“Is it a deal, Jeff?”
“Yes. You’re expecting war again?”
“All life’s trouble, eh? Is that na what Wolfgang was trying to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“How soon will your new ship be ready?” Struan asked abruptly.
Cooper’s eyes narrowed. “How did you find out about that? No one knows outside our company.”
Robb laughed. “It’s our business to know, Jeff. She might be unfair competition. If she sails like Dirk thinks she’ll sail, perhaps we’ll buy her out from under you. Or build four more like her.”
“It’d be a change for the British to buy American ships,” Cooper said tensely.
“Oh, we would na buy them, Jeff,” Struan said. “We’ve already a copy of her lines. We’d build where we’ve always built. Glasgow. If I were you, I’d rake her masts a notch more and add top ta’ gallants to the main and mizzen. What’re you going to call her?”
“Independence.”
“Then we’ll call ours Independent Cloud. If she’s worthy.”
“We’ll sail you off the seas. We beat you twice in war, and now we’ll beat you where it really hurts. We’ll take away your trade.”
“You haven’t a hope in hell.” Struan noticed that Tillman was leaving. Abruptly his voice hardened. “An’ never when half your country’s based on slavery.”
“That’ll change in time. Englishmen started it.”
“Scum started it!”
Yes, and madmen are continuing it, Cooper thought bitterly, remembering the violent private quarrels he was always having with his partner, who owned plantation slaves and trafficked in them. How could Wilf be so blind? “You were in the trade up to eight years ago.”
“Struan’s was never in human cargo, by God. And by the Lord God, I’ll blow any ship out of the sea I catch doing it. In or out of British waters. We gave the lead to the world. Slavery’s outlawed. God help us, it took till 1833 to do it, but it’s done. Any ship, remember!”
“Then do another thing. Use your influence to let us buy opium from the goddam East India Company. Why should everyone but British traders be totally excluded from the auctions, eh? Why should we be forced to buy low-quality Turkish opium when there’s more than enough from Bengal for all of us?”
“I’ve done more than my share to wreck the Company, as you well know. Spend some money, laddie. Gamble a little. Agitate in Washington. Push your partner’s brother. Isn’t he a senator from Alabama? Or is he too busy looking after four godrotting blackbirders and a couple of ‘markets’ in Mobile?”
“You know my opinion on that, by God,” Cooper snapped. “Open up the opium auctions and we’ll trade you off the earth. I think you’re all afraid to compete freely, if the truth was known. Why else keep the Navigation Acts in force? Why make it law that only English ships can carry goods into England? By what right do you monopolize the biggest consuming market on earth?”
“Na by divine right, laddie,” Struan said sharply, “which seems to permeate American thinking and foreign policy.”
“In some things we’re right and you’re wrong. Let’s compete freely. Goddam tariffs! Free trade and free seas—that’s what’s right!”
“Struan’s is with you there. Do you na read the newspapers? I dinna mind telling you we buy ten thousand votes a year to support six members who’ll vote free trade. We’re trying hard enough.”
“One vote, one man. We don’t buy votes.”
“You’ve your system and we’ve ours. And I’ll tell you something else. The British were na for the American wars, either of them. Or for those godrotting Hanoverian kings. You did na win the wars, we lost ’em. Happily. Why should we war on kith and kin? But if the people of the Isles ever decide to war on the States, watch out, by God. Because you’re finished.”
“I think a toast is in order,” Robb said.
The two men tore their eyes off each other and stared at him. To their astonishment he poured three glasses.
“You’ll na drink, Robb,” Struan said, his voice a lash.
“I will. First time on Hong Kong. Last time.” Robb handed them glasses. The whisky was golden-brown and distilled exclusively for The Noble House at Loch Tannoch where they were born. Robb needed the drink; he needed the keg.
“You swore a holy oath!”
“I know. But it’s bad luck to toast in water. And this toast’s important.” Robb’s hand shook as he raised his glass. “Here’s to our future. Here’s to Independence and Independent Cloud. To freedom o’ the seas. To freedom from any tyrants.”
He took a sip and held the liquor in his mouth, feeling it burn, his body twisting with the need of it. Then he spat it out and poured the remainder on the pebbles.
“If I ever do that again, knock it out of my hand.” He turned away, nauseated, and walked inland.
“That took more strength than I have,” Cooper said.
“Robb’s sick in the head to tempt the Devil like that,” Struan said.
Robb had begun to drink to the point of insanity six years ago. The preceding year Sarah had come to Macao from Scotland with their children. For a time everything had been grand, but then she had found out about Robb’s Chinese mistress of years, Ming Soo, and about their daughter. Struan remembered Sarah’s rage and Robb’s anguish, and he was sad for both of them. They should have been divorced years ago, he thought, and he damned the fact that a divorce could be obtained only by Act of Parliament. At length Sarah had agreed to forgive Robb, but only if he would swear by God to immediately rid himself forever of his adored mistress and their daughter. Hating himself, Robb had agreed. He had secretly given Ming Soo four thousand taels of silver, and she and their daughter had left Macao. He had never seen them or heard of them again. But though Sarah relented, she never forgot the beautiful girl and child and continued to salt the ever-open wound. Robb had begun drinking heavily. Soon the drink ruled him and he was besotted for months on end. Then one day he had disappeared. Eventually Struan had found him in one of the stinking gin cellars in Macao and had carried him home and sobered him; then he had given him a gun.
“Shoot yoursel’ or swear by God you’ll na touch drink again. It’s poison to you, Robb. You’ve been drunk for almost a year. You’ve the children to think of. The poor bairns are terrified of you and rightly; and I’m tired of pulling you out of gutters. Look at yoursel’, Robb! Go on!”
Struan had forced him to look into a mirror. Robb had sworn, and then Struan had sent him to sea for a month with orders that he was to be given no liquor. Robb had almost died. In time he had become himself again, and he had thanked his brother and lived with Sarah again and tried to make peace. But there was never peace again between them—or love. Poor Robb, Struan thought. Aye, and poor Sarah. Terrible to live like that, husband and wife.
“What the devil made Robbie do that?”
“I think he wanted to break up a quarrel,” Cooper said. “I was getting angry. Sorry.”
“Dinna apologize, Jeff. It was my fault. Well,” Struan added, “let’s na waste Robb’s guts, eh? His toast?”
They drank silently. All around the shore the merchants and sailors were roistering.
“Hey, Tai-Pan! And you, you blasted colonial! Come over here!”
It was Quance, seated near the flagpole. He waved at them and shouted again. “Blast it, come over here!” He took a pinch of snuff, sneezed twice and dusted himself impatiently with a French lace kerchief.
“By God, sir,” he said to Struan, peering up at him over rimless spectacles, “how the blasted hell can a man work with all this din and tumult? You and your blasted liquor!”
“Did you try the brandy, Mr. Quance?”
“Impeccable, my dear fellow. Like Miss Tillman’s tits.” He took the painting off the easel and held it up. “What do you think?”
“About Shevaun Tillman?”
“The painting. Great spheroids of balderdash, how can you think about a doxy’s tail when you’re in th
e presence of a masterpiece?” Quance took another pinch of snuff and choked, and gulped from his tankard of Napoleon brandy and sneezed.
The painting was a water color of the day’s ceremony. Delicate. Faithful. And a little more. It was easy to pick out Brock and Mauss, and Glessing was there, the proclamation in his hands.
“It’s very good, Mr. Quance,” Struan said.
“Fifty guineas.”
“I bought a painting last week.”
“Twenty guineas.”
“I’m na in it.”
“Fifty guineas and I’ll paint you reading the proclamation.”
“No.”
“Mr. Cooper. A masterpiece. Twenty guineas.”
“Outside of the Tai-Pan and Robb, I’ve the biggest Quance collection in the Far East.”
“Dammit, gentlemen, I’ve got to get some money from somewhere!”
“Sell it to Brock. You can see him right smartly,” Struan said.
“The pox on Brock!” Quance took a very large gulp of brandy and said, his voice hoarse, “He turned me down, blast him!” and he dabbed furiously with his paintbrush and now Brock was gone. “By God, why should I make him immortal? And a pox on both of you. I’ll send it to the Royal Academy. On your next ship, Tai-Pan.”
“Who’s going to pay the freight? And insurance?”
“I will, my boy.”
“With what?”
Quance contemplated the painting. He knew that even in old age he could still paint and improve; his talent would not deteriorate.
“With what, Mr. Quance?”
He waved an imperious hand at Struan. “Money. Taels. Brass. Dollars.
Cash!”
“You’ve a new line of credit, Mr. Quance?”
But Quance did not answer. He continued to admire his work, knowing he had hooked his prey.
“Come on, Aristotle, who is it?” Struan insisted.
Quance took an enormous gulp of brandy and more snuff and sneezed. He whispered conspiratorially, “Sit down.” He looked to see there was no one else listening. “A secret.” He held up the painting. “Twenty guineas?”
“All right,” Struan said. “But it better be worth it.”
“You’re a prince among men, Tai-Pan. Snuff?”
“Get on with it!”
“It seems that a certain lady admires herself greatly. In a mirror. With no clothes on. I’ve been commissioned to paint her thus.”
“Great God Almighty! Who?”
“You both know her very well.” Then Quance added with mock sadness, “I am sworn not to reveal her name. But I shall put her posterior into posterity. It’s superb.” Another gulp of brandy. “I, er, insisted on seeing her all. Before I agreed to accept the commission.” He kissed his fingers in ecstasy. “Impeccable, gentlemen, impeccable! And her tits! Good God on high, nearly gave me the vapors!” Another gulp of brandy.
“You can tell us. Come on, who?”
“First rule in nudes as in fornication. Never reveal the lady’s name.” Quance finished the tankard regretfully. “But not a man among you who wouldn’t pay a thousand guineas to own it.” He got up and belched heartily and dusted himself down and closed his paint box and picked up his easel, enormously pleased with himself. “Well, that’s enough business for this week. I’ll call on your compradore for thirty guineas.”
“Twenty guineas,” Struan said.
“A Quance original of the most important day in the history of the Orient,” Quance said scornfully, “for hardly the price of a hogshead of Napoleon.” He returned to his longboat and danced a jig as he was cheered aboard.
“Good God Almighty, who?” Cooper said at length.
“Must be Shevaun,” Struan said, with a short laugh. “Just the sort of thing that young lady would do.”
“Never. She’s wild, yes, but not that wild.” Cooper glanced uneasily at the Cooper-Tillman depot ship where Shevaun Tillman was staying. She was his partner’s niece, and she had come out to Asia a year ago from Washington. In that time she had become the toast of the continent. She was beautiful and nineteen and daring and eligible, and no man could trap her—into bed or into marriage. Every bachelor in Asia including Cooper had proposed to her. And they all had been refused but not refused: held on a rein, as she held all her suitors. But Cooper did not mind; he knew she was going to be his wife. She had been sent out under the guardianship of Wilf Tillman by her father, a senator from Alabama, in the hope that Cooper would favor her and she would favor him, to further cement the family business. And he had fallen in love with her the moment he had seen her.
“Then we’ll announce the betrothal immediately,” Tillman had said delightedly a year ago.
“No, Wilf. There’s no hurry. Let her get used to Asia and used to me.”
As Cooper turned back to Struan, he smiled to himself. A wildcat like that was worth waiting for. “It must be one of Mrs. Fortheringill’s ‘young ladies.’”
“Those rabbits’d do anything.”
“Sure. But they wouldn’t pay Aristotle for that.”
“Old Horseface might. Good for business.”
“She’s business enough now. Her clientele’s the best in Asia. Can you imagine that hag giving money to Aristotle?” Cooper pulled impatiently at his muttonchop whiskers. “Best she’d do is give it to him in trade. Perhaps he’s joking with us?”
“He jokes about everything and anything. But never about painting.”
“One of the Portuguese?”
“Impossible. If she’s married, her husband’d blow her head off. If she’s a widow—that’d blow the top off the whole Catholic Church.” The weathered lines of Struan’s face twisted into a grin. “I’ll put the whole power of The Noble House on finding out who. Bet you twenty guineas I find out first!”
“Done. I get the painting if I win.”
“Dammit, I’ve taken a fancy to it now that Brock’s out.”
“The winner gets the painting and we’ll ask Aristotle to paint the loser into it.”
“Done.” They shook hands.
A sudden cannon, and they looked seaward.
A ship was charging through the east channel under full sail. Her free-lifting square sails and gallants and royals and topgallants were swelling to leeward, cut into rotund patterns by the buntlines and leach lines, her taut rigging straining and singing against the quickening wind. The rake-masted Clipper was on the lee tack on a broad reach and her bow wave flew upward, her gunnel awash, and above the froth of her wake—white against the green-blue ocean—sea gulls cried their welcome.
Again the cannon barked, and a puff of smoke swung over her lee quarter, the Union Jack aft, the Lion and the Dragon atop the mizzen. Those on the beach who had won their wagers cheered mightily, for huge sums of money were gambled on which ship would be the first home and which ship would be the first back.
“Mr. McKay!” Struan called, but the bosun was already hurrying over to him with the double telescope.
“Three days early an’ record time, sorr,” Bosun McKay said with a toothless smile. “Och aye, look at her fly. She’ll cost Brock a barrel of silver!” He hurried inland.
The ship, Thunder Cloud, came barreling out of the channel, and now that she was clear, she ran before the wind and gathered speed.
Struan put the short double telescope to his eyes and focused on the code flags he was seeking. The message read: “Crisis not resolved. New treaty with Ottoman Empire against France. Talk of war.” Then Struan studied the ship; her paint was good, her rigging taut, her guns in place. And in one corner of her fore-royal sail was a small black patch, a code sign, used only in emergencies and meaning “Important dispatches aboard.”
He lowered the binoculars and offered them to Cooper. “Do you want to borrow them?”
“Thanks.”
“They’re called bi-oculars, or binoculars. Two eyes. You focus with the central screw,” Struan said. “I had them made specially.”
Cooper peered through them and saw the c
ode flags. He knew that everyone in the fleet was trying to read their message and that all companies spent much time and money trying to break the code of The Noble House. The binoculars were more powerful than a telescope. “Where can I get a gross of these?”
“A hundred guineas apiece. A year to deliver.”
Take it or leave it, Cooper thought bitterly, knowing the tone of voice. “Done.” New code flags were raised, and Cooper handed the binoculars back.
The second message was a single word, “Zenith,” a code within the master code.
“If I were you,” Struan said to Cooper, “I’d unload your season’s cotton. In a hurry.”
“Why?”
Struan shrugged. “Just trying to be of service. You’ll excuse me?”
Cooper watched him leave to intercept Robb, who was approaching with the bosun. What’s in those goddam flags? he asked himself. And what did he mean about our cotton? And why the hell hasn’t the mail ship arrived?
This was what made trading so exciting. You bought and sold for a market four months ahead, knowing only the market position of four months ago. A mistake and the inside of a debtor’s prison you’d see. A calculated gamble that came off and you could retire and never know the Orient again. A wave of pain swept up from his bowels. Pain of the Orient that was always with him—with most of them—and a way of life. Was it a friendly tip of the Tai-Pan’s or a calculated ploy?
Captain Glessing, accompanied by Horatio, was eying Thunder Cloud enviously. And also impatiently. She was a prize worth taking, and as the first ship of the year to make the voyage out from England and from Calcutta, her holds would be crammed with opium. Glessing wondered what the flags had meant. And why there was a black patch on the fore-royal.
“Beautiful ship,” Horatio said.
“Yes, she is.”
“Even though she’s a pirate?” Horatio asked ironically.
“Her cargo and owners make her a pirate. A ship’s a ship, and that’s one of the most gorgeous ladies who ever served man,” Glessing answered crisply, unamused by Horatio’s wit. “Speaking of ladies,” he said, trying not to be obvious, “would you and Miss Sinclair care to sup with me tonight? I’d like to show you around my ship.”
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