Once more Struan was awed by the subtlety and diabolic cunning of a Chinese mind. The majesty of it. The ruthlessness of it. But then, Struan told himself, they were both gambling for huge stakes. Both gambling on each other’s fairness, for there was nothing to guarantee that the favors would be granted.
Except that you will grant them and must grant them because a deal is a deal.
“Can,” he said, holding out his hand. “My custom, shake hand. Na Chinese custom, never mind.” He had never shaken hands with Jin-qua before, and he knew that the shaking of hands was considered barbaric.
Jin-qua said, “Fav’r perhaps again’ law. My, yours, savvy?”
“Savvy. You frien’. You or son no send coin ask bad fav’r.”
Jin-qua closed his eyes for a moment and thought about European barbarians. They were hairy and apelike. Their manners were repulsive and ugly. They stank beyond belief. They had no culture or manners or graces. Even the lowest coolie was ten thousand times better than the best European. And what applied to the men applied even more to the women.
He remembered his one visit to the Chinese-speaking English barbarian whore at Macao. He had visited her more for curiosity than for satisfaction, encouraged by his friends who said it would be an unforgettable experience for there was no refinement she would not diligently practice if encouraged.
He shuddered at the thought of her hairy arms and hairy armpits and hairy legs and cleft, the coarseness of her skin and face, and the stench of sweat mixed with the foul perfume.
And the foods that the barbarians ate—hideous. He had been to their dinners many times and had to sit through the innumerable courses, almost faint with nausea and pretending not to be hungry. Watching, appalled, at the stupendous quantities of half-raw meats they knifed into their mouths, blood gravy dripping down their chins. And the quantities of maddening spirits they swilled. And their revolting boiled, tasteless vegetables. And indigestible, solid pies. All in monstrous amounts. Like pigs—like sweating, gluttonous Gargantuan devils. Unbelievable!
They have no attributes to recommend them, he thought. None. Except their propensity to kill, and this they can do with incredible brutality although with no refinement. At least, they are the medium for us to make money.
Barbarians are Evil personified. All except this man—this Dirk Struan. Once Struan was like other barbarians. Now he is partially Chinese. In the mind. The mind is important, for to be Chinese is partially a mental attitude. And he is clean and smells clean. And he has learned some of our ways. Still violent and barbarian and a killer. But a little changed. And if one barbarian can be changed into a civilized person, why not many?
Your plan is a wise one, Jin-qua told himself. He opened his eyes and reached across and delicately touched Struan’s hand with his. “Frien’. ”
Jin-qua motioned for the servant to pour tea.
“Men my bring bullion your factory. Two days. Night. Werry secret,” Jin-qua said. “Plenty danger, savvy? Werry plenty.”
“Savvy. I give paper and chop my for bullion. Send tomollow.”
“No chop, no paper. Word better, heya?”
Struan nodded. How would you explain it—say, to Culum—that Jin-qua’ll give you one million in silver, will give you a fair deal knowing that he could ask any conditions, will give you everything you want on a handshake?
“Three times ten lac dolla pay Jin-qua, Co-hong debts. Now new year no debt. Good joss,” Jin-qua said proudly.
“Aye,” Struan said. “Good joss for me.”
“Werry plenty danger, Tai-Pan. No can help.”
“Aye.”
“Werry werry plenty danger. Mustee wait two nights.”
“Ayee yah danger!” Struan said. He picked up the four half coins. “Thank you, Chen-tse Jin Arn. Thank you very much.”
“No thanks, Dir’ Str’n. Frien’.”
Suddenly the man who had guided Struan to Jin-qua burst in. He spoke urgently to Jin-qua, who turned to Struan, frightened. “Servant dooa go! Gone Sett’ment. All gone!”
CHAPTER SIX
Struan sat in the sedan chair and swayed easily to its motion as the bearer coolies trotted through the silent alleys. The inside of the curtained box was grimed and sweat-stained. From time to time he peered through the curtained side-window openings at the alleys. He could not see the sky, but he knew that dawn was near. The wind carried the stench of rotting fruit and feces and offal and cooking and spices and, mixed with it, the smell of the sweat of the coolies.
He had worked out a safer plan with Jin-qua to get the bullion to Hong Kong. He had arranged for Jin-qua to load the bullion in its crates onto an armed lorcha. In two nights the lorcha was to be brought secretly to the Settlement wharf. At exactly midnight. If this was not possible, the lorcha was to be left near the south side of the wharf, one lantern on the foremast, another on the prow. To make sure that there was no mistake, Jin-qua had said that, as a sign, he would paint the near side eye of the lorcha red. Every lorcha had two eyes carved into the teak of their prows. The eyes were for joss and also to help the soul of the boat to see ahead. The Chinese knew that it was essential for a boat to have eyes to see with.
But why should Jin-qua let me have Hong Kong safe? he asked himself. Surely Jin-qua must realize the importance of a mandarin. And why should he want a son educated in London? Was Jin-qua, of all the Chinese he knew, so far-sighted as to understand, at long last, that there was to be a permanent joining of the fortunes of China with the fortunes of Britain?
He heard dogs barking, and through the curtains saw them attack the legs of the front coolie. But the coolie who carried the lantern ahead of the sedan chair ran back and, with practiced skill, hacked at the dogs with his iron-pointed staff. The dogs fled yelping into the darkness.
Then Struan noticed a cluster of bannermen foot soldiers—perhaps a hundred—seated at a far intersection. They were armed, and had lanterns. They were ominously quiet. Several of the men stood up and began to walk toward the chair. The coolies swerved into an alley, much to Struan’s relief. Now all you have to do, laddie, he told himself, is to get the bullion safe to Hong Kong. Or safe to Whampoa, where you can transship it into
China Cloud. But until it’s safe aboard, you’re na safe, laddie.
The sedan chair lurched as a coolie almost stumbled into one of the potholes that pockmarked the roadbed. Struan craned around in the confining space, trying to get his bearings. Later he could see the masts of ships, half hidden by hovels. Ahead there was still nothing recognizable. The chair turned a corner, heading toward the river, then cut across this narrow alley into another. Finally ahead, over the roofs of huts, he could make out part of the Settlement buildings glinting in the moonlight.
Abruptly the sedan chair stopped and was grounded, throwing Struan to one side. He tore the curtains aside and leaped out, knife in his hand, just as three spears ripped through the thin sides of the chair.