“It’s the same in China. Same all the world over. But revolt and insurrection’s na the British way.”
It soon will be, Culum thought grimly, if there aren’t changes. He was sorry now that he had left Glasgow for the Orient. Glasgow was the center of the Scottish Chartists and he was leader of the undergraduates who had, in secret, committed themselves to work and sweat—and die if necessary—for the Chartist cause.
The cabin door opened again, and the sentry stiffened. The admiral, a heavyset man, strode out, his face taut and angry, and headed for the gangway, followed by his captains. Most of the captains were young but a few were gray-haired. All were dressed in sea uniform and wore cocked hats, and their swords clattered.
Captain Glessing was last. He stopped in front of Struan. “Can I offer my condolences, Mr. Struan? Very bad luck!”
“Aye.” Is it just bad luck, Struan wondered, to lose a bonny wife and three bonny children? Or does God—or the Devil—have a hand in joss? Or are they—God, Devil, luck, joss—just different names for the same thing?”
“You were quite right to kill that damned marine,” Glessing said.
“I did na touch him.”
“Oh? I presumed you did. Couldn’t see what happened from where I was. It’s unimportant.”
“Did you bury him ashore?”
“No. No point in defiling the island with that sort of disease. Does the name Ramsey mean anything to you, Mr. Struan?” Glessing asked, bluntly terminating the amenities.
“Ramsey’s a common enough name.” Struan was on guard.
“True. But Scots stick together. Isn’t that a key to the success of Scot-dominated enterprises?”
“It’s hard to find trustworthy people, aye,” Struan said. “Does the name Ramsey mean anything to you?”
“It’s the name of a deserter from my ship,” Glessing said pointedly. “He’s a cousin to your bosun, Bosun McKay, I believe.”
“So?”
“Nothing. Just passing along information. As you know, of course, any merchantman, armed or otherwise, which harbors deserters can be taken as prize. By the Royal Navy.” Glessing smiled. “Stupid to desert. Where can he go except onto another ship?”
“Nowhere.” Struan felt trapped. He was sure that Ramsey was aboard one of his ships and certain that Brock was involved and perhaps Glessing too.
“We’re searching the fleet today. You’ve no objections, of course?”
“Of course. We’re very careful who man our ships.”
“Very wise. The admiral thought The Noble House should have pride of place, so your ships will be searched immediately.”
In that case, Struan thought, there’s nothing I can do. So he dismissed the problem from his mind.
“Captain, I’d like you to meet my eldest—my son, Culum. Culum, this is our famous Captain Glessing who won us the battle of Chuenpi.”
“Good day to you.” Glessing shook hands politely. Culum’s hand felt soft and it was long-fingered and slightly feminine. Bit of a dandy, Glessing thought. Waisted frock coat, pale blue cravat and high collar. Must be an undergraduate. Curious to be shaking hands with someone who’s had Bengal plague and lived. Wonder if I’d survive. “That wasn’t a battle.”
“Two small frigates against twenty junks of war and thirty or more fire ships? That’s na a battle?”
“An engagement, Mr. Struan. It could have been a battle . . .” If it hadn’t been for that godrotting coward Longstaff, and you, you godrotting pirate, he itched to say.
“We merchants think of it, Culum, as a battle,” Struan said ironically. “We dinna understand the difference between an engagement and a battle. We’re just peaceful traders. But the first time the arms of England went against the arms of China deserves the title ‘battle.’ It was just over a year ago. We fired first.”
“And what would you have done, Mr. Struan? It was the correct tactical decision.”
“Of course.”
“The Captain Superintendent of Trade concurred completely with my actions.”
“Of course. There was little else he could do.”
“Fighting old battles, Captain Glessing?” Longstaff asked. He was standing at the door of the cabin and had been listening, unnoticed.
“No, Your Excellency, just rehashing an old engagement. Mr. Struan and I have never seen eye to eye on Chuenpi, as you know.”
“And why should you? If Mr. Struan had been in your command, his decision might have been the same as yours. If you had been in Mr. Struan’s place, then you might have been sure that they would not have attacked and you would have gambled.” Longstaff yawned and toyed with his watch fob. “What would you have done, Culum?”
“I don’t know, sir. I don’t know the complications that existed.”
“Well said. ‘Complications’ is a good word.” Longstaff chuckled. “Would you care to join us, Captain? A glass of sack?”
“Thank you, sir, but I’d better get back to my ship.” Glessing saluted smartly and walked away.
Longstaff motioned the Struans into the conference room which presently served as the private quarters of the Captain Superintendent of Trade. It was spartan and functional, and the deep leather chairs and chart tables, chests of drawers and heavy oak table were all fastened tightly to the deck. The richly carved oak desk was backed by the semicircle of mullioned windows of the stern. The cabin smelled of tar and stale tobacco and sea and, inevitably, gunpowder.
“Steward!” Longstaff called out.
At once the cabin door opened. “Yussir?”
Longstaff turned to Struan. “Sack? Brandy? Port?”
“Dry sack, thank you.”
“The same, please, sir,” Culum said.
“I’ll have port.” Longstaff yawned again.
“Yussir.” The steward took the bottles from a sideboard and poured the wines into fine crystal glasses.
“Is this your first trip aboard, Culum?” Longstaff asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“But I suppose you’re well up-to-date on our recent ‘complications’?”
“No, Your Excellency. Father didn’t write very much, and China isn’t mentioned in the newspapers.”
“But it soon will be, eh, Dirk?”
The steward offered the glasses to Longstaff, and then to his guests.
“See that we’re not disturbed.”
“Yussir.” The steward left the bottles within easy reach and went out.
“A toast,” Longstaff said, and Struan remembered Robb’s toast and regretted that he had come first to the flagship. “To a pleasant stay, Culum, and to a safe journey home.”
They drank. The dry sack was excellent.
“History’s being made out here, Culum. And there’s no one better equipped to tell you about it than your father.”
“There’s an old Chinese saying, Culum: ‘Truth wears many faces,’ ” Struan said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Just that my version of ‘facts’ is na necessarily the only one.” This reminded him of the previous viceroy, Ling, now in disgrace in Canton, because his policies had precipitated the open conflict with Britain, and presently under a death sentence. “Is that devil Ling still in Canton?”
“I think so. His Excellency Ti-sen smiled when I asked him three days ago and said cryptically, ‘The Vermilion is the Son of Heaven. How can man know what Heaven wills?’ The Chinese emperor is called the Son of Heaven,’” Longstaff elaborated for Culum’s sake. “ ‘The Vermilion’ is another of his names because he always writes in vermilion-colored ink.”