Cooper nodded briefly. But he did not take his eyes off Brock. He had no knife, but there was a derringer in his pocket. He was of a height with Brock but slighter, and unafraid.
“I be givin’ thee piece of advice, Mr. Cooper,” Brock said. “Best not spit too often after saying ‘British Empire.’ There be some wot baint be givin’ thee benefit of doubt.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brock, I’ll remember,” Cooper replied easily. “And I’ll give you some advice: It’s bad joss to curse on a Tuesday.”
Brock suppressed his temper. Eventually he would crush Cooper and Tillman and their company, the biggest of the American traders. But now he needed them as allies against Dirk and Robb Struan. Brock cursed joss. Joss had made Struan and Company the greatest house in Asia, and so rich and powerful that the other China traders had named it in awe and jealousy
The Noble House—noble because it was first in riches, first in largess, first in trade, first in clippers, but mostly because Dirk Struan was Tai-Pan,
the Tai-Pan among all the tai-pans of Asia. And joss had cost Brock an eye seventeen years ago, the year that Struan had founded his empire.
It had happened off Chushan Island. Chushan was just south of the huge port of Shanghai, near the mouth of the mighty Yangtse River. Brock had beaten up through the monsoon with a huge cargo of opium—Dirk Struan a few days astern, also carrying opium. Brock had reached Chushan first, sold his cargo and turned around, knowing happily that now Struan would have to go farther north and try a new coast with fresh risks. Brock had sped south for home—Macao—his coffers filled with bullion, the full wind astern. Then a great storm had suddenly swooped out of the China seas. The Chinese called these storms
tai-fung, the Supreme Winds. The traders called them typhoons. They were terror incarnate.
The typhoon had battered Brock’s ship mercilessly, and he had been pinned by the falling masts and spars. A shorn halyard, caught by the winds, had flailed him as he lay helpless. His men had cut him loose but not before the broken shackle-ended rope had gouged out his left eye. The ship had been on her beam ends and he helped them cut the rigging and spars adrift, and by some miracle she had righted herself. Then he had poured brandy into the bleeding socket; he could still remember the pain.
And he recalled how he had limped into port long after he had been given up for lost, his fine three-masted clipper no more than a hulk, the seams sprung, masts and guns and rigging gone. And by the time Brock had replaced spars and rigging and masts and cannon and powder and shot and men, and bought another cargo of opium, all the profits of this voyage had vanished.
Struan had run into the same typhoon in a small lorcha—a boat with a Chinese hull, English-rigged and used for coastal smuggling in fine weather. But Struan rode out the storm and, elegant and untouched as usual, had been on the dock to greet Brock, his strange green eyes mocking him.
Dirk and his cursed joss, Brock thought. Joss be letting Dirk build that one stinking lorcha into a fleet of clippers and hundreds of lorchas, into warehouses and bullion to spare. Into godrotting Noble House. Joss pushed Brock and Sons into godrotting second place. Second. And, he thought, joss’s given him ear of our godrotting weak-gutted plenipotentiary, the Honorable Godrotting Longstaff, all these years. An’ now, together, they’ve sold us out. “A
pox on Hong Kong and a
pox on Struan!”
“If it weren’t for Struan’s plan, you’d never have won your war so easily,” Cooper said.
The war had begun at Canton two years before, when the Chinese emperor, determined to bring the Europeans to heel, tried to eliminate the opium smuggling which was essential to British trade. Viceroy Ling had surrounded the foreign settlement at Canton with troops, and demanded every case of opium in Asia to ransom the lives of the defenseless English traders. At length, twenty thousand cases of opium had been given over and destroyed, and the British were allowed to retreat to Macao. But the British could not take lightly either interference with its trade or threats to its nationals. Six months ago the British Expeditionary Force had arrived in the Orient and ostensibly had been placed under the jurisdiction of Longstaff, the Captain Superintendent of Trade.
But it was Struan who conceived the inspired plan to bypass Canton, where all the trouble had started, and instead send the expeditionary force north to Chushan. To take that island without loss would be simple, Struan had theorized, for the Chinese were unprepared and helpless against any modern European army or fleet. Leaving a small holding force at Chushan and a few ships to blockade the Yangtse, the expeditionary force could sail north to the mouth of the Pei Ho River and threaten Peking, the capital of China, which was only a hundred miles upstream. Struan knew that only so direct a threat would make the emperor immediately sue for peace. A superb conception. And it had worked brilliantly. The expeditionary force had arrived in the Orient last June. By July Chushan had been taken. By August it was moored at the Pei Ho. In two weeks the emperor had sent an official to negotiate peace—the first time in history that any Chinese emperor had officially acknowledged any European nation. And the war had ended with almost no loss to either side.
“Longstaff was very wise to follow the plan,” Cooper said.
“Any China trader knowed how to bring the Chinee to their knees,” Brock said, his voice rough. He pushed his top hat farther back on his forehead and eased his eye patch. “But why did Longstaff and Struan agree to negotiate back at Canton, eh? Any fool knowed ‘negotiate’ to a Chinee means to play for time. We should’ve stayed north at the Pei Ho till peace were signed. But no, we brung back the fleet and for the last six month we be waiting and waiting for the buggers to set pen to paper.” Brock spat. “Stupid, crazy stupid. An’ all that waste of time and money for this stinking rock. We should’ve kept Chushan. Now, there be island worth having.” Chushan was twenty miles long and ten wide and its land fertile and rich—a good port and a big city, Tinghai. “Space for a man to breathe in there, right enough. Why, from there three or four frigates can blockade the Yangtse at the drop of a topper. An’ who controls that river controls the heart of China. That’s where we should settle, by God.”
“You still have Chushan, Mr. Brock.”
“Yus. But it baint deeded in godrotting treaty, so it baint our’n.” He stamped his feet against the growing chill wind.
“Perhaps you should mention it to Longstaff,” Cooper said. “He’s susceptible to advice.”
“Not to mine, he baint. As thee rightly knowed. But I’ll tell thee, when Parliament hear about the treaty, there be hell to pay, I’ll be bound.”
Cooper lit a cheroot. “I’m inclined to agree. It is an astonishing piece of paper, Mr. Brock. For this day and age. When every European power is land-grabbing and power-hungry.”
“And I suppose the United States baint?” Brock’s face tightened. “Wot about yor Indians? The Louisiana Purchase? Spanish Florida? You be havin’ eyes on Mexico and Russian Alaska. The last mails told you be even trying to steal Canada. Eh?”
“Canada’s American, not English. We’re not going to war over Canada—she’ll join us of her own free will,” Cooper said, hiding his worry. He tugged at his muttonchop whiskers and pulled his frock coat tighter around his shoulders against the sharpening wind. He knew that war with the British Empire would be disastrous at this time, and would ruin Cooper-Tillman. God damn wars. Even so, he knew that the States would have to go to war over Mexico and Canada unless there was a settlement. Just as Britain had had to go to war with China.