Culum followed his father on deck. He had never been aboard a warship, let alone a capital ship. H.M.S. Titan was one of the most powerful vessels afloat. She was huge—triple-masted—with 74 cannons mounted on three gundecks. But Culum was unimpressed. He did not care for ships, and loathed the sea. He was afraid of the violence and danger and enormousness of it, and he could not swim. He wondered how his father could love the sea.
There’s so much I don’t know about my father, he thought. But that’s not strange. I’ve only seen him a few times in my life and the last time six years ago. Father hasn’t changed. But I have. Now I know what I’m going to do with my life. And now that I’m alone … I like being alone, and hate it.
He followed his father down the gangway onto the main gundeck. It was low-ceilinged and they had to stoop as they walked aft heading for the sentry-guarded cabin, and the whole ship smelled of gunpowder and tar and hemp and sweat.
“Day, sir,” the marine said to Struan, his musket pointing at him formally. “Master-at-arms!”
The master-at-arms, scarlet-uniformed, his white pipeclay trimming resplendent, stamped out of the guard cabin. He was as hard as a cannon ball and his head as round. “Day, Mr. Struan. Just a moment, sirr.” He knocked deferentially on the oak cabin door. A voice said, “Come in,” and he closed the door behind him.
Struan took out a cheroot and offered it to Culum. “Are you smoking now, lad?”
“Yes. Thank you, Father.”
Struan lit Culum’s cheroot and one for himself. He leaned against one of the twelve-foot-long cannons. The cannon balls were piled neatly, ever ready. Sixty-pound shot.
The cabin door opened. Longstaff, a slight, dapper man came out. His hair was dark and fashionably curled, his muttonchop whiskers thick. He had a high forehead and dark eyes. The sentry presented arms and the master-at-arms returned to the guard cabin.
“Hello, Dirk, my dear fellow. How are you? I was so sad to hear.” Longstaff shook Struan’s hand nervously, then smiled at Culum and offered his hand again. “You must be Culum. I’m William Longstaff. Sorry that you came under these terrible circumstances.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Culum said, astonished that the Captain Superintendent of Trade should be so young.
“Do you mind waiting a moment, Dirk? Admiral’s conference and the captains. I’ll be through in a few minutes,” Longstaff said with a yawn. “I’ve a lot to talk to you about. If you’re up to it.”
“Yes.”
Longstaff glanced anxiously at the gold jeweled fob watch which dangled from his brocade waistcoat. “Almost eleven o’clock! Never seems to be enough time. Would you like to go down to the wardroom?”
“No. We’ll wait here.”
“As you wish.” Longstaff briskly re-entered the cabin and shut the door.
“He’s very young to be the plenipotentiary, isn’t he?” Culum asked.
“Yes and no. He’s thirty-six. Empires are built by young men, Culum. They’re lost by old men.”
“He doesn’t look English at all. Is he Welsh?”
“His mother’s Spanish.” Which accounted for his cruel streak, Struan thought to himself. “She was a countess. His father was a diplomat to the court of Spain. It was one of those ‘well-bred’ marriages. His family’s connected with the earls of Toth.”
If you’re not born an aristocrat, Culum thought, however clever you are, you haven’t a hope. Not a hope. Not without revolution. “Things are very bad in England,” he told his father.
“How so, lad?” Struan said.
“The rich are too rich and the poor too poor. People pouring into the cities looking for work. More people than jobs, so the employers pay less and less. People starving. The Chartist leaders are still in prison.”
“A good thing, too. Those rabble-rousing scum should have been hung or transported, na just put in prison.”
“You don’t approve of the Charter?” Culum was suddenly on his guard. The People’s Charter had been written less than three years ago, and now had become the rallying symbol of liberty to all the discontented of Britain. The Charter demanded a vote for every man, the abolition of the property qualification for members of Parliament, equal electoral districts, vote by secret ballot, annual Parliaments, and salaries for members of Parliament.
“I approve of it as a document of fair demands. But na of the Chartists or their leaders. The Charter’s like a lot of basic good ideas—they fall into the hands of the wrong leaders.”
“It’s not wrong to agitate for reform. Parliament’s got to make changes.”
“Agitate, yes. Talk, argue, write petitions, but don’t incite violence and dinna lead revolutions. The Government was right to put down the troubles in Wales and the Midlands. Insurrection’s no answer, by God. There’s tales that the Chartists have na learned their lesson yet and that they’re buying arms and having secret meetings. They should be stamped out, by God.”
“You won’t stamp out the Charter. Too many want it and are prepared to die for it.”
“Then there’ll be a lot of deaths, lad. If the Chartists dinna possess themselves with patience.”
“You don’t know what the British Isles are like now, Father. You’ve been out here so long. Patience comes hard with an empty belly.”
“It’s the same in China. Same all the world over. But revolt and insurrection’s na the British way.”
It soon will be, Culum thought grimly, if there aren’t changes. He was sorry now that he had left Glasgow for the Orient. Glasgow was the center of the Scottish Chartists and he was leader of the undergraduates who had, in secret, committed themselves to work and sweat—and die if necessary—for the Chartist cause.
The cabin door opened again, and the sentry stiffened. The admiral, a heavyset man, strode out, his face taut and angry, and headed for the gangway, followed by his captains. Most of the captains were young but a few were gray-haired. All were dressed in sea uniform and wore cocked hats, and their swords clattered.
Captain Glessing was last. He stopped in front of Struan. “Can I offer my condolences, Mr. Struan? Very bad luck!”
“Aye.” Is it just bad luck, Struan wondered, to lose a bonny wife and three bonny children? Or does God—or the Devil—have a hand in joss? Or are they—God, Devil, luck, joss—just different names for the same thing?”
“You were quite right to kill that damned marine,” Glessing said.
“I did na touch him.”
“Oh? I presumed you did. Couldn’t see what happened from where I was. It’s unimportant.”
“Did you bury him ashore?”
“No. No point in defiling the island with that sort of disease. Does the name Ramsey mean anything to you, Mr. Struan?” Glessing asked, bluntly terminating the amenities.
“Ramsey’s a common enough name.” Struan was on guard.
“True. But Scots stick together. Isn’t that a key to the success of Scot-dominated enterprises?”
“It’s hard to find trustworthy people, aye,” Struan said. “Does the name Ramsey mean anything to you?”
“It’s the name of a deserter from my ship,” Glessing said pointedly. “He’s a cousin to your bosun, Bosun McKay, I believe.”
“So?”
“Nothing. Just passing along information. As you know, of course, any merchantman, armed or otherwise, which harbors deserters can be taken as prize. By the Royal Navy.” Glessing smiled. “Stupid to desert. Where can he go except onto another ship?”
“Nowhere.” Struan felt trapped. He was sure that Ramsey was aboard one of his ships and certain that Brock was involved and perhaps Glessing too.
“We’re searching the fleet today. You’ve no objections, of course?”
“Of course. We’re very careful who man our ships.”
“Very wise. The admiral thought The Noble House should have pride of place, so your ships will be searched immediately.”
In that case, Struan thought, there’s nothing I can do. So he dismissed
the problem from his mind.
“Captain, I’d like you to meet my eldest—my son, Culum. Culum, this is our famous Captain Glessing who won us the battle of Chuenpi.”
“Good day to you.” Glessing shook hands politely. Culum’s hand felt soft and it was long-fingered and slightly feminine. Bit of a dandy, Glessing thought. Waisted frock coat, pale blue cravat and high collar. Must be an undergraduate. Curious to be shaking hands with someone who’s had Bengal plague and lived. Wonder if I’d survive. “That wasn’t a battle.”
“Two small frigates against twenty junks of war and thirty or more fire ships? That’s na a battle?”
“An engagement, Mr. Struan. It could have been a battle …” If it hadn’t been for that godrotting coward Longstaff, and you, you godrotting pirate, he itched to say.
“We merchants think of it, Culum, as a battle,” Struan said ironically. “We dinna understand the difference between an engagement and a battle. We’re just peaceful traders. But the first time the arms of England went against the arms of China deserves the title ‘battle.’ It was just over a year ago. We fired first.”
“And what would you have done, Mr. Struan? It was the correct tactical decision.”
“Of course.”
“The Captain Superintendent of Trade concurred completely with my actions.”
“Of course. There was little else he could do.”
“Fighting old battles, Captain Glessing?” Longstaff asked. He was standing at the door of the cabin and had been listening, unnoticed.
“No, Your Excellency, just rehashing an old engagement. Mr. Struan and I have never seen eye to eye on Chuenpi, as you know.”
“And why should you? If Mr. Struan had been in your command, his decision might have been the same as yours. If you had been in Mr. Struan’s place, then you might have been sure that they would not have attacked and you would have gambled.” Longstaff yawned and toyed with his watch fob. “What would you have done, Culum?”
“I don’t know, sir. I don’t know the complications that existed.”
“Well said. ‘Complications’ is a good word.” Longstaff chuckled. “Would you care to join us, Captain? A glass of sack?”
“Thank you, sir, but I’d better get back to my ship.” Glessing saluted smartly and walked away.
Longstaff motioned the Struans into the conference room which presently served as the private quarters of the Captain Superintendent of Trade. It was spartan and functional, and the deep leather chairs and chart tables, chests of drawers and heavy oak table were all fastened tightly to the deck. The richly carved oak desk was backed by the semicircle of mullioned windows of the stern. The cabin smelled of tar and stale tobacco and sea and, inevitably, gunpowder.
“Steward!” Longstaff called out.
At once the cabin door opened. “Yussir?”
Longstaff turned to Struan. “Sack? Brandy? Port?”
“Dry sack, thank you.”
“The same, please, sir,” Culum said.
“I’ll have port.” Longstaff yawned again.
“Yussir.” The steward took the bottles from a sideboard and poured the wines into fine crystal glasses.
“Is this your first trip aboard, Culum?” Longstaff asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“But I suppose you’re well up-to-date on our recent ‘complications’?”
“No, Your Excellency. Father didn’t write very much, and China isn’t mentioned in the newspapers.”
“But it soon will be, eh, Dirk?”
The steward offered the glasses to Longstaff, and then to his guests. “See that we’re not disturbed.”
“Yussir.” The steward left the bottles within easy reach and went out.
“A toast,” Longstaff said, and Struan remembered Robb’s toast and regretted that he had come first to the flagship. “To a pleasant stay, Culum, and to a safe journey home.”
They drank. The dry sack was excellent.
“History’s being made out here, Culum. And there’s no one better equipped to tell you about it than your father.”
“There’s an old Chinese saying, Culum: ‘Truth wears many faces,’” Struan said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Just that my version of ‘facts’ is na necessarily the only one.” This reminded him of the previous viceroy, Ling, now in disgrace in Canton, because his policies had precipitated the open conflict with Britain, and presently under a death sentence. “Is that devil Ling still in Canton?”
“I think so. His Excellency Ti-sen smiled when I asked him three days ago and said cryptically, ‘The Vermilion is the Son of Heaven. How can man know what Heaven wills?’ The Chinese emperor is called the Son of Heaven,” Longstaff elaborated for Culum’s sake. “‘The Vermilion’ is another of his names because he always writes in vermilion-colored ink.”
“Strange, strange people, the Chinese, Culum,” Struan said. “For instance; only the emperor among three hundred millions is allowed to use vermilion ink. Imagine that. If Queen Victoria said, ‘From now on, only I am allowed to use vermilion,’ as much as we love her, forty thousand Britons would instantly forswear all ink but vermilion. I would mysel’.”
“And every China trader,” Longstaff said with an unconscious sneer, “would instantly send her a barrel of the color, cash on delivery, and tell Her Britannic Majesty they’d be glad to supply the Crown, at a price. And they’d write the letter in vermilion. Rightly so, I suppose. Where would we be without trade?”
There was a small silence and Culum wondered why his father had let the insult pass. Or was it an insult? Wasn’t it just another fact of life—that aristos always sneered at anyone who was not an aristo? Well, the Charter would solve aristos once and for all.
“You wanted to see me, Will?” Struan felt deathly tired. His foot ached, and so did his shoulders.
“Yes. A few minor things have happened since … in the last two days. Culum, would you excuse us for a moment? I want to talk to your father alone.”
“Certainly, sir.” Culum got up.
“No need for that, Will,” Struan said. But for Longstaff’s sneer he would have let Culum go. “Culum’s a partner in Struan’s now. One day he’ll rule it as Tai-Pan. You can trust him as you’d trust me.”
Culum wanted to say, “I’ll never be part of this, never. I’ve other plans.” But he could say nothing.
“I must congratulate you, Culum,” Longstaff said. “To be a partner in The Noble House—well, that’s a prize beyond price.”
Na when you’re bankrupt, Struan almost added, “Sit down, Culum.”
Longstaff paced the room, and began: “A meeting with the Chinese Plenipotentiary is arranged for tomorrow to discuss the treaty details.”
“Did he suggest the time and the place, or did you?”
“He did.”
“Perhaps you’d better change it. Pick another place and another time.”
“Why?”
“Because if you agree to his suggestion, he and all the mandarins will interpret it as weakness.”
“All right. If you think so. The day after tomorrow, what? At Canton?”
“Yes. Take Horatio and Mauss. I’ll come with you if you like, and we must be four hours late.”
“But damme, Dirk, why go to such ridiculous extremes? Four hours? ’Pon me word!”
“It’s not ridiculous. By acting like a superior to an inferior, you put them at a disadvantage.” Struan glanced at Culum. “You have to play the Oriental game by Oriental rules. Little things become very important. His Excellency has a very difficult position here. One little mistake now, and the result will last fifty years. He has to make haste with extreme caution.”
“Yes. And no damned help!” Longstaff drained his glass and poured another. “Why the devil they can’t act like civilized people I’ll never know. Never. Apart from your father there’s no one who helps. The Cabinet at home doesn’t know the problems I’m facing and doesn’t care. I’m completely on my own here
. They give me impossible instructions and expect me to deal with an impossible people. ’Pon me word, we have to be late four hours to prove we’re ‘superior’ when of course everyone knows we’re superior!” He took some snuff irritably, and sneezed.
“When are you holding a land sale, Will?”
“Well, er, I thought when the Cabinet approves the treaty. There’s plenty of time. Say in September.”
“Do you na remember your idea? I thought you wanted to start building in Hong Kong immediately.”
Longstaff tried to recollect. He seemed to remember talking about it to Struan. What was it? “Well, of course, the ceding of Hong Kong isn’t official until both governments approve the treaty—I mean, that’s usual, isn’t it, what?”
“Yes. But these are na usual circumstances.” Struan toyed with his glass. “Hong Kong’s ours. The sooner we start building the better, is that na what you said?”
“Well, of course it’s ours.” What was that plan? Longstaff stifled another yawn.
“You said that all land was to belong to the queen. That until you were officially the first governor of Hong Kong, all government was to be in your hands as plenipotentiary. If you issue a special proclamation, then everything is as you planned. If I were you, I’d hold a land sale next month. Dinna forget, Will, that you’ll need revenue for the colony. The Cabinet is sensitive about colonies that dinna pay for themselves.”
“Correct. Yes. Absolutely right. Of course. We should begin as soon as possible. We’ll hold the first land sale next month. Let me see. Should it be freehold or on lease, or what?”
“Nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine-year leases. The usual Crown agreements.”
“Excellent.” Longstaff made a helpless gesture. “As if we haven’t enough to worry about, Culum! Now we have to act like damned tradesmen. How the devil do you go about building a colony, what? Got to have sewers and streets and buildings and God knows what else. A court and a prison, by Jove!” He paused in front of Culum. “Have you any legal training?”
“No, Your Excellency,” Culum said. “Just half a university degree in the arts.”
“No matter. I’ll have to have a colonial secretary, an adjutant general, treasurer and God knows what else. There’ll have to be a police force of some kind. Would you like to be in charge of the police?”
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