“I’m not worried about that, Mr. Struan.” Skinner was perplexed; Struan was not reacting as he had expected. Unless the Tai-Pan already knew, he told himself for the hundredth time. But it makes no sense for him to have sent Blore to me. Blore arrived a week ago—and in that week the Tai-Pan’s invested countless thousands of taels in Hong Kong. That would be the act of a maniac. So whom did Blore courier for? Brock? Unlikely. Because he’s spending as lavishly as Struan. It must be the admiral—or the general—or Monsey. Monsey! Who but Monsey has the high-level connections? Who but Monsey hates Longstaff and wants his job? Who but Monsey is vitally concerned that Hong Kong succeeds? For without a successful Hong Kong, Monsey has no future in the Diplomatic Corps. “It looks as though Hong Kong’s dead. All the money and effort you’ve put in—we’ve all put in—is tossed aside.”
“Hong Kong canna be finished. Wi’out the island all the future mainland ports we’ll have are so much dross.”
“I know, sir. We all do.”
“Aye. But the Foreign Secretary feels otherwise. Why? I wonder why. And what could we possibly do? How to convince him, eh? How?”
Skinner was as strong for Hong Kong as Struan was. Without Hong Kong there was no Noble House. And without The Noble House there was no weekly
Oriental Times and no job.
“Maybe we won’t have to convince that bugger,” he said shortly, eyes icy.
“Eh?”
“That bugger won’t always be in power.”
Struan’s interest heightened. This was a new slant, and unexpected. Skinner was a voracious reader of all newspapers and periodicals and a most well-informed man on “published” parliamentary affairs. At the same time—with an extraordinary memory and a vital interest in people—Skinner had sources of information that were manifold. “You think there’s a chance for a change in Government?”
“I’ll bet money that Sir Robert Peel and the Conservatives will topple the Whigs within the year.”
“That’d be a devilish dangerous gamble. I’d put money against you mysel’.”
“Would you gamble the
Oriental Times against the fall of the Whigs within the year—and a retention of Hong Kong by the Crown?”
Struan was aware that such a wager would put Skinner totally on his side and the paper would be a small price to pay. But a quick agreement would show his hand. “You’ve nae chance in the world of winning that wager.”
“It’s a very good one, Mr. Struan. The winter at home last year was one of the worst ever—economically and industrially. Unemployment’s incredible. Harvests have been terrible. Do you know the price of bread is up to a shilling and twopence a loaf according to last week’s mail? Lump sugar’s costing eightpence a pound; tea seven shillings and eightpence; soap ninepence a cake; eggs four shillings a dozen. Potatoes a shilling a pound. Bacon three shillings and sixpence a pound. Now take wages—artisans of all sorts, bricklayers, plumbers, carpenters—at most seventeen shillings and sixpence a week for sixty-four hours’ work; agricultural workers nine shillings a week for God knows how many hours; factory workers around fifteen shillings—all these
if work can be found. Good God, Mr. Struan, you live up in the mountains with incredible wealth where you can give a thousand guineas to a girl just because she’s got a pretty dress, so you don’t know, you can’t know, but one out of every eleven people in England is a pauper. In Stockton nearly ten thousand persons earned less that two shillings a week last year. Thirty thousand in Leeds under a shilling. Most everyone’s starving and we’re the richest nation on earth. The Whigs have their heads up their arses and they won’t face up to what anyone can see is outrageously unfair. They’ve done nothing about the Chartists except to pretend they’re anarchists. They won’t face up to the appalling conditions in the mills and the factories. Good Christ, children of six or seven are working a twelve-hour day, and women too, and they’re cheap labor and they put the men out of work. Why should the Whigs do anything? They own most of the factories and mills. And money’s their god—more and more and evermore and to hell with everyone. The Whigs won’t face up to the Irish problem. My God, there was a famine last year, and if there’s another this year, the whole of Ireland’ll be in revolt again and it’s about time. And the Whigs haven’t lifted a finger to reform banking. Why should they—they own the banks too! Look at your own bad luck! If we’d had a rightful proper law to protect depositors from the cursed machinations of the cursed Whigs—” He stopped with an effort, his jowls shaking and his face florid. “Sorry, didn’t mean to make a speech. Of course the Whigs have got to go. I’d say if they don’t go in the next six months, there’ll be a blood bath in England which’ll make the French Revolution look like a picnic. The only man who can save us is Sir Robert Peel, by all that’s holy.”
Struan remembered what Culum had said about conditions in England. He and Robb had discounted it as the ramblings of an idealistic university undergraduate. And he had discounted the things his own father had written as unimportant. “If Lord Cunaingtoa’s out, who’ll be the next Foreign Secretary?”
“Sir Robert himself. Failing him, Lord Aberdeen.”
“But both’re against free trade.”
“Yes, but both are liberal and pacific. And once in power, they’ll have to change. Whenever the Opposition get power and responsibility, they change. Free trade is the only way England can survive—you know that—so they’ll have to support it. And they’ll need all the support they can get from the powerful and the wealthy.”
“You’re saying I should support them?”
“The
Oriental Times, lock, stock and printing press, against a fall of the Whigs this year. And Hong Kong.”
“You think you can help that?”
“Hong Kong, yes. Oh, yes.”
Struan eased his left boot more comfortably and leaned back in his chair again. He let a silence hang. “A fifty percent interest, and you have a deal,” he said.
“All or nothing.”
“Perhaps I should throw you out and have done with it.”
“You should, perhaps. You’ve more than enough wealth to last you and yours forever. I’m asking you how much you want Hong Kong—and the future of England. I think I’ve a key.”
Struan poured himself some more whiskey and refilled Skinner’s glass. “Done. All or nothing. Would you care to join me in some supper? I’m feeling a little hungry.”
“Yes, indeed. Thank you. Talking’s hungry work. Thank you kindly.”
Struan rang the bell and blessed his joss that he had gambled. Lim Din arrived and food was ordered.
Skinner swilled his whiskey and thanked God that he had judged the Tai-Pan correctly. “You’ll not regret it, Tai-Pan. Now, listen a moment. The loss of Longstaff—I know he’s a friend of yours, but I’m talking politically—is a huge piece of luck for Hong Kong. First he’s a highborn, second a Whig, and third he’s a fool. Sir Clyde Whalen’s a squire’s son, second no fool, third a man of action. Fourth, he knows India—spent thirty years in service to the East India Company. Prior to that he was Royal Navy. Last, and most important of all, even though he’s a Whig outwardly, I’m sure he must secretly hate Cunnington and the present Government and would do anything in his power to cause their downfall.”
“Why?”