Tai-Pan

by James Clavell

  Late that afternoon she was safe in the neck of the west channel. Hong Kong Island was to port, the mainland to starboard. It had been a perfect voyage with no mishap.

  “Perhaps we’re just getting old,” Struan said with a short laugh.

  “The older you get, the more the sea wants to suck you down,” Orlov said without rancor, looking at the ocean aft. “Weren’t for my beautiful ship I’d sign off today.”

  Struan walked to the wheel. “I’ll spell you a turn, helmsman. Go for’ard.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The seaman left them alone on the quarterdeck. “Why?” Struan asked Orlov.

  “I can feel the sea watching me. She’s always watching a seaman, testing him. But there comes a time when she watches differently—jealous, aye, jealous like the woman she is. And as dangerous.” Orlov spat the tobacco quid overboard and rinsed his mouth with the cold tea that was in the canvas bag near the binnacle. “I’ve never acted a priest and married anyone before. That was mortal strange—strange, Green Eyes, looking at those two, so young and eager and confident. And listening to the echo of you, puffed like a peacock, ‘By God, Orlov, you’ll marry us, by God. I’m master of China Cloud, by God. You know the Tai-Pan’s law, by God.’ And there’s me, aranting and araving and terrible reluctant so as to give him face, knowing all the time old Green Eyes is the puppeteer.” Orlov chuckled and peered up at Struan. “But I acted very well and let him command me—as you wanted me to be commanded. It was like, well, like my marriage present to the lad. Did he tell you our deal?”

  “Nay.”

  “‘Marry us and you’ll keep your ship, by God. Don’t, and I’ll hound you out of the seas, by God.’” Orlov grinned. “I’d’ve married them anyway.”

  “I was thinking of taking away your ship mysel’.” Orlov’s grin vanished. “Eh?”

  “I’m thinking of reorganizing the company—putting the fleet under one man. Would you like the job?”

  “Ashore?”

  “Of course ashore. Can you run a fleet from the quarterdeck of one clipper?”

  Orlov bunched his fist and shook it toward Struan’s face.

  “You’re a devil from hell! You tempt me with power beyond my dreams, to take the only thing I love on earth. On a quarterdeck I forget what I am—by God, you know that. Ashore what am I, eh? Stride Orlov the hunchback!”

  “You could be Stride Orlov, tai-pan of the noblest fleet on earth. I’d say that’s a man’s job.” Struan’s eyes did not waver from the dwarf’s face.

  Orlov spun around and went to the windward gunnel and began a paroxysm of Norwegian and Russian obscenities that went on for minutes.

  He stamped back. “When would this be?”

  “The end of this year. Maybe later.”

  “And my trip north? For furs? Have you forgotten that?”

  “You’d want to cancel it, eh?”

  “What gives you the right to puppetize the world? Eh?”

  “Helmsman! Come aft!” Struan gave the wheel back to the seaman as China Cloud broke out of the channel into the calm waters of the harbor. Ahead a mile was the jutting Kowloon Peninsula. The land on either side of the ship was barren and parched and fell away rapidly. To port, a mile or so ahead, was the rocky island promontory that had been called North Point. Beyond North Point, unseen from this position, were Happy Valley and Glessing’s Point and the small part of the harbor that was being used.

  “Nor’ by nor’west,” Struan ordered.

  “Nor’ by nor’west, sorr,” the helmsman echoed.

  “Steady as she goes.” He looked over his shoulder at Orlov. “Well?”

  “I’ve no option. I know when your mind’s set. You’d beach me without a second thought. But there are conditions.”

  “Well?”

  “First I want China Cloud. For six months. I want to go home. A last time.” Either your wife and sons will come back with you or they’ll stay, Orlov told himself. They’ll stay, and they’ll spit in your face and damn you to hell and you waste six months of a ship’s life.

  “Agreed. As soon as I’ve another clipper here, China Cloud’s yours. You’ll bring back a cargo of furs. Next?”

  “Next, Green Eyes, your law: that when you’re aboard, you’re captain. That for me.”

  “Agreed. Next?”

  “There’s no ‘next.’”

  “We have na discussed money.”

  “The pox on money! I’ll be tai-pan of the fleet of The Noble House. What more could a man desire?”

  Struan knew the answer. May-may. But he said nothing. They shook hands on the deal, and when the ship was a quarter mile off Kowloon, Struan ordered China Cloud on to a southwest-by-south tack and headed into the harbor proper.

  “All hands on deck! Lay for’ard! Take over, Captain. Lie alongside Resting Cloud. Our passengers’ll transship first. Then the storm anchorage.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Orlov grunted. “It’s good to be in harbor, by God!”

  Struan surveyed the shore with the binoculars. Now he could see into the depths of Happy Valley: buildings abandoned, no movement. He moved the glasses slightly and adjusted the focus, and the building sites of the new Queen’s Town around Glessing’s Point sharpened. The scaffolding of his new, huge factory was already up, and he could see coolies swarming like ants: carrying, building, digging. Scaffoldings were up, too, on the knoll where he had ordered the Great House to be built. And he could see the thin, lean cut of the road that now snaked up the hill.

  Tai Ping Shan had grown appreciably. Where there had been a few hundred sampans plying back and forth to the mainland, now there were a thousand.

  More warships and transports were swinging at anchor, and a few more merchantmen. Houses and hovels and temporary shelters were sprawling the ribbon of Queen’s Road that skirted the shore. And the whole foreshore was pulsating with activity.

  China Cloud saluted the flagship as she rounded the headland, and there was an answering cannon.

  “Signal from the flagship, sorr!” the lookout called.

  Struan and Orlov swung their binoculars on the flags, which read: “Captain requested to report aboard immediately.”

  “Shall I lay alongside her?” Orlov asked.

  “Nay. Put the cutter over the side when we’re within two chains. You’re responsible for seeing my passengers aboard Resting Cloud safely. Wi’out any alien eyes sniffing around.”

  “Leave it to me.”

  Struan went below and told May-may that he would see her soon and got her and Ah Sam and Yin-hsi ready to transship.

  Orlov’s eyes darted around the ship. A shore job, eh? Well, we’ll see. There’s many a league to travel yet, he told himself. Devil take him. Yes, but I’d go against the Devil himself for Green Eyes—Odin’s whelp. He needs a man like me. But he’s right again. That would be a man’s job.

  His thought warmed him very much.

  “Look lively!” he roared at the crew, knowing that many glasses would be trained on them, and he kept full sail and ripped carelessly toward the flagship. His heart sang with the rigging, and then at the last second he shouted, “Helm alee!” and the ship spun around and pointed as breathlessly as a hound at a covey of partridges.

  The cutter was lowered over the side and Struan shinned down the boarding ropes. The cutter cast off and China Cloud fell off a few points and eased perfectly alongside Resting Cloud.

  “All hands below!” Orlov ordered. “Clear decks, Mr. Cudahy. Ours and theirs. We’re transshipping a cargo that’s not about to be counted, by God!”

  Struan opened the door to the flagship’s main cabin.

  “By God, Dirk! We’re all ruined!” Longstaff said agitatedly, coming over to him and waving a copy of the Oriental Times in his face. “Have you seen this? Ruined! Ruined!”

  Struan took the paper. The headlines on the inside editorial page were glaring: FOREIGN SECRETARY REPUDIATES CHINA TRADERS.

  “Nay, Will,” he said.

  “By all that’s holy,
how dare he do such a stupid thing, what? Damned fool! What are we going to do?”

  “Let me read it, Will. Then I’ll see what it’s all about.”

  “Idiot Cunnington’s repudiated our treaty. That’s what it’s about. And I’m sacked! Replaced! Me! How dare he?”

  Struan raised his eyebrows and whistled. “Have you na been informed by dispatch yet?”

  “Of course not! Who the devil informs the plenipotentiary, what?”

  “Perhaps it’s false?”

  “That Skinner fellow swears it’s true. It better be or I’ll have him for libel, by God!”

  “When did it come out, Will?”

  “Yesterday. How the devil did that obese stinking popinjay Skinner lay his fat, filthy hands on a secret dispatch that I haven’t even received yet? He ought to be horse-whipped!” He poured a glass of port, drained it and poured another. “Didn’t sleep a wink last night, worried to death over our future in Asia. Read it. God damn Cunnington!”

  As Struan read, he found himself beginning to smolder. Although the article ostensibly presented the broad facts and documented the dispatch word for word, as Cross had written to him, Skinner’s editorial implied that Cunnington, well known for his imperious handling of foreign affairs, had totally repudiated not merely the treaty itself but the whole experience of the trading community, the Royal Navy and Army as well: “Lord Cunnington, who has never been east of Suez, is setting himself up as an expert on the value of Hong Kong. More than likely, he does not know whether Hong Kong is north or south of Macao, east or west of Peking. How dare he imply that the Admiral of our glorious Fleet is a bag of wind and knows nothing about seamanship and the historic value of the greatest harbor in Asia? Where would we be without the Royal Navy? Or the Army, who are equally discounted—nay, insulted—by the stupid mishandling of our affairs? Without Hong Kong where will our soldiers find a haven, or our ships sanctuary? How dare this man who has been in office far too long say that the experience of all the traders, who have rightly invested their future and their wealth in Hong Kong, are fools? How dare he imply that those who have spent their life in China for the glory of England know nothing about affairs Chinese, the huge value of a free port, a trade emporium, and island fortress …” And the article evaluated the island and described how, at great risk to themselves, the traders had developed Happy Valley and, when it had to be abandoned, had dauntlessly begun the new town, for the glory of Britain. It was a masterly piece of news slanting.

  Struan hid his delight. He knew that if he—who had planted the story—could be aroused by the editorial, others would be violent.

  “I’m shocked! That he would dare! Cunnington should be impeached!”

  “My thought entirely!” Longstaff drained his glass again and slammed it down. “Well, now I’m sacked. All the work and sweating and talking and warring—all down the spout because of that imperious, jumped-up maniac who thinks that he’s master of the earth.”

  “Damned if he’ll get away with it, Will! We have to do something about him! He’ll no get awa’ with it!”

  “He has, by God!” Longstaff got up and paced the cabin, and Struan felt a tinge of pity for him. “What’s going to happen? My career’s ruined—we’re all ruined!”

  “What have you done about this, Will?”

  “Nothing.” Longstaff glared out of the cabin windows. “That cursed island’s at the root of all my troubles. That hell-spawned rock’s destroyed me. Destroyed all of us!” He sat down morosely. “There was damn nearly a riot yesterday. A deputation of traders came here and demanded I refuse to leave. Another under Brock demanded I leave Asia immediately with the fleet and present myself to London to demand Cunnington’s impeachment, and if necessary blockade the Port of London.” He pillowed his chin with his hands. “Well, it’s my own fault. I should have followed my instructions to the letter. But that wouldn’t have been right. I’m not a power-hungry, land-grabbing conqueror. The pox on everything!” He looked up, his face twisted with humiliation. “The admiral and general are delighted, of course. Have a drink?”

  “Thanks.” Struan poured a brandy. “All’s not lost, Will. On the contrary. Once at home, you can put your power to work.”

  “Eh?”

  “What you did here is right. You’ll be able to convince Cunnington if he’s still in office. Face to face you’re in a very strong position. You have right on your side. Definitely.”

  “Have you ever met Cunnington?” Longstaff asked bitterly. “You don’t argue with that monster.”

  “True. But I have a few friends. Say you had a key to prove you were right and he was wrong?”

  Longstaff’s eyes gleamed. If Struan was not worried by the terrible news, all was not lost. “What key, my dear fellow?” he asked.

  Struan sipped his brandy, relishing it. “Diplomats are permanent; governments change. Before you get home, Peel’ll be Prime Minister.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Probable. Say you brought with you news of the highest importance, that proved Cunnington an idiot. How would Peel and the Conservatives view you?”

  “Admirably. ’Pon me word! What news, Dirk, my friend?”

  There was a commotion outside the door, and Brock crashed in, a hapless sentry trying futilely to restrain him. Struan was up in a split second, ready to go for his knife.

  Brock’s face was swollen with malice. “Be they wed?”

  “Aye.”

  “Be Gorth murdered?”

  “Aye.”

  “When be White Witch due?”

  “Before nightfall, I’d say. She was scheduled to leave midmorning.”

  “First I be talking with Liza. Then they two. Then, by the Lord God, I be talking with thee.” He stormed out.

  “Ill-mannered sod!” Longstaff huffed. “He might have at least knocked!”

  Struan relaxed as a cat will relax after a danger has passed—the muscles unlocking fluidly, ready to tighten again at the next threat, but the eyes not changing, still watching where the danger was.

  “You’ve nothing to fear from Cunnington, Will. He’s finished.”

  “Yes, of course, Dirk. And damn good riddance!” He looked at the door and remembered the prizefight, and knew that the fight between Dirk and Brock would be equally vicious. “What’s in Brock’s mind, eh? Is he going to challenge you? Of course we heard about your fracas with Gorth. Bad news has a habit of traveling fast, hasn’t it? Terrible business! Damned good luck he was killed by others.”

  “Aye,” Struan said. Now that the danger had passed, he felt slightly sick and weak.

  “What possessed those two young idiots to elope? Stands to reason Brock would go berserk. Stupid!”

  “Na stupid, Will. Best thing for them to do.”

  “Of course. If you say so.” And Longstaff wondered if the rumors were true: that the Tai-Pan had deliberately precipitated the marriage and the duel. The Tai-Pan was much too smart not to plan that, he told himself. So—Tai-Pan versus Brock. “What about Peel, Dirk?”

  “You’re a diplomat, Will. Diplomats should na have specific party associations. At least they should be well thought of by all parties.”

  “My views entirely.” Longstaff’s eyes widened. “You mean become a Conservative—support Peel?”

  “Support Whig and Conservative equally. Hong Kong’s correct for England. You’re Hong Kong, Will. Perhaps this”—Struan waved the paper—“is a huge stroke of luck for you. It proves Cunnington’s na only a fool but also a blabbermouth. It’s shocking to read a private dispatch in the paper.” Then he told him about the briefcase, but only enough to set Longstaff’s head reeling.

  “Good God!” If, as the Tai-Pan indicated, there was a copy of the actual secret report with maps of the Russia-China border areas and hinterland, bless my soul, they’d be a passport to an ambassadorship and a peerage. “Where’d you get it?”

  “From a source of undoubted trust.” Struan got up. “I’ll put it into your hands before you go. Use i
t how you like. It’ll certainly prove that you’re right and Cunnington wrong, apart from anything else.”

  “Will you dine with me, Dirk?” Longstaff felt better than he had in years. “We can chat about old times.”

  “Na tonight, if you’ll excuse me. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  “Fine. Thank you. And I’m so glad our judgment’s vindicated.”

  “Last—there’s something else that needs immediate attention. The Triads.”

  “Eh?”

  “Gorth Brock was murdered by Triads from Hong Kong. From Tai Ping Shan.”

  “’Pon me word! Why?”

  “I dinna ken.” Struan related what the Portuguese officer had told him about the Triads. And about Gordon Chen. He knew that he had to give Longstaff this information, else it would seem as if he were trying to protect his son when it came out officially. If Gordon was involved with them, this would flush him out. If he was not, then nae harm done.

  “Bless my breeches,” Longstaff said with a laugh. “A ridiculous story.”

  “Aye, spread by my enemies, nae doubt about it. But issue a proclamation about Triads and order Major Trent to crush them. Else we’ll have the cursed mandarins on our necks.”

  “Good idea. Excellent, by Jove. I’ll get Horatio—damn it, I gave him Macao leave for two weeks. Can I borrow Mauss?”

  “Certainly. I’ll send him to you.”

  When Struan had gone, Longstaff sat down elatedly at his desk. “My dear Sir William,” he said to his glass. “I feel wonderful. If the truth be known, I’m damned glad to be leaving this malodorous island. I couldn’t care a tinker’s cuss what happens to it—to the traders, the Chinese or the poxy Triads.” He went to the window and began to chuckle. “We’ll see what the briefcase contains. And when we get back to England we’ll decide. If Cunnington’s out, we can safely back Hong Kong to advantage. If Cunnington’s still in, I can agree he’s right and dump the island as one of those things. Because I’ll have the papers, a key to any Foreign Secretary’s bedchamber, and also lots of tea.” He roared with laughter. A few days ago a private emissary had come from Ching-so to tell him the seeds that Horatio had requested would be shipped within two weeks. “I’d say you’ve done a fine day’s work, Your Excellency!”