Tai-Pan

by James Clavell

“My father.”

  “I dinna ken your name or your father and I’ve a long memory for names, by God!”

  “My name’s not Roger Blore, sir. That’s just a pseudonym—for safety. My father’s in Parliament. I’m almost sure you’re the Tai-Pan. But before I pass the information, I have to be absolutely sure.”

  Struan pulled the dirk out of his right boot and lifted the left boot. “Take it off,” he said dangerously. “And if the information’s na ‘of the greatest importance,’ I’ll carve my initials on your forehead.”

  “Then I suppose I stake my life. A life for a life.”

  He pulled the boot off, sighed with relief, and sat weakly. “My name’s Richard Crosse. My father’s Sir Charles Crosse, member of Parliament for Chalfont St. Giles.”

  Struan had met Sir Charles twice, some years ago. At that time Sir Charles was a small country squire with no means, a vehement supporter of free trade and of the importance of Asian trade, and well liked in Parliament. Over the years Struan had supported him financially and had never regretted the investment. It must be about the ratification, he thought eagerly. “Why did you na say so in the first place?”

  Crosse rubbed his eyes tiredly. “May I have a drink, please?”

  “Grog, brandy, sherry—help yoursel’.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Crosse poured himself some brandy. “Thanks. Sorry, but I’m—well, a little tired. Father told me to be very careful—to use a pseudonym. To speak only to you—or if you were dead, to Robb Struan.” He undid his shirt and worked open a pouch that was strapped around his waist. “He sent you this.” He handed Struan a soiled, heavily sealed envelope and sat down.

  Struan took the envelope. It was addressed to him, dated London, April 29th. Abruptly he looked up and his voice grated. “You’re a liar! It’s impossible for you to have got here so quickly. That’s only sixty days ago.”

  “Yes it is, sir,” Crosse said breezily. “I’ve done the impossible.” He laughed nervously. “Father will almost never forgive me.”

  “No one’s ever made the journey in sixty days. What’s your game?”

  “I left on Tuesday the 29th of April. Stagecoach London to Dover. I caught the mail ship to Calais by a nose. Stage to Paris and another to Marseilles. The French mail to Alexandria, by a hair. Overland to Suez through the good offices of Mehemet Ali—whom Father met once—and then the Bombay mail by a whisker. I rotted in Bombay for three days and then had a fabulous stroke of luck. I bought passage on an opium clipper for Calcutta. Then—”

  “What clipper?”

  “Flying Witch, belonging to Brock and Sons.”

  “Go on,” Struan said, his eyebrows soaring.

  “Then an East Indiaman to Singapore. The Bombay Prince. Then bad luck, no ship scheduled for Hong Kong for weeks. Then huge luck. I talked myself onto a Russian ship—that one,” Crosse said, pointing out the stern windows. “She was the most dangerous gamble of all, but it was my last chance. I gave the captain every last guinea I had. In advance. I thought they’d be sure to cut my throat and throw me overboard once out to sea, but it was my last chance. Fifty-nine days, sir, actually—London to Hong Kong.”

  Struan got up and poured another drink for Crosse and took a large one for himself. Aye, it’s possible, he thought. Na probable but possible. “Do you know what’s in the letter?”

  “No, sir. At least I know only the part that refers to me.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Father says that I’m a wastrel, a ne’er-do-well, gambler and horse-mad,” Crosse said with disarming frankness. “That there’s a debtor’s warrant out for my arrest from Newgate Prison. That he commends me to your generosity and hopes you’ll be able to find a use for my ‘talents’—anything to keep me out of England and away from him for the rest of his life. And he sets forth the stakes of the wager.”

  “What wager?”

  “I arrived yesterday, sir. June 28th. Your son and many others are witnesses. Perhaps you should read the letter, sir. I can assure you my father’d never wager with me unless it was news of the ‘utmost importance.’”

  Struan re-examined the seals and broke them. The letter read: “Westminster, 11 o’clock the evening of April 28th, ’41. My dear Mr. Struan: I have just become secretly privy to a dispatch the Foreign Secretary, Lord Cunnington, sent yesterday to the Hon. William Longstaff, Her Majesty’s plenipotentiary in Asia. The dispatch read in part: ‘You have disobeyed and neglected my directives and appear to consider them so much flatulence. You obviously seem determined to settle the affairs of Her Majesty’s Government at your whim. You impertinently disregard instructions that five or six mainland Chinese ports are to be made accessible to British trading interests, and that full and diplomatic channels be permanently established therein; that this be done expeditiously, preferably by negotiation, but if negotiation be impossible, by use of the Force sent for this explicit purpose and at considerable cost. Instead you settle for a miserable rock with hardly a house on it, for an entirely unacceptable treaty, and at the same time—if naval and army dispatches are to be believed—continually misuse Her Majesty’s Forces under your command. In no way can Hong Kong ever become the market emporium for Asia—any more than Macao has become one. The Treaty of Chuenpi is totally repudiated. Your successor, Sir Clyde Whalen, will be arriving imminently, my dear Sir. Perhaps you would be kind enough to hand over your duties to your deputy, Mr. C. Monsey, on receipt of this dispatch, and leave Asia forthwith on a frigate which is hereby detached for this duty. Report to my office at your earliest convenience.’

  “I am at my wits’ end …”

  Impossible! Impossible that they could make such a godrotting-fornicating-stupid-Christforsaken-unbelievable mistake! Struan thought. He read on: “I’m at my wits’ end. There’s nothing I can do until the information is presented officially in the House. I daren’t use this secret information openly. Cunnington would have my head and I’d be damned out of politics. Even putting it on paper to you in this fashion is giving my enemies—and who in politics has only a few?—an opportunity to destroy me and, with me, all those who support free trade and the position you’ve so zealously fought for all these years. I pray God my son puts it into your hands alone. (He knows nothing of the private contents of this letter, by the way.)

  “As you know, the Foreign Secretary is an imperious man, a law unto himself, the bulwark of our Whig party. His attitude in the dispatch is perfectly clear. I’m afraid that Hong Kong is a dead issue. And unless the Government is defeated and Sir Robert Peel’s Conservatives come into power—an impossibility, I would say, in the foreseeable future—Hong Kong is likely to remain a dead issue.

  “The news of the failure of your bank spread through the inner circles in the City—greatly assisted by your rivals, headed by young Morgan Brock. ‘In great confidence’ Morgan Brock judiciously dropped seeds of distrust, along with the information that the Brocks now own most, if not all, of your outstanding paper, and this has immeasurably hurt your influence here. And, too, a letter from Mr. Tyler Brock and certain other traders arrived, almost simultaneously with Longstaff’s ‘Treaty of Chuenpi’ dispatch, in violent opposition to the Hong Kong settlement and to Longstaff’s conduct of hostilities. The letter was addressed to the Prime Minister, the Foreign Secretary, with copies to their enemies—of which, as you know, there are many.

  “Knowing that you may have put the remainder of your resources, if any, into your cherished island, I write to give you the opportunity to extricate yourself and save something from the disaster. It may be that you have made some form of settlement with Brock—I pray you have—though if the arrogant Morgan Brock is to be believed, the only settlement that will please them is the obliteration of your house. (I have good reason to believe that Morgan Brock and a group of Continental banking interests—French and Russian, it is further rumored—started the sudden run on the bank. The Continental group proposed the ploy when news somehow leaked out about Mr. Robb Struan’s plann
ed international structure. They broke your bank in return for fifty percent of a similar plan which Morgan Brock is now trying to effect.)

  “I’m sorry to bear such bad tidings. I do so in good faith, hoping that somehow the information will be of value and that you will be able to survive to fight again. I still believe your plan for Hong Kong is the correct one. And I intend to continue to try to put it into effect.

  “I know little about Sir Clyde Whalen, the new Captain Superintendent of Trade. He served with distinction in India and has an excellent reputation as a soldier. He’s no administrator, so I believe. I understand that he leaves tomorrow for Asia; thus his arrival would be imminent.

  “Last: I commend my youngest son to you. He is a wastrel, black sheep, ne’er-do-well whose only purpose in life is to gamble, preferably on horses. There is a debtor’s warrant out for him from Newgate Prison. I told him that I would—a last time—settle his debts here if he would forthwith undertake this dangerous journey. He agreed, wagering that if he achieved the impossible feat of arriving in Hong Kong in under sixty-five days—half the normal time—I would give him a thousand guineas to boot.

  “To insure as fast a delivery as possible, I said five thousand guineas if under sixty-five days; five hundred guineas less for every day over that stipulated period; all provided that he stayed out of England for the rest of my life—the money to be paid at five hundred guineas per year until finished. Enclosed is the first payment. Please advise me by return mail the date of his arrival.

  “If there is any way you could use his ‘talents’ and control him, you would earn a father’s undying gratitude. I’ve tried, God help both me and him, and I’ve failed. Though I love him dearly.

  “Please accept my sorrow at your bad luck. Give my best to Mr. Robb, and I end on the hope that I will have the pleasure of meeting you personally under more favorable circumstances. I have the honor to be, Sir, your most obedient servant, Charles Crosse.”

  Struan gazed out at the harbor and the island. He remembered the cross that he had burned on the first day. And Brock’s twenty golden guineas. And Jin-qua’s remaining three coins. And the lacs of bullion that were to be invested for someone who, one day, would come with a certain chop. Now all the sweat and all the work and all the planning and all the deaths were wasted. Through the stupid arrogance of one man: Lord Cunnington. Good sweet Christ, what do I do now?

  Struan overcame the shock of the news and forced himself to think. The Foreign Secretary’s a brilliant man. He would not repudiate Hong Kong lightly. There must be a reason. What can it be? And how am I to control Whalen? How to fit a “soldier and no administrator” into the future?

  Perhaps I should stop buying the land today. Let the rest of the traders buy and to hell with them. Brock’ll be crushed along with the others, for Whalen and the news will na arrive for a month or more. By that time they’ll be deep into desperate building. Aye, that’s one way, and when the news is common knowledge, we all retire to Macao—or to one of the treaty ports that Whalen will get—and everyone else is smashed. Or hurt very badly. Aye. But if I can get this information, Brock can too. So perhaps he’ll na be sucked in. Perhaps.

  Aye. But that way you lose the key to Asia: this miserable threadbare rock, without which all the open ports and the future will be meaningless.

  The alternative is to buy and build and gamble that—like Longstaff—Whalen can be persuaded to exceed his directives, that Cunnington himself can be got at. To pour the wealth of The Noble House into the new town. Gamble. Make Hong Kong thrive. So that the Government will be forced to accept the colony.

  That’s mortal dangerous. You canna force the Crown to do that. The odds are terrible, terrible. Even so, you’ve nae choice. You have to gamble.

  Odds reminded him of young Crosse. Now, here’s a valuable lad. How can I use him? How can I keep his mouth shut tight about his fantastic journey? Aye, and how can I create a favorable impression on Whalen for Hong Kong? And get closer to Cunnington? How can I keep the treaty as I want it?

  “Well, Mr. Crosse, you did a remarkable voyage. Who knows how long it took you?”

  “Only you, sir.”

  “Then keep it to yoursel’.” Struan wrote something on a pad of paper. “Give this to my chief clerk.”

  Crosse read the note. “You’re giving me the whole five thousand guineas?”

  “I’ve put it in the name of Roger Blore. I think you’d better keep that name—for the time, anyway.”

  “Yes, sir. Now I’m Roger Blore.” He stood up. “Are you finished with me now, Mr. Struan?”

  “Do you want a job, Mr. Blore?”

  “I’m afraid there’s—well, Mr. Struan, I’ve tried a dozen things but it never works. Father’s tried everything and, well—I’m committed—perhaps it was preordained—to what I am. I’m sorry, but you’d be wasting good intentions.”

  “I’ll bet you five thousand guineas you’ll accept the job I’ll offer you.”

  The youth knew that he’d win the wager. There was no job, none that the Tai-Pan could offer him, that he would accept.

  But wait. This is no man to play with, no man to wager lightly with. Those devil calm eyes are flat. I’d hate to see them across a poker table. Or at baccarat. Watch your step, Richard Crosse Roger Blore. This is one man who’ll collect a debt.

  “Well, Mr. Blore? Where’re your guts? Or are you na the gambler you pretend?”

  “The five thousand guineas is my life, sir. The last stake I’ll get.”

  “So put up your life, by God.”

  “You’re not risking yours, sir. So the wager’s uneven. That sum’s contemptible to you. Give me odds. Hundred to one.”

  Struan admired the youth’s brashness. “Very well—the truth, Mr. Blore. Before God.” He shoved out his hand, and Blore reeled inside for he had gambled that asking for such odds would kill the wager. Don’t do it, you fool, he told himself. Five hundred thousand guineas!

  He shook Struan’s hand.

  “Secretary of the Jockey Club of Hong Kong,” Struan said.

  “What?”

  “We’ve just formed the Jockey Club. You’re secretary. Your job is to find horses. Lay out a racetrack. A clubhouse. Begin the richest, finest racing stable in Asia. As good as Aintree or any in the world. Who wins, lad?”

  Blore desperately wanted to relieve himself. For the love of God, concentrate, he shouted to himself. “A racetrack?”

  “Aye. You start it, run it—horses, gambling, stands, odds, prizes, everything. Begin today.”

  “But, Jesus Christ, where’re you going to get the horses?”

  “Where will you get the horses?”

  “Australia, by God,” Blore burst out. “I’ve heard they’ve horses to spare down there!” He shoved the banker’s draft back at Struan and let out an ecstatic bellow. “Mr. Struan, you’ll never regret this.” He turned and rushed for the door.

  “Where’re you going?” Struan asked.

  “Australia, of course.”

  “Why do you na see the general first?”

  “Eh?”

  “I seem to remember they’ve some cavalry. Borrow some horses. I’d say you could arrange the first meet next Saturday.”

  “I could?”

  “Aye. Saturday’s a good day for race day. And India’s nearer than Australia. I’ll send you by the first available ship.”

  “You will?”

  Struan smiled. “Aye.” He handed back the slip of paper. “Five hundred is a bonus on your first year’s salary, Mr. Blore, of five hundred a year. The rest is prize money for the first four or five meets. I’d say eight races, five horses each, every second Saturday.”

  “God bless you, Mr. Struan.”

  Then Struan was alone. He struck a match and watched the letter burn. He ground the ashes to dust then went below. May-may was still in bed, but she was freshly groomed and looked beautiful.

  “Heya, Tai-Pan,” May-may said. She kissed him briefly, then continued fanning h
erself. “I’m gracious glad you’re back. I want you to buy me a small piece of land because I’ve decided to go to bisness.”

  “What sort of business?” he asked, slightly peeved at the offhand welcome but pleased that she accepted his going and returning without question, and without fuss.

  “You will see, never mind. But I want some taels to begin. I pay ten percent interest, which is first-class. A hundred taels. You will be a sleep partner.”

  He reached over and put his hand on her breast. “Talking about sleeping, there’s—”

  She removed his hand. “Bisness before sleepings. You buy me land and lend me taels?”

  “Sleepings before business!”

  “Ayeee yah, in this hot?” she said with a laugh. “Very well. It’s terrifical bad to tax yoursel’ in this hot—your shirt sticks already to your back. Come along, never mind.” She obediently walked toward her bedroom door, but he caught her.

  “I was just teasing. How are you? Has the baby given you any troubles?”

  “Of course na. I am a very careful mother, and I eat only very special foods to build a fine son. And think warlike thoughts to make him Tai-Pan-brave.”

  “How many taels do you want?”

  “A hundred. I already said. Have you nae ears? You’re terrifical strange today, Tai-Pan. Yes. Certainly very strange. You’re na sick, are you? You have bad news? Or just tired?”

  “Just tired. A hundred taels, certainly. What’s the ‘bisness’?”

  She clapped her hands excitedly and sat back at the table. “Oh, you will see. I’ve thought much since you gone. What do I do for you? Make love and guide you—both terrifical good, to be sure, but that’s na enough. So now I make taels too for you, and for my old age.” She laughed again and he delighted in her laugh. “But only from the barbarians. I will make fortunes—oh, you will think I am cleveritious.”

  “There’s nae such word.”

  “You know very well what I mean.” She hugged him. “You want to make love now?”

  “There’s a land sale in an hour.”

  “True. Then best you change clotheses and hurry back. A small lot on Queen’s Road. But I pay no more than ten taels’ rent a year! Did you bring me present?”