James Clavell - Tai-Pan (Asian Saga - Book 2)

FOR Tai-tai, for Holly, and for Michaela

Struan came up onto the quarterdeck of the flagship H.M.S. Vengeance, and strode for the gangway. The 74-gun ship of the line was anchored half a mile off the island. Surrounding her were the rest of the fleets warships, the troopships of the expeditionary force, and the merchantmen and opium clippers of the China traders.

It was dawna drab, chill TuesdayJanuary 26th, 1841.

As Struan walked along the main deck, he glanced at the shore and excitement swarmed over him. The war with China had gone as he had planned. Victory was as he had forecast. The prize of victorythe islandwas something he had coveted for twenty years. And now he was going ashore to witness the formality of taking possession, to watch a Chinese island become a jewel in the crown of Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria.

The island was Hong Kong. Thirty square miles of mountainous stone on the north lip of the huge Pearl River in South China. A thousand yards off the mainland. Inhospitable. Unfertile. Uninhabited except for a tiny fishing village on the south side. Squarely in the path of the monstrous storms that yearly exploded from the Pacific. Bordered on the east and on the west by dangerous shoals and reefs. Useless to the mandarinthe name given to any official of the Chinese Emperorin whose province it lay.

But Hong Kong contained the greatest harbor on earth. And it was Struans stepping-stone into China.

Belay there! the young officer of the watch called to the scarlet-coated marine. Mr. Struans longboat to the midships gangway!

Yes, sir! The marine leaned over the side and echoed the order.

Wont be a moment, sir, the officer said, trying to contain his awe of the merchant prince who was a legend in the China seas.

Nae hurry, lad. Struan was a giant of a man, his face weathered by a thousand storms. His blue frock coat was silver-buttoned and his tight white trousers were tucked carelessly into seaboots. He was armed as usualknife in the crease of his back and another in his right boot. He was forty-three, redheaded, and his eyes were emerald green.

Its a bonny day, he said.

Yes, sir.

Struan walked down the gangway, got into the prow of his longboat and smiled at his younger half-brother, Robb, who sat amidships.

Were late, Robb said with a grin.

Aye. His Excellency and the admiral were longwinded. Struan stared at the island for a moment. Then he motioned at the bosun. Cast off. Go ashore, Mr. McKay!

Aye, aye, sorr!

At long last, eh, Tai-Pan? Robb said. Tai-pan was Chinese for supreme leader. In a company or army or fleet or nation there is only one such manhe who wields the real power.

Aye, Struan said.

He was Tai-Pan of The Noble House.

A pox on this stinking island, Brock said, staring around the beach and up at the mountains. The whole of China at our feets and all we takes be this barren, sodding rock.

He was standing on the foreshore with two of his fellow China traders. Scattered about them were other clusters of traders, and officers from the expeditionary force. They were all waiting for the Royal Navy officer to begin the ceremony. An honor guard of twenty marines was drawn up in two neat lines beside the flagpole, the scarlet of their uniforms a sudden splash of color. Near them were the untidy knots of sailors who had just fought the flagpole into the stony soil.

Eight bells were time to raise the flag, Brock said, his voice rasping with impatience. It be an hour past. Wots godrotting delay for?

Its bad joss to curse on a Tuesday, Mr. Brock, Jeff Cooper said. He was a lean, hook-nosed American from Boston, his frock coat black and his felt top hat set at a jaunty angle. Very bad!

Coopers partner, Wilf Tillman, stiffened slightly, feeling the underlying edge to the younger mans nasal voice. He was thickset and ruddy, and came from Alabama.

Ill tell thee right smartly, this whole godrotting flyspeck be bad joss! Brock said. Joss was a Chinese word that meant Luck and Fate and God and the Devil combined. Godrotting bad.

It better not be, sir, Tillman said. The future of the China trades here nowgood joss or bad joss.

Brock stared down at him. Hong Kongs got no future. Its open ports on the China mainland we be needing, and you knowed it, by God!

The harbors the best in these waters, Cooper said. Plenty of room to careen and refit all our ships. Plenty of room to build our homes and warehouses. And no Chinese interference at long last.

A colonys got to have arable land and peasants to work the land, Mr. Cooper. An revenue, Brock said impatiently. I be walking all over and so have you. Not a cropll grow here. There be no fields or streams, no grazing land. So no meat and no spuds. Everything we be needingll have to come by sea. Think of the cost. Why, even the fishing be rotten. An whos to pay upkeep of Hong Kong, eh? Us and our trade, by God!

Oh, thats the sort of colony you want, Mr. Brock? Cooper said. I thought the British Empirehe spat deftly to windwardhad enough of that sort of colony.

Brocks hand strayed near his knife. Be you spitting to clear yor throat, or spitting on the Empire? Tyler Brock was nearing fifty, a big, one-eyed man as hard and as permanent as the iron he had been forced to peddle in Liverpool as a youth, and as strong and as dangerous as the fighting merchant ships he had escaped to and at length had come to rule as head of Brock and Sons. His clothes were rich and the knife at his belt was jeweled. His beard was graying like his hair.

Its a cold day, Mr. Brock, Tillman said quickly, inwardly angry at his young partners loose tongue. Brock was no man to bait, and they could not afford open enmity with him yet. Plenty of chill on the wind, eh, Jeff?

Cooper nodded briefly. But he did not take his eyes off Brock. He had no knife, but there was a derringer in his pocket. He was of a height with Brock but slighter, and unafraid.

I be givin thee piece of advice, Mr. Cooper, Brock said. Best not spit too often after saying British Empire. There be some wot baint be givin thee benefit of doubt.

Thank you, Mr. Brock, Ill remember, Cooper replied easily. And Ill give you some advice: Its bad joss to curse on a Tuesday.

Brock suppressed his temper. Eventually he would crush Cooper and Tillman and their company, the biggest of the American traders. But now he needed them as allies against Dirk and Robb Struan. Brock cursed joss. Joss had made Struan and Company the greatest house in Asia, and so rich and powerful that the other China traders had named it in awe and jealousy The Noble Housenoble because it was first in riches, first in largess, first in trade, first in clippers, but mostly because Dirk Struan was Tai-Pan, the Tai-Pan among all the tai-pans of Asia. And joss had cost Brock an eye seventeen years ago, the year that Struan had founded his empire.

It had happened off Chushan Island. Chushan was just south of the huge port of Shanghai, near the mouth of the mighty Yangtse River. Brock had beaten up through the monsoon with a huge cargo of opiumDirk Struan a few days astern, also carrying opium. Brock had reached Chushan first, sold his cargo and turned around, knowing happily that now Struan would have to go farther north and try a new coast with fresh risks. Brock had sped south for homeMacaohis coffers filled with bullion, the full wind astern. Then a great storm had suddenly swooped out of the China seas. The Chinese called these storms tai-fung, the Supreme Winds. The traders called them typhoons. They were terror incarnate.