“Now, there’s an invention that’ll rock the world,” he muttered.
“What did you say, Father?” Culum asked. Struan came back into himself. “I was just thinking about our first ride on a train,” he improvised.
“You been on a train, sorr?” McKay asked. “What’s it like? When was that?”
Culum said, “We went on the maiden trip of Stephenson’s engine, the
Rocket. I was twelve.”
“No, lad,” Struan said, “you were eleven. It was in 1830. Eleven years ago. It was the maiden run of the
Rocket, on the first passenger train on earth. From Manchester to Liverpool. A day’s run by stagecoach, but we made the journey in an hour and a half.” And once again Struan began to ponder the fate of The Noble House. Then he remembered his instructions to Robb to borrow all the money they could to corner the opium market. Let’s see—we could make fifty, a hundred thousand pounds out of that. Aye—but a drop in the bucket for what we need. The three million we’re owed for the stolen opium! Aye, but we canna get that until the treaty’s ratified—six to nine months—and we’ve to honor our drafts in three!
How to get cash? Our position’s good—our standing good. Except there are jackals salivating at our heels. Brock for one. Cooper-Tillman for another. Did Brock start the run on the bank? Or was it his whelp Morgan? The Brocks have power enough and money enough. It’s cash we need. Or a huge line of credit. Supported by cash, na paper. We’re bankrupt. At least we’re bankrupt if our creditors fall on us.
He felt his son’s hand on his arm. “What did you say, lad?
The Rocket, you were saying?”
Culum was greatly unsettled by Struan’s pallor and the piercing luminous green of his eyes. “The flagship. We’re here.”
Culum followed his father on deck. He had never been aboard a warship, let alone a capital ship. H.M.S.
Titan was one of the most powerful vessels afloat. She was huge—triple-masted—with 74 cannons mounted on three gun-decks. But Culum was unimpressed. He did not care for ships, and loathed the sea. He was afraid of the violence and danger and enormousness of it, and he could not swim. He wondered how his father could love the sea.
There’s so much I don’t know about my father, he thought. But that’s not strange. I’ve only seen him a few times in my life and the last time six years ago. Father hasn’t changed. But I have. Now I know what I’m going to do with my life. And now that I’m alone . . . I like being alone, and hate it.
He followed his father down the gangway onto the main gundeck. It was low-ceilinged and they had to stoop as they walked aft heading for the sentry-guarded cabin, and the whole ship smelled of gunpowder and tar and hemp and sweat.
“Day, sir.” the marine said to Struan, his musket pointing at him formally. “Master-at-arms!”
The master-at-arms, scarlet-uniformed, his white pipeclay trimming resplendent, stamped out of the guard cabin. He was as hard as a cannon ball and his head as round. “Day, Mr. Struan. Just a moment, sirr.” He knocked deferentially on the oak cabin door. A voice said, “Come in,” and he closed the door behind him.
Struan took out a cheroot and offered it to Culum. “Are you smoking now, lad?”
“Yes. Thank you, Father.”
Struan lit Culum’s cheroot and one for himself. He leaned against one of the twelve-foot-long cannons. The cannon balls were piled neatly, ever ready. Sixty-pound shot.
The cabin door opened. Longstaff, a slight, dapper man came out. His hair was dark and fashionably curled, his muttonchop whiskers thick. He had a high forehead and dark eyes. The sentry presented arms and the master-at-arms returned to the guard cabin.
“Hello, Dirk, my dear fellow. How are you? I was so sad to hear.” Longstaff shook Struan’s hand nervously, then smiled at Culum and offered his hand again. “You must be Culum. I’m William Longstaff. Sorry that you came under these terrible circumstances.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Culum said, astonished that the Captain Superintendent of Trade should be so young.
“Do you mind waiting a moment, Dirk? Admiral’s conference and the captains. I’ll be through in a few minutes,” Longstaff said with a yawn. “I’ve a lot to talk to you about. If you’re up to it.”
“Yes.”
Longstaff glanced anxiously at the gold jeweled fob watch which dangled from his brocade waistcoat. “Almost eleven o’clock! Never seems to be enough time. Would you like to go down to the wardroom?”
“No. We’ll wait here.”
“As you wish.” Longstaff briskly re-entered the cabin and shut the door.
“He’s very young to be the plenipotentiary, isn’t he?” Culum asked.
“Yes and no. He’s thirty-six. Empires are built by young men, Culum. They’re lost by old men.”
“He doesn’t look English at all. Is he Welsh?”
“His mother’s Spanish.” Which accounted for his cruel streak, Struan thought to himself. “She was a countess. His father was a diplomat to the court of Spain. It was one of those ‘well-bred’ marriages. His family’s connected with the earls of Toth.”
If you’re not born an aristocrat, Culum thought, however clever you are, you haven’t a hope. Not a hope. Not without revolution. “Things are very bad in England,” he told his father.
“How so, lad?” Struan said.
“The rich are too rich and the poor too poor. People pouring into the cities looking for work. More people than jobs, so the employers pay less and less. People starving. The Chartist leaders are still in prison.”
“A good thing, too. Those rabble-rousing scum should have been hung or transported, na just put in prison.”
“You don’t approve of the Charter?” Culum was suddenly on his guard. The People’s Charter had been written less than three years ago, and now had become the rallying symbol of liberty to all the discontented of Britain. The Charter demanded a vote for every man, the abolition of the property qualification for members of Parliament, equal electoral districts, vote by secret ballot, annual Parliaments, and salaries for members of Parliament.
“I approve of it as a document of fair demands. But na of the Chartists or their leaders. The Charter’s like a lot of basic good ideas—they fall into the hands of the wrong leaders.”
“It’s not wrong to agitate for reform. Parliament’s got to make changes.”
“Agitate, yes. Talk, argue, write petitions, but don’t incite violence and dinna lead revolutions. The Government was right to put down the troubles in Wales and the Midlands. Insurrection’s no answer, by God. There’s tales that the Chartists have na learned their lesson yet and that they’re buying arms and having secret meetings. They should be stamped out, by God.”
“You won’t stamp out the Charter. Too many want it and are prepared to die for it.”
“Then there’ll be a lot of deaths, lad. If the Chartists dinna possess themselves with patience.”
“You don’t know what the British Isles are like now, Father. You’ve been out here so long. Patience comes hard with an empty belly.”