Tai-Pan

by James Clavell

  “We treat them well!” Tillman shrieked. “They’re only savages and we give them a good life. We do!” His face twitched as he lay back and fought for strength, desperate with envy of Struan’s vitality and health, and feeling near death. “You’ll not benefit by my death, God curse you for eternity!”

  Struan turned for the door.

  “You’d better wait. What I have to say concerns you.”

  “Nothing you could say would concern me!”

  “You call me blackbirder? How’d you get your mistress, you goddam hypocrite?”

  The door flung open and Cooper rushed in. “Oh, hello, Tai-Pan! I didn’t know you were aboard.”

  “Hello, Jeff,” Struan said, hardly able to control his temper.

  Cooper glanced at Tillman. “What’s up, Wilf?”

  “Nothing. I wanted to see you and my niece.”

  Shevaun came in, and stopped in surprise. “Hello, Tai-Pan. Are you all right, Uncle?”

  “No, child. I feel very bad.”

  “What’s the matter, Wilf?” Cooper asked.

  Tillman coughed weakly. “The Tai-Pan came ‘visiting.’ I thought this a perfect time to settle an important matter. I’m due for another fever attack tomorrow and I think … well,”—the limp eyes turned on Shevaun—“I’m proud to tell you that Jeff has formally asked for your hand in marriage and I have accepted gladly.”

  Shevaun blanched. “I don’t want to marry yet.”

  “I’ve considered everything very carefully—”

  “I won’t!”

  Tillman pulled himself up on one elbow with a great effort. “Now, you will listen to me!” he shrieked, strengthened by his anger. “I’m your legal guardian. For months I’ve been corresponding with your father. My brother has formally approved the match if I formally decide that it’s to your advantage. And I’ve decided it is. So—”

  “Well, I haven’t, Uncle. It’s the nineteenth century, not the Middle Ages. I don’t want to marry yet.”

  “I’m not concerned with your wishes, and you’re quite right, it is the nineteenth century. You are betrothed. You will be married. Your father’s hope and mine was that during your visit here Jeff would favor you. He has.” Tillman lay back exhaustedly. “It is a most pleasing match. And that’s the end to it.”

  Cooper walked over to Shevaun. “Shevaun, darling. You know how I feel. I had no idea that Wilf was … I’d hoped that, well …”

  She backed away from him and her eyes found Struan. “Tai-Pan! Tell my uncle. Tell him he can’t do this—he can’t betroth me—tell him he can’t!”

  “How old are you, Shevaun?” Struan asked.

  “Twenty.”

  “If your father approves and your uncle approves, you’ve nae option.” He looked at Tillman. “I suppose you have it in writing?”

  Tillman motioned at a desk. “The letter’s there. Though it’s none of your goddam business.”

  “That’s the law, Shevaun. You’re a minor and bound to do what your father wants.” Struan sadly turned for the door but Shevaun stopped him.

  “Do you know why I’m being sold?” she burst out.

  “Hold your tongue, girl!” Tillman cried. “You’ve been nothing but trouble since you got here, and it’s time you learned manners and respect for your elders and betters.”

  “I’m sold for shares,” she said bitterly. “In Cooper-Tillman.”

  “That’s not so!” Tillman said, his face ghastly.

  “Shevaun, you’re overwrought,” Cooper began unhappily. “It’s just the suddenness and—”

  Struan started to pass her, but she held on to him. “Wait, Tai-Pan. It’s a deal. I know how a politician’s mind works. Politics is an expensive business.”

  “Hold your tongue!” Tillman shouted, then whimpered with pain and collapsed back into the bed.

  “Without income from here,” she rushed on shakily. “Father can’t afford to be a senator. Uncle’s the oldest brother, and if Uncle dies, Jeff can buy out the Tillman interests at a nominal sum and then—”

  “Come on, Shevaun,” Cooper interrupted sharply. “That has nothing to do with my love for you. What do you think I am?”

  “Be honest, Jeff. It is true, isn’t it? About the nominal sum?”

  “Yes,” Cooper replied after a grim pause. “I can buy out the Tillman interests under those circumstances. But I haven’t made such a deal. I’m not buying a chattel. I love you. I want you to be my wife.”

  “And if I’m not, will you not buy Uncle out?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll decide that when the time comes. Your uncle could buy my shares if I were to die before him.”

  Shevaun turned back to Struan. “Please buy me, Tai-Pan.”

  “I canna, lass. But I dinna think Jeff’s buying you either. I know he’s in love with you.”

  “Please buy me,” she said brokenly.

  “I canna, lassie. It’s against the law.”

  “It’s not. It’s not.” She wept uncontrollably.

  Cooper put his arms around her, tormented.

  When Struan returned to Resting Cloud, May-may was still sleeping fitfully.

  As he watched over her he wondered dully what to do about Gorth and about Culum. He knew that he should go to Macao at once. But na until May-may’s cured—oh God, let her be cured. Do I send China Cloud and Orlov—perhaps Mauss? Or do I wait? I’ve told Culum to guard himsel’—but will he? Oh Jesus Christ, help May-may.

  At midnight there was a knock on the door.

  “Aye?”

  Lim Din came in softly. He glanced at May-may and sighed. “Big Fat Mass’er come Tai-Pan see, can? Heya?”

  Struan’s back and shoulders ached and his head felt heavy as he climbed the gangway to his quarters on the next deck.

  “Sorry to come uninvited and so late, Tai-Pan,” Morley Skinner said, heaving his greasy, sweating bulk out of a chair. “It’s a little important.”

  “Always pleased to see the press, Mr. Skinner. Take a seat. Drink?” He tried to turn his mind off May-may and forced himself to concentrate, knowing this was no casual visit.

  “Thank you. Whiskey.” Skinner took in the rich interior of the large cabin: green Chinese carpets on well-scrubbed decks; chairs and sofas and the fragrance of clean oiled leather, salt and hemp; and the faint sweet oily smell of opium from the holds below. Well-trimmed oil lamps gave a warm pure light and shadowed the main-deck beams. He contrasted it with the hovel he had on Hong Kong—a threadbare and dirty and stench-ridden room over the large room that housed the printing press. “It’s nice of you to see me so late,” he said.

  Struan raised his glass. “Health!”

  “Yes, ‘health.’ That’s a good toast in these evil days. What with the malaria and all.” The little pig eyes sharpened. “I hear you’ve a friend who’s got malaria.”

  “Do you know where to find cinchona?”

  Skinner shook his head. “No, Tai-Pan. Everything I’ve read says that that’s a will-o’-the-wisp. Legend.” He pulled out a proof copy of the weekly Oriental Times and handed it to Struan. “Thought you’d like to see the editorial about today’s races. I’m putting out a special edition tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. Is that what you wanted to see me about?”

  “No, sir.” Skinner gulped whiskey thirstily and looked at the empty glass.

  “Help yoursel’ if you’d like another.”

  “Thank you.” Skinner lumbered to the decanter, his elephantine buttocks jiggling. “Wisht I had your figure, Mr. Struan.”

  “Then dinna eat so much.”

  Skinner laughed. “Eating’s nothing to do with fatness. You’re fat or you aren’t. One of those things that the good Lord fixes at birth. I’ve always been heavy.” He filled his glass and walked back. “A piece of information came into my hands last night. I can’t reveal the source, but I wanted to discuss it with you before I print it.”

  Which skeleton have you smelled out, my fine friend? Struan thought. There’re so
many to choose from. I only hope it’s the right one. “I own the Oriental Times, aye. As far as I know, only you and I are the ones that know. But I’ve never told you what to print or what na to print. You’re editor and publisher. You’re totally responsible, and if what you print’s libelous, then you’ll be sued. By whoever’s libeled.”

  “Yes, Mr. Struan. And I appreciate the freedom you give me.” The eyes seemed to sink farther into the rolls of jelly. “Freedom necessitates responsibility—to oneself, to the paper, to society. Not necessarily in that order. But this is different, the—how shall I put it?—the ‘potentials’ are far-reaching.” He pulled out a scrap of paper. It was covered with speed-written hieroglyphics which only he could read. He looked up. “The Treaty of Chuenpi’s been repudiated by the Crown, and Hong Kong along with it.”

  “Is this a funny story, Mr. Skinner?” Struan wondered how convincing Blore had been. Did you gamble correctly, laddie? he asked himself. The lad’s a fine sense of humor: The stallion took the bit. Cart horse would be more apt.

  “No, sir,” Skinner said. “Perhaps I’d better read it.” And he read out, almost word for word, what Sir Charles Crosse had written, what Struan had told Blore to whisper secretly in Skinner’s ear. Struan had decided that Skinner was the one to stir up the traders into a complex of fury so that they would all, in their individual ways, refuse to allow Hong Kong to perish; so that they would agitate as they had agitated so many years ago and had at length dominated the East India Company.

  “I dinna believe it.”

  “I think perhaps you should, Tai-Pan.” Skinner drained his glass. “May I?”

  “Of course. Bring back the decanter. It’ll save you going back and forth. Who gave you the information?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “And if I insist?”

  “I still won’t tell you. That would destroy my future as a newspaperman. There are very important ethics involved.”

  Struan tested him. “A newspaperman must have a newspaper,” he said bluntly.

  “True. That’s the gamble I’m taking—talking to you. But if you put it that way, I still won’t tell you.”

  “Are you sure it’s true?”

  “No. But I believe it is.”

  “What’s the date of the dispatch?” Struan asked. “April 27th.”

  “You seriously believe that it could get here so fast? Ridiculous!”

  “I said the same. I still think it’s true information.”

  “If it’s true, then we’re all ruined.”

  “Probably.” Skinner said.

  “Na’ probably—certainly.”

  “You forget the power of the press and the collective power of the traders.”

  “We’ve nae power against the Foreign Secretary. And time’s against us. Are you going to print it?”

  “Yes. At the correct time.”

  Struan moved the glass and watched the lights flickering from its beveled edges. “I’d say when you do there’ll be a monumental panic. And Longstaff will carpet you right smartly.”

  “I’m not worried about that, Mr. Struan.” Skinner was perplexed; Struan was not reacting as he had expected. Unless the Tai-Pan already knew, he told himself for the hundredth time. But it makes no sense for him to have sent Blore to me. Blore arrived a week ago—and in that week the Tai-Pan’s invested countless thousands of taels in Hong Kong. That would be the act of a maniac. So whom did Blore courier for? Brock? Unlikely. Because he’s spending as lavishly as Struan. It must be the admiral—or the general—or Monsey. Monsey! Who but Monsey has the high-level connections? Who but Monsey hates Longstaff and wants his job? Who but Monsey is vitally concerned that Hong Kong succeeds? For without a successful Hong Kong, Monsey has no future in the Diplomatic Corps. “It looks as though Hong Kong’s dead. All the money and effort you’ve put in—we’ve all put in—is tossed aside.”

  “Hong Kong canna be finished. Wi’out the island all the future mainland ports we’ll have are so much dross.”

  “I know, sir. We all do.”

  “Aye. But the Foreign Secretary feels otherwise. Why? I wonder why. And what could we possibly do? How to convince him, eh? How?”

  Skinner was as strong for Hong Kong as Struan was. Without Hong Kong there was no Noble House. And without The Noble House there was no weekly Oriental Times and no job.

  “Maybe we won’t have to convince that bugger,” he said shortly, eyes icy.

  “Eh?”

  “That bugger won’t always be in power.”

  Struan’s interest heightened. This was a new slant, and unexpected. Skinner was a voracious reader of all newspapers and periodicals and a most well-informed man on “published” parliamentary affairs. At the same time—with an extraordinary memory and a vital interest in people—Skinner had sources of information that were manifold. “You think there’s a chance for a change in Government?”

  “I’ll bet money that Sir Robert Peel and the Conservatives will topple the Whigs within the year.”

  “That’d be a devilish dangerous gamble. I’d put money against you mysel’.”

  “Would you gamble the Oriental Times against the fall of the Whigs within the year—and a retention of Hong Kong by the Crown?”

  Struan was aware that such a wager would put Skinner totally on his side and the paper would be a small price to pay. But a quick agreement would show his hand. “You’ve nae chance in the world of winning that wager.”

  “It’s a very good one, Mr. Struan. The winter at home last year was one of the worst ever—economically and industrially. Unemployment’s incredible. Harvests have been terrible. Do you know the price of bread is up to a shilling and twopence a loaf according to last week’s mail? Lump sugar’s costing eightpence a pound; tea seven shillings and eightpence; soap ninepence a cake; eggs four shillings a dozen. Potatoes a shilling a pound. Bacon three shillings and sixpence a pound. Now take wages—artisans of all sorts, bricklayers, plumbers, carpenters—at most seventeen shillings and sixpence a week for sixty-four hours’ work; agricultural workers nine shillings a week for God knows how many hours; factory workers around fifteen shillings—all these if work can be found. Good God, Mr. Struan, you live up in the mountains with incredible wealth where you can give a thousand guineas to a girl just because she’s got a pretty dress, so you don’t know, you can’t know, but one out of every eleven people in England is a pauper. In Stockton nearly ten thousand persons earned less that two shillings a week last year. Thirty thousand in Leeds under a shilling. Most everyone’s starving and we’re the richest nation on earth. The Whigs have their heads up their arses and they won’t face up to what anyone can see is outrageously unfair. They’ve done nothing about the Chartists except to pretend they’re anarchists. They won’t face up to the appalling conditions in the mills and the factories. Good Christ, children of six or seven are working a twelve-hour day, and women too, and they’re cheap labor and they put the men out of work. Why should the Whigs do anything? They own most of the factories and mills. And money’s their god—more and more and evermore and to hell with everyone. The Whigs won’t face up to the Irish problem. My God, there was a famine last year, and if there’s another this year, the whole of Ireland’ll be in revolt again and it’s about time. And the Whigs haven’t lifted a finger to reform banking. Why should they—they own the banks too! Look at your own bad luck! If we’d had a rightful proper law to protect depositors from the cursed machinations of the cursed Whigs—” He stopped with an effort, his jowls shaking and his face florid. “Sorry, didn’t mean to make a speech. Of course the Whigs have got to go. I’d say if they don’t go in the next six months, there’ll be a blood bath in England which’ll make the French Revolution look like a picnic. The only man who can save us is Sir Robert Peel, by all that’s holy.”

  Struan remembered what Culum had said about conditions in England. He and Robb had discounted it as the ramblings of an idealistic university undergraduate. And he had discounted the things hi
s own father had written as unimportant. “If Lord Cunnington’s out, who’ll be the next Foreign Secretary?”

  “Sir Robert himself. Failing him, Lord Aberdeen.”

  “But both’re against free trade.”

  “Yes, but both are liberal and pacific. And once in power, they’ll have to change. Whenever the Opposition get power and responsibility, they change. Free trade is the only way England can survive—you know that—so they’ll have to support it. And they’ll need all the support they can get from the powerful and the wealthy.”

  “You’re saying I should support them?”

  “The Oriental Times, lock, stock and printing press, against a fall of the Whigs this year. And Hong Kong.”

  “You think you can help that?”

  “Hong Kong, yes. Oh, yes.”

  Struan eased his left boot more comfortably and leaned back in his chair again. He let a silence hang. “A fifty percent interest, and you have a deal,” he said.

  “All or nothing.”

  “Perhaps I should throw you out and have done with it.”

  “You should, perhaps. You’ve more than enough wealth to last you and yours forever. I’m asking you how much you want Hong Kong—and the future of England. I think I’ve a key.”

  Struan poured himself some more whiskey and refilled Skinner’s glass. “Done. All or nothing. Would you care to join me in some supper? I’m feeling a little hungry.”

  “Yes, indeed. Thank you. Talking’s hungry work. Thank you kindly.”

  Struan rang the bell and blessed his joss that he had gambled. Lim Din arrived and food was ordered.

  Skinner swilled his whiskey and thanked God that he had judged the Tai-Pan correctly. “You’ll not regret it, Tai-Pan. Now, listen a moment. The loss of Longstaff—I know he’s a friend of yours, but I’m talking politically—is a huge piece of luck for Hong Kong. First he’s a highborn, second a Whig, and third he’s a fool. Sir Clyde Whalen’s a squire’s son, second no fool, third a man of action. Fourth, he knows India—spent thirty years in service to the East India Company. Prior to that he was Royal Navy. Last, and most important of all, even though he’s a Whig outwardly, I’m sure he must secretly hate Cunnington and the present Government and would do anything in his power to cause their downfall.”