“Scum started it!”
Yes, and madmen are continuing it, Cooper thought bitterly, remembering the violent private quarrels he was always having with his partner, who owned plantation slaves and trafficked in them. How could Wilf be so blind? “You were in the trade up to eight years ago.”
“Struan’s was never in human cargo, by God. And by the Lord God, I’ll blow any ship out of the sea I catch doing it. In or out of British waters. We gave the lead to the world. Slavery’s outlawed. God help us, it took till 1833 to do it, but it’s done. Any ship, remember!”
“Then do another thing. Use your influence to let us buy opium from the goddam East India Company. Why should everyone but British traders be totally excluded from the auctions, eh? Why should we be forced to buy low-quality Turkish opium when there’s more than enough from Bengal for all of us?”
“I’ve done more than my share to wreck the Company, as you well know. Spend some money, laddie. Gamble a little. Agitate in Washington. Push your partner’s brother. Isn’t he a senator from Alabama? Or is he too busy looking after four godrotting blackbirders and a couple of ‘markets’ in Mobile?”
“You know my opinion on that, by God,” Cooper snapped. “Open up the opium auctions and we’ll trade you off the earth. I think you’re all afraid to compete freely, if the truth was known. Why else keep the Navigation Acts in force? Why make it law that only English ships can carry goods into England? By what right do you monopolize the biggest consuming market on earth?”
“Na by divine right, laddie,” Struan said sharply, “which seems to permeate American thinking and foreign policy.”
“In some things we’re right and you’re wrong. Let’s compete freely. Goddam tariffs! Free trade and free seas—that’s what’s right!”
“Struan’s is with you there. Do you na read the newspapers? I dinna mind telling you we buy ten thousand votes a year to support six members who’ll vote free trade. We’re trying hard enough.”
“One vote, one man. We don’t buy votes.”
“You’ve your system and we’ve ours. And I’ll tell you something else. The
British were na for the American wars, either of them. Or for those godrotting Hanoverian kings. You did na win the wars, we lost ’em. Happily. Why should we war on kith and kin? But if the people of the Isles ever decide to war on the States, watch out, by God. Because you’re finished.”
“I think a toast is in order,” Robb said.
The two men tore their eyes off each other and stared at him. To their astonishment he poured three glasses.
“You’ll na drink, Robb,” Struan said, his voice a lash.
“I will. First time on Hong Kong. Last time.” Robb handed them glasses. The whisky was golden-brown and distilled exclusively for The Noble House at Loch Tannoch where they were born. Robb needed the drink; he needed the keg.
“You swore a holy oath!”
“I know. But it’s bad luck to toast in water. And this toast’s important.” Robb’s hand shook as he raised his glass. “Here’s to our future. Here’s to
Independence and
Independent Cloud. To freedom o’ the seas. To freedom from any tyrants.”
He took a sip and held the liquor in his mouth, feeling it burn, his body twisting with the need of it. Then he spat it out and poured the remainder on the pebbles.
“If I ever do that again, knock it out of my hand.” He turned away, nauseated, and walked inland.
“That took more strength than I have,” Cooper said.
“Robb’s sick in the head to tempt the Devil like that,” Struan said.
Robb had begun to drink to the point of insanity six years ago. The preceeding year Sarah had come to Macao from Scotland with their children. For a time everything had been grand, but then she had found out about Robb’s Chinese mistress of years, Ming Soo, and about their daughter. Struan remembered Sarah’s rage and Robb’s anguish, and he was sad for both of them. They should have been divorced years ago, he thought, and he damned the fact that a divorce could be obtained only by Act of Parliament. At length Sarah had agreed to forgive Robb, but only if he would swear by God to immediately rid himself forever of his adored mistress and their daughter. Hating himself, Robb had agreed. He had secretly given Ming Soo four thousand taels of silver, and she and their daughter had left Macao. He had never seen them or heard of them again. But though Sarah relented, she never forgot the beautiful girl and child and continued to salt the ever-open wound. Robb had begun drinking heavily. Soon the drink ruled him and he was besotted for months on end. Then one day he had disappeared. Eventually Struan had found him in one of the stinking gin cellars in Macao and had carried him home and sobered him; then he had given him a gun.
“Shoot yoursel’ or swear by God you’ll na touch drink again. It’s poison to you, Robb. You’ve been drunk for almost a year. You’ve the children to think of. The poor bairns are terrified of you and rightly; and I’m tired of pulling you out of gutters. Look at yoursel’, Robb! Go on!”
Struan had forced him to look into a mirror. Robb had sworn, and then Struan had sent him to sea for a month with orders that he was to be given no liquor. Robb had almost died. In time he had become himself again, and he had thanked his brother and lived with Sarah again and tried to make peace. But there was never peace again between them—or love. Poor Robb, Struan thought. Aye, and poor Sarah. Terrible to live like that, husband and wife.
“What the devil made Robbie do that?”
“I think he wanted to break up a quarrel,” Cooper said. “I was getting angry. Sorry.”
“Dinna apologize, Jeff. It was my fault. Well,” Struan added, “let’s na waste Robb’s guts, eh? His toast?”
They drank silently. All around the shore the merchants and sailors were roistering.
“Hey, Tai-Pan! And you, you blasted colonial! Come over here!”
It was Quance, seated near the flagpole. He waved at them and shouted again. “Blast it, come over here!” He took a pinch of snuff, sneezed twice and dusted himself impatiently with a French lace kerchief.
“By God, sir,” he said to Struan, peering up at him over rimless spectacles, “how the blasted hell can a man work with all this din and tumult? You and your blasted liquor!”
“Did you try the brandy, Mr. Quance?”
“Impeccable, my dear fellow. Like Miss Tillman’s tits.” He took the painting off the easel and held it up. “What do you think?”
“About Shevaun Tilknan?”
“The painting. Great spheroids of balderdash, how can you think about a doxy’s tail when you’re in the presence of a masterpiece?” Quance took another pinch of snuff and choked, and gulped from his tankard of Napoleon brandy and sneezed.
The painting was a water color of the day’s ceremony. Delicate. Faithful. And a little more. It was easy to pick out Brock and Mauss, and Glessing was there, the proclamation in his hands.
“It’s very good, Mr. Quance,” Struan said.
“Fifty guineas.”
“I bought a painting last week.”
‘Twenty guineas.”
“I’m na in it.”
“Fifty guineas and I’ll paint you reading the proclamation.”
“No.”
“Mr. Cooper. A masterpiece. Twenty guineas.”
“Outside of the Tai-Pan and Robb, I’ve the biggest Quance collection in the Far East.”