Tai-Pan

by James Clavell

  “Many lac dolla,” Struan said. “Man dooa fav’r must return fav’r.”

  “Buy this year double tea-ah last year, same price last year. Can?”

  “Can.”

  “Sell double opium this year same price last year. Can?”

  “Can.” Struan would pay over market price for the tea and would have to sell the opium at less than the present market price, but he would still make a vast profit. If the other conditions are possible, he reminded himself. Perhaps he was not finished after all. If Jin-qua did not want the mandarin. Struan said a silent prayer that a mandarin was not part of the deal. But he knew that if there was no mandarin on Hong Kong there could be no Co-hong. And if there was no Co-hong and no monopoly, Jin-qua and all the other merchants would be out of business. They had to have the system too.

  “Only buy Jin-qua or Jin-qua son ten year. Can?”

  Great God, Struan thought, if I give him a monopoly on the house, he can squeeze us at will. “Can—when tea price, silk price all same other Co-hong.”

  “Twenty year. Market price add ten p’cent.”

  “Plus five p’cent—add five p’cent. Can.”

  “Eight.”

  “Five.”

  “Seven.”

  “Five.”

  “Seven.”

  “No can. No profit. Too plenty muchee,” Struan said.

  “Ayee yah. Too much plenty profit. Seven!”

  “Ten year six p’cent—ten year five p’cent.”

  “Ayee yah,” Jin-qua replied hotly. “Bad, plenty bad.” He waved a frail hand at the chests. “Huge cost! Big interest. Werry muchee. Ten year six, ten year five, add new ten year five.”

  Struan wondered if the anger was real or pretended. “Suppose no Jin-qua, no Jin-qua son?”

  “Plenty son—plenty son of son. Can?”

  “New ten year add four p’cent.”

  “Five.”

  “Four.”

  “Bad, bad. Werry high interest, werry. Five.”

  Struan kept his eyes off the bullion but could feel it surrounding him. Dinna be a fool. Take it. Agree to anything. You’re safe, laddie. You’ve everything.

  “Mandarin Ti-sen say one mandarin Hong Kong,” Jin-qua said abruptly. “Why you say no?”

  “Jin-qua doan like mandarin, heya? What for I like mandarin, heya?” Struan replied, a knot in his stomach.

  “Forty lac dolla, one mandarin. Can?”

  “No can.”

  “Plenty easy. Why for you say no can? Can.”

  “No can.” Struan’s eyes never wavered. “Mandarin no can.”

  “Forty lac dolla. One mandarin. Cheep.”

  “Forty times ten lac dolla no can. Die first.” Struan decided to bring the bargaining to an end. “Finish,” he said harshly. “By my fathers, finish.” He got up and walked for the door.

  “Why for goa?” Jin-qua asked.

  “No mandarin—no dolla. Why talk, heya?”

  To Struan’s astonishment Jin-qua cackled and said, “Ti-sen want mandarin. Jin-qua no lend money belong Ti-sen. Jin-qua lend Jin-qua money. Add new ten year five p’cent. Can?”

  “Can.” Struan sat down again, his head dizzy.

  “Five lac dolla buy Jin-qua land in Hong Kong. Can?”

  Why? Struan asked himself helplessly. If Jin-qua lends me the money, he must know that the Co-hong’s finished. Why should he destroy himself? Why buy land in Hong Kong?

  “Can?” Jin-qua said again.

  “Can.”

  “Five lac dolla keep safe.” Jin-qua opened a small teak box and took out two chops. The chops were small square sticks of ivory two inches long. The old man deftly held them together and dipped the ends, which were intricately carved, into the solid ink and made a chop mark on a sheet of paper. Jin-qua gave Struan one of the chops and put the other back in the box. “Man bring this piece chop, give land and dolla, five lac, savvy?”

  “Savvy.”

  “Nex’ year I send one my bull chillo Hong Kong. You send all same your son school Lond’n. Can?”

  “Can.”

  “Your bull chillo, Gord’n Chen. Good? Bad maybe?”

  “Good chillo. Chen Sheng say plenty good think-think.” Obviously Struan was supposed to do something with Gordon Chen. But why and how did Gordon fit into Jin-qua’s machinations? “I think-think give Gord’n maybe bigger job.”

  “What for bigger job?” Jin-qua said contemptuously. “Think you lend one lac dolla Chen bull chillo.”

  “What inter’st?”

  “Half profit.”

  Profit on what? Struan felt that Jin-qua was playing him like a fish. But you’re off the hook, laddie, he wanted to shout. You’ll get the bullion wi’out the mandarin. “Can.”

  Jin-qua sighed and Struan assumed that the deal was concluded. But it was not. Jin-qua put his hand into his sleeve pocket and brought out eight coin halves and put them on the table. Each of four coins had been crudely broken in two. With one of his fingernail protectors Jin-qua pushed a half of each coin across the table. “Last. Four fav’r. Man bring one thees, you grant fav’r.”

  “What fav’r?”

  Jin-qua leaned back in his chair. “Doan knowa, Tai-Pan,” he said. “Four fav’r sometime. Not my life maybe, son maybe. Doan knowa when, but ask four fav’r. One half coin fav’r. Can?”

  Sweat chilled Struan’s shoulders. Agreeing to such a demand was an open invitation to disaster. But if he refused, the bullion was lost to him. You put your head into a devil trap, he told himself. Aye, but make up your mind. Do you want the future or na? You’ve known Jin-qua for twenty years. He’s always been fair. Aye, and the shrewdest man in Canton. For twenty years he’s helped you and guided you—and together you’ve grown in power and riches. So trust him; you can trust him. No, you canna trust any man, least of all Jin-qua. You’ve prospered with him only because you’ve always held the last card. Now you’re asked to give Jin-qua four jokers in your pack of life and death.

  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 Jinqua’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 farsighted 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.

  The three spearmen desperately tried to pull their weapons free as Struan darted at the nearest one, shoved his knife into the man’s side and spun as another charged him with a double-edged war ax. The ax blade scored his shoulder and he grimaced with pain but sidestepped and grappled with the man for possession of the ax. He tore it from the man’s hand and the man screamed as a spear aimed for Struan impaled him. Struan backed against the wall. The remaining spearman circled him, panting and cursing. Struan feinted and hacked at him with the ax but missed and the man lunged. His spear pierced Struan’s coat but Struan ripped free and buried his knife to the hilt in the man’s stomach and twisted it, gutting him.

  Struan jumped clear of the bodies, his back against the safety of the wall, and waited. The man that he had knifed was howling. Another was inert. The one he had gutted was holding his stomach and crawling away.

  Struan waited an instant, gathering strength, and an arrow thudded into the wall above his head. He picked up one of the spears and raced down the alley toward the Settlement. He heard footsteps behind him and ran faster. As he rounded the corner, he saw that Thirteen Factory Street was just ahead. He dropped the spear and zigzagged across the street and into Hog Street, down Hog Street and across the square, which was filled with more bannermen than before.

  Before the bannermen could intercept him, he was through the garden door. A musket slammed him in the stomach.

  “Oh, it’s thee, Dirk,” Brock said. “Where the hell’s thee beed?”

  “Out.” Struan gulped for air. “God’s blood, I was jumped by stinking highwaymen.”

  “Be that yor blood or theirs?”

  Under the light of the lantern, Struan ripped the coat and shirt away from his wounded shoulder. The slice was clean and shallow across his shoulder muscle.

  “A gnat’s bite,” Brock scoffed. He found a bottle of rum and poured some into the wound and smiled when Struan winced. “How many were they?”

  “Three.”

  “An’ thee get cutted? Thee be getting old!” Brock poured two glasses of rum.

  Struan drank, and felt better.

  “I thort you was asleeping. Yor door were locked. Where thee beed?”

  “What’s going on here?”

  “The servants vanished ’bout an hour ago. That’s wot. I thort it best not to bringed everyone here till daybreak. Must be ’arf a hundred guns covered thee while thee ran.”

  “Then why the devil shove a musket in my belly?”

  “Just wanted to welcome thee rightly.” Brock gulped some rum. “Just wanted thee to knowed we was awake.”

  “Anyone know why the servants left?”

  “No.” Brock walked over to the gate. The bannermen were settling back into sleep. A nervous dawn hesitated on the horizon. “Looks godrotting bad,” he said, his face hard. “Doan like this here a little bit. Them bastards doan do nothing but sit an’ sometimes beat their drums. I think we better retreat while the retreating’s good.”

  “We’re safe for a few days.”

  Brock shook his head. “I got a bad feeling. Something’s right bad. We’d better goed.”


  “It’s a ploy, Brock.” Struan tore off a piece of his shirt and wiped the sweat from his face.

  “Mayhaps. But I got this feeling, and when I gets this feeling it be time to move.” Brock jerked a thumb at the bannermen. “We counted ’em. Hundred an’ fifty. How-qua sayed there be more’n a thousand spread all round the Settlement.”

  “I saw perhaps two or three hundred. To the east.”

  “Where thee beed?”

  “Out.” Struan was tempted to tell him. But that will na help, he thought. Brock’ll do everything in his power to prevent the bullion from arriving safely. And without the bullion you’re as dead as you ever were. “There’s a girl just around the corner,” he said flippantly.

  “Pox on a girl! Thee baint so stupid to leave for any doxy.” Brock tugged his beard peevishly. “Thee be taking over from me in a hour?”

  “Aye.”

  “At noon we pull out.”

  “Nay.”

  “I say at noon.”

  “Nay.”

  Brock frowned. “Wot’s to keep thee here?”

  “If we leave before there’s real trouble, we lose face badly.”

  “Yus. I knowed. Doan please me to run. But somethin’ tells me it be better.”

  “We’ll wait a couple of days.”

  Brock was very suspicious. “Thee knowed I never beed wrong about aknowing when to run. Why thee want to stay?”

  “It’s just Ti-sen up to his old tricks. This time you’re wrong. I’ll relieve you in an hour,” Struan said, and went inside.

  Now wot be Dirk up to? Brock brooded. He hawked loudly, hating the danger stench that seemed to come from the dying night.

  Struan climbed the marble staircase to his quarters. The walls were lined with Quance paintings and Chinese silk hangings. On the landings were giant Ming teak dragons and teak chests. The corridors leading off the first landing were lined with paintings of ships and sea battles, and on a pedestal was a scale model of H.M.S. Victory.