“Perhaps it’s false?”
“That Skinner fellow swears it’s true. It better be or I’ll have him for libel, by God!”
“When did it come out, Will?”
“Yesterday. How the devil did that obese stinking popinjay Skinner lay his fat, filthy hands on a secret dispatch that I haven’t even received yet? He ought to be horsewhipped!” He poured a glass of port, drained it and poured another. “Didn’t sleep a wink last night, worried to death over our future in Asia. Read it. God damn Cunnington!”
As Struan read, he found himself beginning to smolder. Although the article ostensibly presented the broad facts and documented the dispatch word for word, as Cross had written to him, Skinner’s editorial implied that Cunnington, well known for his imperious handling of foreign affairs, had totally repudiated not merely the treaty itself but the whole experience of the trading community, the Royal Navy and Army as welclass="underline" “Lord Cunnington, who has never been east of Suez, is setting himself up as an expert on the value of Hong Kong. More than likely, he does not know whether Hong Kong is north or south of Macao, east or west of Peking. How dare he imply that the Admiral of our glorious Fleet is a bag of wind and knows nothing about seamanship and the historic value of the greatest harbor in Asia? Where would we be without the Royal Navy? Or the Army, who are equally discounted—nay, insulted—by the stupid mishandling of our affairs? Without Hong Kong where will our soldiers find a haven, or our ships sanctuary? How dare this man who has been in office far too long say that the experience of all the traders, who have rightly invested their future and their wealth in Hong Kong, are fools? How dare he imply that those who have spent their life in China for the glory of England know nothing about affairs Chinese, the huge value of a free port, a trade emporium, and island fortress . . .” And the article evaluated the island and described how, at great risk to themselves, the traders had developed Happy Valley and, when it had to be abandoned, had dauntlessly begun the new town, for the glory of Britain. It was a masterly piece of news slanting.
Struan hid his delight. He knew that if he—who had planted the story—could be aroused by the editorial, others would be violent.
“I’m shocked! That he would dare! Cunnington should be impeached!”
“My thought entirely!” Longstaff drained his glass again and slammed it down. “Well, now I’m sacked. All the work and sweating and talking and warring—all down the spout because of that imperious, jumped-up maniac who thinks that he’s master of the earth.”
“Damned if he’ll get away with it, Will! We have to do something about him! He’ll no get awa’ with it!”
“He has, by God!” Longstaff got up and paced the cabin, and Struan felt a tinge of pity for him. “What’s going to happen? My career’s ruined—we’re all ruined!”
“What have you done about this, Will?”
“Nothing.” Longstaff glared out of the cabin windows. “That cursed island’s at the root of all my troubles. That hell-spawned rock’s destroyed me. Destroyed all of us!” He sat down morosely. “There was damn nearly a riot yesterday. A deputation of traders came here and demanded I refuse to leave. Another under Brock demanded I leave Asia immediately with the fleet and present myself to London to demand Cunnington’s impeachment, and if necessary blockade the Port of London.” He pillowed his chin with his hands. “Well, it’s my own fault. I should have followed my instructions to the letter. But that wouldn’t have been right. I’m not a power-hungry, land-grabbing conqueror. The pox on everything!” He looked up, his face twisted with humiliation. “The admiral and general are delighted, of course. Have a drink?”
“Thanks.” Struan poured a brandy. “All’s not lost, Will. On the contrary. Once at home, you can put your power to work.”
“Eh?”
“What you did here is right. You’ll be able to convince Cunnington
if he’s still in office. Face to face you’re in a very strong position. You have right on your side. Definitely.”
“Have you ever met Cunnington?” Longstaff asked bitterly. “You don’t argue with that monster.”
“True. But I have a few friends. Say you had a key to prove you were right and he was wrong?”
Longstaff’s eyes gleamed. If Struan was not worried by the terrible news, all was not lost. “What key, my dear fellow?” he asked.
Struan sipped his brandy, relishing it. “Diplomats are permanent; governments change. Before you get home, Peel’ll be Prime Minister.”
“Impossible!”
“Probable. Say you brought with you news of the highest importance, that proved Cunnington an idiot. How would Peel and the Conservatives view you?”
“Admirably. ’Pon me word! What news, Dirk, my friend?”
There was a commotion outside the door, and Brock crashed in, a hapless sentry trying futilely to restrain him. Struan was up in a split second, ready to go for his knife.
Brock’s face was swollen with malice. “Be they wed?”
“Aye.”
“Be Gorth murdered?”
“Aye.”
“When be
White Witch due?”
“Before nightfall, I’d say. She was scheduled to leave midmorning.”
“First I be talking with Liza. Then they two. Then, by the Lord God, I be talking with thee.” He stormed out.
“Ill-mannered sod!” Longstaff huffed. “He might have at least knocked!”
Struan relaxed as a cat will relax after a danger has passed—the muscles unlocking fluidly, ready to tighten again at the next threat, but the eyes not changing, still watching where the danger was.
“You’ve nothing to fear from Cunnington, Will. He’s finished.”
“Yes, of course, Dirk. And damn good riddance!” He looked at the door and remembered the prizefight, and knew that the fight between Dirk and Brock would be equally vicious. “What’s in Brock’s mind, eh? Is he going to challenge you? Of course we heard about your fracas with Gorth. Bad news has a habit of traveling fast, hasn’t it? Terrible business! Damned good luck he was killed by others.”
“Aye,” Struan said. Now that the danger had passed, he felt slightly sick and weak.
“What possessed those two young idiots to elope? Stands to reason Brock would go berserk. Stupid!”
“Na stupid, Will. Best thing for them to do.”
“Of course. If you say so.” And Longstaff wondered if the rumors were true: that the Tai-Pan had deliberately precipitated the marriage and the duel. The Tai-Pan was much too smart not to plan that, he told himself. So—Tai-Pan versus Brock. “What about Peel, Dirk?”
“You’re a diplomat, Will. Diplomats should na have specific party associations. At least they should be well thought of by all parties.”
“My views entirely.” Longstaff’s eyes widened. “You mean become a Conservative—support Peel?”
“Support Whig and Conservative equally. Hong Kong’s correct for England. You’re Hong Kong, Wilt. Perhaps this”—Struan waved the paper—“is a huge stroke of luck for you. It proves Cunnington’s na only a fool but also a blabbermouth. It’s shocking to read a private dispatch in the paper.” Then he told him about the briefcase, but only enough to set Longstaff’s head reeling.
“Good God!” If, as the Tai-Pan indicated, there was a copy of the actual secret report with maps of the Russia-China border areas and hinterland, bless my soul, they’d be a passport to an ambassadorship and a peerage. “Where’d you get it?”