“He’s out of his depth in Asia—that’s all. Wrong man for the job. I’d be lost in the courts of Europe. But he’s plenipotentiary. That’s all that counts. Aye, he’s simple—but watch him too. Watch everyone.”
“Does he always do what you tell him to do?”
Struan looked out the tent door at the night. “He takes my advice, most times. Provided I’m the last giver.”
Culum moved another guinea. “There must be something—someone to turn to. You must have friends.”
Inexorably Struan’s mind was filled with the name of the only person who could unspring the trap: Ti-sen. Brock’ll take the ships right smartly, he thought, seething with impotent rage. Wi’out the ships you’re lost, laddie. The house, Hong Kong, the plan. Aye, you can start again, but dinna fool yoursel’. You canna build and man such a fleet again. You’ll never catch up with Brock again. Never. You’ll be second-best. You’ll be second-best forever.
Struan felt the veins in his neck throbbing. His throat was parched. I’ll na be the second-best. By the Lord God, I canna. I canna. I canna. To Brock or to anyone. “Tomorrow, when
China Cloud returns, I’m going to Canton. You’ll come with me.”
“What about the land sale? Should I start that?”
“Devil take the land sale! We’ve the house to save first. Go aboard
Resting Cloud, lad. We’ll leave as soon as possible.”
“All right.” Culum stood up.
“Good night, laddie.”
The coins caught Culum’s eyes, mesmerizing him. He began to pick them up.
“I told you to leave them alone!”
“I can’t.” There were beads of sweat on Culum’s forehead. The coins seemed to burn his fingers. “I’ve . . . I’ve got to have them.”
“Why, for God’s sake, eh?”
“I don’t know. I—I just want them.” He put the coins in his pocket. “They’re mine now. Good night, Father.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Struan was eating dinner alone in the spacious dining room of their stately factory in the Canton Settlement. The vast three-story mansion had been built by the East India Company forty years ago. Struan had always coveted it as a perfect setting for The Noble House. Eight years ago he had bought it.
The dining room was on the second floor facing the Pearl River. Below this floor was a labyrinth of offices and warehouses and storerooms. Above were living quarters, and the Tai-Pan’s private rooms, carefully separate. There were courtyards and walks and suites and dormitories within and throughout its length. Forty to fifty Portuguese clerks lived and worked in the building, ten to fifteen Europeans. A hundred Chinese menservants. Women servants were not allowed by Chinese law.
Struan pushed his carved chair away from the table and irritably lit a cheroot. A huge fire warmed the marble that sheathed the walls and floor. The table could seat forty and the silver was Georgian, the chandelier crystal and bright with candles. He walked over to a window and looked down at the traders strolling in the garden below.
Beyond the garden was a square that ran the length of the Settlement and adjoined the wharf at the riverbank. The square was, as usual, teeming with Chinese hawkers, bystanders, sellers and buyers, soothsayers, letter writers, beggars and dogs. Outside their factories it was only in the English Garden, as it was called, that the merchants could move about in relative peace. Chinese, other than servants, were forbidden the garden and the factories. There were thirteen buildings in the colonnaded terrace that ran the length of the Settlement but for two narrow lanes—Hog Street and Old China Lane. Only Struan and Brock owned complete buildings. The other traders shared the remainder, taking space to suit their needs, and paid rent to the East India Company, which had built the Settlement a century ago.
On the north the Settlement was bounded by Thirteen Factory Street. The walls of Canton City were a quarter of a mile away. Between the city walls and the Settlement was an anthill of houses and hovels. The river was congested with the inevitable floating towns of the boat people. And over all was the perpetual pulsating, singsong murmur suggesting an enormous beehive.
To one side of the garden Struan noticed Brock deep in conversation with Cooper and Tillman. He wondered if they were explaining the intricacies of the Spanish tea-opium sale to Brock. Good luck to them, he thought without rancor. All is fair in love and trade.
“Where the godrotting hell is Jin-qua?” he said out loud.
For twenty-four days Struan had tried to see Jin-qua, but each day his messenger returned to the Settlement with the same reply: “Him no dooa back all same. You wait can. Tomollow he dooa back to Canton never mind.”
Culum had spent ten days in the Canton Settlement with him. On the eleventh day an urgent message had come from Longstaff asking Culum to return to Hong Kong: There were problems about the land sale.
Along with Longstaff’s message was a letter from Robb. Robb wrote that Skinner’s editorial about the Struan bankruptcy had provoked consternation among the traders, and most had sent immediate dispatches home spreading their money through various banks; that most were waiting for the thirtieth day; that no credit was to be had, and all the suggestions he had made to Brock’s enemies were fruitless; that the navy had been incensed when Longstaff’s official negation of the opium-smuggling order was made public, and the admiral had dispatched a frigate home with a request that the Government give him the permission he sought direct; and last, that Chen Sheng, their compradore, was inundated with creditors demanding payment on all the lesser debts that normally would wait their time.
Struan knew that he was beaten if he did not reach Jin-qua in the next six days, and he asked himself again if Jin-qua was avoiding him or if he was truly away from Canton. He’s an old thief, Struan thought, but he’d never avoid me. And if you do see him, laddie, are you really going to make the offer to that devil Ti-sen?
There was the sound of angry singsong voices and the door burst open, admitting a filthy young Hoklo boat woman and a servant who was trying to restrain her. The woman wore the usual huge, conical sampan hat and grimy black trousers and blouse and over them a grimy padded jacket.
“No stop can this one piece cow chillo, Mass’er,” the servant said in pidgin English, holding on to the struggling girl. Only through pidgin could the traders converse with their servants, and they with them. “Cow” meant “woman.” “Chillo” was a corruption of “child.” “Cow chillo” meant “young woman.”
“Cow chillo out! Plenty quick-quick, savvy?” Struan said.
“You want cow chillo, heya? Cow chillo plenty good bed jig-jig. Two dollar never mind,” the girl called out.
The servant grabbed her and her hat fell off, and Struan saw her face clearly for the first time. She was barely recognizable because of the grime and he collapsed with laughter. The servant gaped at him as though he were mad and released the girl.
“This piece cow chillo,” Struan said through his laughter, “Stay can, never mind.”
The girl tidied her verminous clothes irately and shouted another torrent of invective at the departing servant.
“Cow chillo plenty good you see, Tai-Pan.”
“And you, May-may!” Struan stared down at her. “What the hell’re you doing here, and what the hell’s the filth for?”