. You have to gamble.
Odds reminded him of young Crosse. Now, here’s a valuable lad. How can I use him? How can I keep his mouth shut tight about his fantastic journey? Aye, and how can I create a favorable impression on Whalen for Hong Kong? And get closer to Cunnington? How can I keep the treaty as I want it?
“Well, Mr. Crosse, you did a remarkable voyage. Who knows how long it took you?”
“Only you, sir.”
“Then keep it to yoursel’.” Struan wrote something on a pad of paper. “Give this to my chief clerk.”
Crosse read the note. “You’re giving me the whole five thousand guineas?”
“I’ve put it in the name of Roger Blore. I think you’d better keep that name—for the time, anyway. ”
“Yes, sir. Now I’m Roger Blore.” He stood up. “Are you finished with me now, Mr. Struan?”
“Do you want a job, Mr. Blore?”
“I’m afraid there’s—well, Mr. Struan, I’ve tried a dozen things but it never works. Father’s tried everything and, well—I’m committed—perhaps it was preordained—to what I am. I’m sorry, but you’d be wasting good intentions.”
“I’ll bet you five thousand guineas you’ll accept the job I’ll offer you.”
The youth knew that he’d win the wager. There was no job, none that the Tai-Pan could offer him, that he would accept.
But wait. This is no man to play with, no man to wager lightly with. Those devil calm eyes are flat. I’d hate to see them across a poker table. Or at baccarat. Watch your step, Richard Crosse Roger Blore. This is one man who’ll collect a debt.
“Well, Mr. Blore? Where’re your guts? Or are you na the gambler you pretend?”
“The five thousand guineas is my life, sir. The last stake I’ll get.”
“So put up your life, by God.”
“You’re not risking yours, sir. So the wager’s uneven. That sum’s contemptible to you. Give me odds. Hundred to one.”
Struan admired the youth’s brashness. “Very well—the truth, Mr. Blore. Before God.” He shoved out his hand, and Blore reeled inside for he had gambled that asking for such odds would kill the wager. Don’t do it, you fool, he told himself. Five hundred thousand guineas!
He shook Struan’s hand.
“Secretary of the Jockey Club of Hong Kong,” Struan said.
“What?”
“We’ve just formed the Jockey Club. You’re secretary. Your job is to find horses. Lay out a racetrack. A clubhouse. Begin the richest, finest racing stable in Asia. As good as Aintree or any in the world. Who wins, lad?”
Blore desperately wanted to relieve himself. For the love of God, concentrate, he shouted to himself. “A race track?”
“Aye. You start it, run it—horses, gambling, stands, odds, prizes, everything. Begin today.”
“But, Jesus Christ, where’re you going to get the horses?”