Tai-Pan

by James Clavell

  Struan shook hands and found Zergeyev’s grip like steel. “You have me at a disadvantage, Your Highness,” he said, deliberately being blunt and undiplomatic. “I get the distinct impression that you know a lot about me, but I know nothing about you.”

  Zergeyev laughed. “The Tai-Pan of The Noble House has a reputation that reaches out even to St. Petersburg. I had hoped I would have the privilege of meeting you. And I look forward to chatting and telling you about myself, if it interests you.” He smiled at Longstaff. “You’re too kind to me, Your Excellency. I assure you that I will inform His Highness the Tsar that Her Britannic Majesty’s plenipotentiary is more than a little hospitable. Now that I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you, I will withdraw and let you get on with affairs of state.”

  “Oh no, Your Highness, please, we expect you for lunch.” Longstaff warmed to the task that he had been trained for and understood. “We would be most disappointed. And it’s quite informal, as you can see.”

  “Well, thank you. I’d consider it an honor.”

  The door opened and a steward came in with iced champagne and glasses. He offered the tray to Zergeyev, then to Longstaff and to Struan and to Monsey.

  “To a safe journey home,” Longstaff said.

  They drank.

  “Superb champagne, Your Excellency. Superb.”

  “Please sit down.”

  The lunch was served with flawless protocol, Zergeyev sitting on Longstaff’s right hand and Struan on his left. Stewards brought smoked sausages and oysters, Yorkshire hams, a bubbling stew of fresh-killed beef, a roast haunch of lamb, boiled potatoes and pickled cabbage.

  “I’m sorry we have no caviar,” Longstaff said.

  “I would be glad to give you some, Your Excellency, as soon as my ship arrives. We had the misfortune to run into a storm in the Sunda Strait. We sprang a leak and put into your port of Singapore. The mail packet was leaving by the same tide, so I booked passage here.”

  And thus avoided giving us advance notice, Longstaff thought. Sunda Strait meant a voyage via the Cape of Good Hope. What the devil was he up to?

  “I’ve heard that the Singapore climate’s intemperate, Mr. Struan, at this time of the year,” Zergeyev was saying.

  “Aye, it is,” Struan said. “Is this your first voyage to Asia, Your Highness?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, perhaps we can make your stay pleasant. I’m giving a ball this evening. I’d be honored if you would come. It would give you an opportunity to meet everyone.”

  “You are too kind.”

  “How long do you plan to stay?”

  “Only until my ship arrives. I’m making an informal visit to our Alaskan possessions.”

  “Was the ship damaged badly?”

  “I don’t really know, Mr. Struan. I’m not too experienced in these things. She’ll follow here as soon as possible.”

  “Then you’ll need accommodations,” Struan said, suspecting that Zergeyev knew a great deal about “these things,” and that the “unseaworthiness” of his ship would be a convenient way to vary, at his pleasure, the length of his stay. Struan also had a hunch that Singapore was the first port of call, outward bound from St. Petersburg. “We’ll be glad to offer you a suite aboard one of our stationary vessels. It will na be luxurious, but we’ll endeavor to make you comfortable.”

  “That’s exceedingly kind of you. There’s just myself and four servants. They can sleep anywhere.”

  “I’ll see they’re well berthed. Ah, thank you,” Struan said to the steward as his glass was refilled. “Is she a four-masted brig?”

  “Three.”

  “I prefer three-masters mysel’. Much handier in a high sea. Sails are easier to reef. You carry royals and a top ta’-gallants?”

  “There seem to be an adequate number of sails, Mr. Struan. Whatever their names.”

  Struan had caught the imperceptible hesitation, and he knew that Zergeyev was a seaman. Now, why would he wish to hide that?

  “I hear the Middle East crisis has been solved,” Zergeyev said.

  “Yes,” Longstaff replied. “The news came by the mail packet.”

  “Most fortunate. France was more than a little wise to withdraw from her militant position.”

  “The importance of the Dardanelles to Britain is obvious,” Longstaff said. “It’s to the advantage of all of us to keep the peace.”

  “It’s a pity that France and Prussia seem to feel the opposite. And the Hapsburgs. Britain and Russia are hereditary allies and their interests are similar. It’s a happy thought that we’ll be working more closely together in the future.”

  “Yes,” Longstaff said blandly. “Of course Paris is very close to London.”

  “Isn’t it a pity that that glorious city should always seem to find the most curious leaders?” Zergeyev said. “A beautiful people, beautiful. Yet their leaders are always puffed with vanity and seemingly determined to pull the world apart.”

  “The great problem of the world, Your Highness. Europe, and how to curb the vanity of princes. Of course, in Britain we’re fortunate to have a Parliament, and the might of Britain no longer goes to war on a single man’s whim.”

  “Yes. It’s a great and glorious experiment, one fit for the splendid attributes of your country, sir. But it’s not suitable for all nations. Wasn’t it the ancient Greeks who came to the conclusion that the most perfect form of government was a benevolent dictatorship? The rule of one man?”

  “Benevolent, yes. But elected. Not a ruler by divine right.”

  “Who can say, with absolute surety, that divine right does not exist?”

  “Ah, Your Highness,” Longstaff said, “No one questions the existence of God. Only the right of a king to do what he likes, when he likes, without consulting the people. We’ve had a long line of English ‘divine’ kings whom we’ve found to be fallible. Fallibility in a leader is very trying. Isn’t it? They spill so much of other people’s blood.”

  Zergeyev chuckled. “I love the humor of the English.” He glanced at Struan. “You’re Scots, Mr. Struan?”

  “Aye. British. There’s nae difference between Scots and English nowadays.” He sipped his wine. “We tired of stealing their cattle. We thought it’d be better to steal the whole country, so we left Scotland and moved south.”

  They all laughed and drank more wine.

  Longstaff was amused to note that Monsey had remained silent throughout the meal, agitated by Struan’s bluffness.

  “What do you think, Mr. Struan?” Zergeyev said. “Could you run The Noble House with a ‘Parliament’ to contend with?”

  “No, Your Highness. But I only commit a company into conflict—into competition—with other traders. I risk only myself and my company. Na the lives of others.”

  “Yet there is a war now with China. Because the heathen had the temerity to interfere with your trade. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Partially. Of course, the decision for war was hardly mine.”

  “Of course. My point was that you have sole right to operate a vast trading concern and that is the most efficient way. One man’s rule. Right for a company, a fleet, a nation.”

  “Aye. Provided you’re successful,” Struan said, making a joke. Then he added seriously, “Perhaps, for the present, a parliamentary system is not suitable for Russia—and some other countries—but I’m convinced this earth will never be at peace until all nations have the English parliamentary system, and all the people have a right to vote, and no single man ever controls the destiny of any nation, either by divine right or by right of stupid votes of a stupid electorate.”

  “I agree,” Zergeyev said. “Your hypothesis is correct. But it has one vast flaw. You presume an enlightened world population—all equally educated, all equally prosperous—which is of course impossible, isn’t it? You should travel in Russia to see how impossible that is. And you make no allowances for nationalism or for differences in faith. If you added ‘until all nations are Christian,’ then
perhaps you would be correct. But how can you imagine French Catholics will agree with Protestant English? Or the Russian Orthodox Church with Spanish Jesuits? Or all of those with the masses of infidel Mohammedans and they with the miserable Jews and they with the idolators and heathen?”

  Struan took a deep breath. “I’m glad you asked that question,” he said and stopped with finality.

  “I can see we will be having many interesting discussions,” Longstaff said easily. “Tea, Your Highness? There’s a prizefight in an hour. If you’re not too tired, perhaps you’d care to witness it. It promises to be quite a match. The navy versus the army.”

  “I’d be delighted, Excellency. Which do you pick? I’ll take the opposition.”

  “A guinea on the navy.”

  “Done.”

  After lunch they had tea and cigars, and at length Monsey escorted the archduke back to the mail packet. Longstaff dismissed the stewards.

  “I think a frigate should instantly ‘happen’ to take a visit to Singapore,” he said to Struan.

  “I had the same thought, Will. He’s a seaman, I’m sure.”

  “Yes. That was very clever, Dirk.” Longstaff played with his teacup. “And he’s a most astute man. Such a man would probably be most careful with official documents.”

  “I had the same thought.”

  “I enjoyed my stay in St. Petersburg. Except for the long hours at school. I had to learn to read and write Russian, as well as French, of course. Russian’s a very difficult language.”

  Struan poured some tea. “You never did like prizefights, did you, Will?”

  “No. I think I’ll just escort him ashore and then come back aboard. Take a nap in private.” Longstaff laughed dryly. “Prepare for tonight’s festivities, what?”

  Struan got up. “Aye. And I’d better think of a few seeds of discontent to sow mysel’.”

  As the stewards cleared the table, Longstaff stared idly at the leaves in his cup. “No,” he said, retaining it and the teapot. “And see that I’m not disturbed. Call me in an hour.”

  “Yes, sirr.”

  He stifled a yawn, his mind drifting pleasantly in the quiet of the cabin. ’Pon me word, I’m delighted Zergeyev’s here. Now we can enjoy life a little. Parry and thrust diplomatically. Probe his mind, that’s the ticket. Forget the incessant irritations of the colony, and the damned traders and the cursed emperor of the cursed heathen, damn bunch of thieves.

  He opened the door to his private cabin and lay comfortably on the bunk, his hands behind his head. What was it Dirk said? he asked himself. Ah yes, seeds of discontent. That’s a good way of putting it. What seeds can we plant? Grim hints about China’s power? The hugeness of her population? That Her Majesty’s Government may annex the whole country if any power intrudes? The complications of the trade in opium? Tea?

  He heard the clatter of feet aloft as the watch changed and the marine band began practicing. He yawned again and closed his eyes contentedly. Nothing like a nap after lunch, he told himself. Thank God I’m a gentleman—don’t have to plant real seeds like a smelly peasant or filthy farmer. Damn, fancy working with your hands all day! Sowing seeds. Growing things. All the muck spreading. Horrifying thought. Sowing diplomatic seeds is much more important and the work of a gentleman. Now, where was I? Ah yes. Tea. Life must have been terrible before we had tea. Absolutely. Can’t understand how people existed without tea. Pity it doesn’t grow in England. That would save a lot of trouble.

  “Great God in heaven!” he burst out and sat upright. “Tea! Of course tea! It’s been under your nose for years and you’ve never seen it! You’re a genius!” He was so excited with his idea that he jumped off the bed and danced a jig. Then he relieved himself in the chamber pot and went into the main cabin and sat at his desk, his heart pounding. You know how to solve the Britain-China nightmare of the tea-bullion-opium imbalance. You know, he told himself, astonished and awed by the brilliance and simplicity of the idea that Struan’s final sally had triggered. “Good God, Dirk,” he chortled aloud, “if you only knew. You’ve cut your own throat, and all the China traders along with you. To the glory of Britain and the immortality of me!”

  Yes, absolutely. So you’d better keep your mouth shut, he cautioned himself. Walls have ears.

  The idea was so simple: Destroy China’s tea monopoly. Buy or beg or steal—in great secrecy—a ton of the seeds of the tea plant. Transport the seeds surreptitiously to India. There must be dozens of areas in which tea could flourish. Dozens. And in my lifetime plantations could be flourishing—growing our own teas, on our soil. With our own tea, we’ll no longer need bullion or opium to pay for China teas. Profit on Indian tea sales will soon equal, double, triple the sale of opium, so that’s not a problem. We’ll grow the teas of the world and we’ll sell to the world. The Crown gains in fantastically increased tea revenues, for of course we will grow it cheaper and better and the price will be below China teas. British brains and all that! And we’ll gain in moral grandeur for ceasing opium trading. The cursed opium smugglers are put out of business, for without the lever of opium they serve no useful function, so we can outlaw opium. India gains hugely. China gains, for there’ll be no more opium smuggling, and she consumes her own tea anyway.

  And you, William Longstaff—the only man who can implement such a plan—you will gain in monumental prestige. With modest luck, a dukedom offered by a grateful Parliament, for you and you alone will have solved the unsolvable.

  But whom can I trust to get the tea seeds? And how to persuade the Chinese to sell them? Of course they’ll discern the consequences immediately. And whom to trust to transport the seeds safely? Can’t use one of the traders—they’d sabotage me at once if they had the slightest inkling! And how to get the Viceroy of India on your side now, so that he won’t steal the credit for the idea?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  As the two men and their seconds climbed into the ring that had been erected near the flag at Glessing’s Point, a breathless silence settled on the massed spectators.

  Each was a burly hard-faced six-footer in his early twenties. Each had his head shaven to protect him from the other’s grip. And when they took off their rough shirts each had the same rippling steel of knotted muscles and bore on his back ancient ruts from the cat-o’-nine-tails.

  The fighters were beautifully matched and everyone knew that much was at stake. The admiral and the general had personally approved the selection of the fighters, and had exhorted them to win. The honor of the whole Service was on their shoulders, the wealth of the savings of their mates. The future would be sweet for the victor. For the vanquished there would be no future.

  Henry Hardy Hibbs climbed through the single rope and stood in the center of the ring where the yard-square mark had been chalked. “Yor ’Hexcellency, Yor ’Ighness, M’Lords and Yor ’Onors,” he began. “A fight to the finish, between, in this corner, Bosun Jem Grum o’ the Royal Navy—”

  There was a huge cheer from the mob of sailors to the east and jeers and obscenities from the packed ranks of English and Indian soldiers to the west. Longstaff, the archduke, the admiral and the general were seated in the place of honor on the north ringside, an honor guard of impassive marines surrounding them. Behind the archduke were his two liveried bodyguards, armed and vigilant. Struan, Brock, Cooper, Tillman, Robb, Gorth and all the tai-pans had seats on the south side, and behind them were the lesser traders and naval and army officers, all elbowing for a better view. And on the periphery was the ever-growing crush of Chinese who poured down from the hovels of Tai Ping Shan, chattering, giggling, waiting.

  “And in this corner, representing the Royal Army, Sergeant Bill Tinker—”

  And again raucous cheers interrupted him. Hibbs held up his arms, and his verminous frock coat lifted away from his ball-like paunch. When the cheers and jeers died away, he called out, “London prize-ring rules: each round to end with a fall. There be thirty seconds twixt rounds, and when the bell be rung, eight seconds be allo
wed for the man to come up to the scratch and toe the line. No kickin’ an’ no buttin’ an’ no hittin’ below the belt and no gougin’. Him wot doan come out of corner, or him wot’s seconds throw in the towel, be the loser.”

  He motioned importantly to the seconds, who examined the fists of each other’s fighter to see that they were pickled in walnut juice, as was customary, and held no stone, and inspected the fighting boots to see that the soles had only the regulation three spikes.

  “Now shake ’ands an’ may the best man win!”

  The fighters came to the center of the ring, their shoulder muscles quivering with pent-up excitement, their belly muscles tight, nostrils flaring as they smelled the dank sour sweat of each other.

  They toed the line, and touched hands. Then they bunched their rocklike fists and waited, their reflexes hair-triggered.

  Hibbs and the seconds ducked under the ropes and out of the way.

  “Your Highness?” Longstaff said, giving Zergeyev the honor.

  The archduke got up and walked to the ship’s bell that was near the ring. He slammed it with the striker and a wild frenzy swept the foreshore.

  The instant the bell sounded, the fighters lashed out at each other, their legs planted like oaks and as strong, toes firm on the line. Grum’s knuckles rocked into Tinker’s face and left a bloody weal in their wake, and Tinker’s fist sank violently into Grum’s belly. They mauled each other incessantly, driven by the tumult and their anger and hatred. There was no science to their fighting, no attempt at avoiding blows.

  After eight minutes their bodies were scarlet-splotched, their faces bloody. Both men had broken noses, and their knuckles were raw and slippery with sweat and blood. Both were gasping for breath, their chests heaving like mighty bellows, and both had blood in their mouths. And then in the ninth minute Tinker smashed a right hook that caught Grum in the throat and felled him. The army cheered and the navy cursed. Grum got up, beside himself with rage and pain, and rushed at his enemy, forgetting that the first round was over, forgetting everything except that he had to kill this devil. He caught Tinker around the throat and they were hacking and gouging and the army screamed “Foul!” The seconds swarmed into the ring and tried to drag the fighters apart, and there was almost a riot among the soldiers and the sailors and their officers.