“Thee and thy face, lad,” Brock said, no longer amused. “ ’Tis thy face that be red. Treaty be finished, trade finished, Hong Kong finished, thee be finished, and all thee talks about be face.”
“You’re so wrong, Tyler. Hong Kong’s just begun,” Struan said. “A lot of things have just begun.”
“Yus. War, by God.”
“And if there’s war, where’s the base for the fleet, eh? Macao’s as useless as it always has been—it’s part of the mainland and the Chinese can fall on that at whim. But na our island, by God. Na with the fleet protecting it. I’ll agree that wi’out Hong Kong we’re finished. That wi’out it we canna launch a campaign north again. Never. Nor protect whatever mainland ports or settlements we get in the future. You hear, Tyler? Hong Kong’s the key to China. Hong Kong’s got you by the short and curlies.”
“I knowed all about havin’ a island fortress, by God,” Brock blustered above the chorus of agreement. “Hong Kong baint the only place, I be saying. Chushan be better.”
“You can na protect Chushan like Hong Kong,” Struan said exultantly, knowing that Brock was committed as they were all committed. “That ‘barren, sodding rock,’ as you call it, is your whole godrotting future.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Brock said sourly. “We be seeing about that. But thee baint be enjoying Hong Kong nohow. I be having the knoll, and thee be finished.”
“Dinna be too sure.” Struan watched the square again. The lash still rose and fell. He pitied Ti-sen, who had been caught in a trap not of his own choosing. He had not sought the job as Chinese Plenipotentiary—he was ordered to take it. He was trapped by the era in which he lived. Just as Struan himself, and Longstaff and Brock and the Hoppo and all of them were trapped now that the first move had been made. The result would be as inexorable as the flail. There would be a move against Canton just as before. First take the forts at the approaches to Canton and then only threaten the city. There would be no need to capture it, for Canton would pay ransom first. Then, when the winds were ripe in the summer, north once more to the Pei Ho River mouth and landings, and once more the emperor, trapped like everyone else, would immediately sue for peace. The treaty would stand because it was fair. Then, over the years, the Chinese would gradually open up their ports willingly—seeing that the British had much to offer: law, justice, the sanctity of property, freedom.
For the ordinary Chinese want what we want, he thought, and there’s nae difference between us. We can work together for the benefit of all. Perhaps we’ll help the Chinese to throw out the barbaric Manchus. That’s what will happen so long as there’s a reasonable treaty now, and we’re patient, and we play the Chinese game with Chinese rules, in Chinese time. Time measured not in a day or year, but in generations. And so long as we can trade while we’re waiting. Without trade the world will become what it was once—a hell where only the strongest arm and the heaviest lash was law. The meek will never inherit the earth. Aye, but at least they can be protected by law to live out their lives as they wish.
When Ti-sen had had a hundred blows, the bannermen picked him up. Blood was streaming from his face and neck, and the back of his robe was shredded and bloody. The mob jeered and hooted. A bannerman banged the gong but the mob paid no attention and the bannermen cut into them, slashing and chopping. There were screams, and the mob backed away and fell silent again.
The Hoppo waved an imperious hand toward the garden. The sedan chair was lifted and the bannermen moved ahead of it, wielding their flails to clear the way toward the traders.
“Come on,” Struan said to Mauss and Brock. “The rest of you get ready in case there’s an attack.” He dashed out into the garden, Brock and Mauss close behind.
“Be thee sick in the head?” Brock said.
“No.”
They watched tensely as the mob parted and the bannermen appeared at the garden gate. The Hoppo stayed in his chair, but he called out to them imperiously.
“He orders you to take a copy of the edict, Mr. Struan,” Mauss said.
“Tell him that we are not dressed in ceremonial clothes. Such an important matter needs great ceremony to give it the dignity it merits.”
The Hoppo seemed puzzled. After a moment he spoke again.
“He says, ‘Barbarians have no ceremony and are beyond contempt. However, the Son of Heaven has urged clemency on all those who fear him. A deputation will come to my palace in the morning, at the Hour of the Snake.’ ”
“When the hell be that?” Brock asked.
“Seven A.M.,” Mauss said.
“We baint about to put our heads in his godrotting trap. Tell him to dung himself.”
“Tell him,” Struan said, “according to the Eight Regulations we’re na allowed to meet personally with the exalted Hoppo but must receive documents through the Co-hong here in the Settlement. The Hour of the Snake gives us na enough time.” He looked up; dawn was streaking the sky. “When’s eleven o’clock at night?”
“The Hour of the Rat,” Mauss said.
“Then tell him that we will receive the document from the Co-hong here with ‘due ceremony’ at the Hour of the Rat.
Tomorrow night.”
“ ‘Due ceremony’ be clever, Dirk,” Brock said. “That be plenty of time to prepare a bleeding welcome!”
Mauss listened to the Hoppo. “He says that the Co-hong will deliver the edict at the Hour of the Snake—that’s nine A.M.—today. And all British barbarians are to leave the Settlement by the Hour of the Sheep—that’s one P.M.,— today.”
“Tell him that one P.M. today gives us na enough time. At the Hour of the Sheep tomorrow.”
“He says we must evacuate the Settlement at three P.M. today—the Hour of the Monkey—that our lives are spared until that time and that we can leave without harm.”
“Tell him: the Hour of the Monkey tomorrow.”
The Hoppo replied to Mauss, and barked an order. His chair was lifted and the procession began to form again.
“He said we must leave today. At the Hour of the Monkey. Three o’clock this afternoon.”
“Curse him to hell!” Struan said, enraged. The procession was heading for Hog Street. One of the bannermen shoved Ti-sen behind the sedan chair and flailed him as he stumbled after it; more began to close on the mob, which coursed out of the square. The bannermen who remained split into two groups. One moved closer to the factory, cutting it off from Hog Street; the other was posted to the west. The factory was surrounded.
“Why was you pressing for delay?” Brock said.
“Just normal negotiation.”
“Thee knowed right well, be more’n the Hoppo’s life be worth to delay after wot happened to Ti-sen! Wot be so important to stay another night, eh? Most of us was leaving today, anyway. For the land sale.”
Good sweet Christ! Struan thought, knowing that Brock was right. How can I wait for the bullion?
“Eh?” Brock repeated.
“No reason.”
“There be a reason,” Brock said, and entered the factory.
Promptly at the Hour of the Snake the full complement of Co-hong merchants came into the square, escorted by fifty bannermen with gongs and drums sounding. The guard bannermen let them through and then closed ranks again. Again Jin-qua was absent. But his son How-qua, the leading Co-hong merchant, was there. How-qua, a middle-aged, roly-poly man, always smiled. But today he was somber and sweating, so terrified that he almost dropped the neatly rolled imperial edict, bound with vermilion ribbon. His fellow merchants were equally panic-stricken.