Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“Yes, suh, and ready to have at it.” Apart from the slight roll to the “suh” his accent was faint, much more English than Southern.
“Good. Sir Morgan told me to give you this when we arrived.” He took an envelope from his briefcase and handed it to him. The more he thought about his whole trip the more flabbergasted he became. Tyler Brock had not come to Shanghai. A curt note had greeted Greyforth instead, telling him to obey his son, Morgan, as though he was giving the orders. Sir Morgan Brock was a big-bellied, balding man, not as coarse as his father, but just as mean-tempered and bearded like him. Unlike him, he was London-trained in Threadneedle Street, center of the world’s stock markets, and for all manner of international trade. As soon as Greyforth arrived Morgan had laid out his plan to break Struan’s.
It was foolproof.
For a year he, his father and their associates on the board of the Victoria Bank of Hong Kong had been buying up Struan’s debt paper. Now, with the whole board backing them, they only had to wait until the 30th of January to foreclose. There was no way Struan’s could meet this deadline. On that date the bank would own Struan’s, lock, stock and clipper ship, with Morgan cornering the Hawaiian sugar markets, cunningly excluding Struan’s, who counted on their yearly profits from those markets to service their debts. He would make the killing certain. And another, even bigger coup: Morgan, with supreme cleverness, had bartered these crops forward to Union and Confederate importers for Union goods and Southern cotton for the huge British market that still, by law, could only be serviced by British ships—their ships.
“It’s a genius scheme, Sir Morgan, congratulations,” Norbert said, awed, for it would make Brock’s the wealthiest trading company in Asia, the Noble House, and guarantee his stipend of five thousand guineas a year.
“We be buying Struan’s at ten pennies on the pound from the Bank, that be agreed, Norbert, their fleet, everything,” Sir Morgan had said, his huge belly shaking with laughter. “Thee’s to retire soon, and we be very grateful for thy service. If all goes well in Yokohama, we be thinking of another five thousand a year as bonus. Look after young Edward and show him everything.”
“To what end?” he had asked, that vast amount of money every year swamping him.
“To any end I want,” Sir Morgan had said curtly. “But since thee asks, perhaps I be wanting him to take over Japan, take over thy job when thee goes, if he’s worthy. Rothwell’s be giving him a month’s leave”—this was Gornt’s present employer, one of the oldest Shanghai companies and associates of Cooper-Tillman, the biggest American China trader, for whom he had been working for three years, and with whom Brock’s, as well as Struan’s, had extensive business relations—“this be enough time for the lad to decide, perhaps he’ll take over from thee, when thee retires.”
“You think he’s experienced enough, Sir Morgan?”
“By the time thee leaves, make sure he is—that’s thy job, teach him, toughen him. Don’t break him, I don’t want him scared off, broken—don’t forget now!”
“How much should I tell him?”
After thought, Sir Morgan said, “Everything about our business in the Japans, the gunrunning plan and opium smuggling if them bastards in Parliament get their way. Tell him thy ideas on opening up the opium trade and busting any embargo if there be one, but nought about provoking Struan, or about our scheme to smash them. The lad knows about the Struans, no love lost on them at Rothwell’s, he knows what scum they really be and the devilment old Dirk did, murdering my stepbrother and the like. He’s a good lad, so tell him what thee will, but not about sugar!”
“Just as you say, Sir Morgan. What about all the specie and paper I brought? I’ll need replacements to pay for the guns, silks and this year’s trade goods.”
“I be sending it from Hong Kong, when I returns, and Norbert, it were right clever to shove Struan’s out of the way with the Jappo prospecting offer—if that pays dirt, thee will share in’t. As to Edward, after the month send him to Hong Kong with a confidential report to the Old Man. I like the lad, he be highly thought of in Shanghai and by Rothwell’s—and the son of an old friend.”
Norbert had wondered about “what” old friend, and about the debt Sir Morgan owed the man to take so much trouble, unusual for him to be kind to anyone. But he was too shrewd to ask and kept his own counsel, happy that the problem of staying in Brock’s good favor would not concern him much longer.
Edward Gornt proved to be pleasant enough, reticent, a good listener, more English than American, intelligent, and, rare in Asia, a nondrinker. Greyforth’s immediate assessment had been that Gornt was totally un-suited to the rough, adventurous, hard-drinking China trade—a lightweight in everything, except at cards. Gornt was an exceptional bridge player and lucky at poker, a major virtue in Asia, but even this was academic for he never played for high stakes.
He was convinced that Edward Gornt would not suit the Brocks for long, and nothing on the voyage back had made him change his mind. From time to time he had seen a strangeness behind the eyes. The bugger’s just wishywashy, out of his depth and knows it, he thought, watching him reading Morgan’s letter. Never mind, if anyone can make him grow up I can.
Gornt folded the letter, pocketed it and the sheaf of money the envelope had contained. “Sir Morgan’s so generous, isn’t he?” he said with a smile. “I never thought he’d … I can’t wait to begin, to learn … I like work and action and I’ll do my best to please you, but I’m still not sure if I should leave Rothwell’s and … well, I never thought he would ever consider I would maybe be good enough to head Brock’s in Japan if or when you retire. Never.”
“Sir Morgan’s a tough master, difficult to please, like our tai-pan, but straight if you do what you’re told. A month will be enough. Can you handle a gun?”
“Oh, yes.”
The sudden directness surprised him. “What kinds?”
“Handguns, rifles, shotguns.” Again the smile. “I’ve never killed anyone, Indians or the like, but I was second in the Richmond skeet-shoot four years ago.” A shadow went over him. “That was the year I went to London to join Brock’s.”
“You didn’t want to leave? Didn’t like London?”
“No, and yes. My mother had died and—and my father, he thought it best I should be out in the world, London being the Center of the World, so to speak. London was grand. Sir Morgan very kind. Kindest man I know.”
Norbert waited but Gornt volunteered nothing more, lost in his own thoughts. Sir Morgan had only told him Gornt had spent a satisfactory year with Brock’s in London, with Tyler Brock’s last and youngest son, Tom. After the year he had arranged the junior post at Rothwell’s. “Do you know Dmitri Syborodin who runs Cooper-Tillman here?”
“No, suh. Only by reputation. My parents knew Judith Tillman, the widow of one of the original partners.” Gornt’s eyes had narrowed and Norbert noticed the strangeness in them. “She didn’t like Dirk Struan either, loathed him in fact, blamed him for the death of her husband. The sins of the father do pass onwards, don’t they?”
Norbert laughed. “They do indeed.”
“You were saying, suh? Dmitri Syborodin?”
“You’ll like him, he’s Southern too.” The landing bell sounded. Norbert’s eyes glittered with anticipation. “Let’s get ashore, there’ll be action soon enough.”
“Man wan’ see tai-pan, heya?” Ah Tok said.
“Ayeeyah, speak civilized, Mother, and not gibberish,” Malcolm told her in Cantonese. He stood at his office window, binoculars in his hand, and had been watching the mail ship unloading passengers. He had seen Norbert Greyforth and now he was feeling very good. “What man?”
“The foreign devil bonze you sent for, the foul-smelling bonze,” she mumbled. “Your old mother is working too hard and her son won’t listen! We should be going home.”
“Ayeeyah, I’ve told you not to mention going home,” he told her sharply. “Do that once more and I’ll pack you off on the next dirty little lo
She went off grumbling. For days she had been harping on a return to Hong Kong, as much as he told her not to. So much so, he was sure she had had orders from Gordon Chen to harass him into obeying.
“By God, I won’t until I’m ready.” He hobbled back to his desk, glad that his score with Norbert would soon be settled and his whole glorious plan put into effect. “Ah, ’morning, Reverend Tweet, kind of you to be prompt. Sherry?”
“Thank you, Mr., er, Tai-pan, bless you.”
The sherry went in a nervous gulp though Struan had deliberately chosen a big glass. “Admirable, er, Tai-pan. Ah yes, thanks, I’ll have another small one, bless you.” The untidy sack of a man settled with an uneasy smile in the tall chair. Tobacco stained his beard. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s about myself and Miss Angelique. I want you to marry us. Next week.”
“Eh?” The Reverend Michaelmas Tweet almost dropped his glass. “Impossible,” he stuttered, his false teeth chattering.
“No, it isn’t. There’s lot of precedent for condensing the banns that have to be read out on three succeeding Sundays in church into one Sunday only.”
“But I can’t … you’re a minor and so is she, and worse, she’s Catholic and there’s no possible way …. I can’t.”
“Oh, but you can.” Confidently he parroted what Heatherly Skye, nicknamed “Heavenly,” the only lawyer in Yokohama as well as coroner and insurance agent, had told him. “The fact that I’m a minor applies only in the United Kingdom, not in the colonies or abroad, and only when the father is alive. That she’s Catholic doesn’t matter if it doesn’t matter to me. That ends that. Tuesday the 9th is an auspicious day to be married on. We keep everything quiet until then and that’s when it will be.”
To Malcolm’s amusement Michaelmas Tweet’s mouth opened and closed like a fish but no sound came out. Shakily, the clergyman groped to his feet, poured another sherry, gulped it, then collapsed into the chair again. “I can’t.”
“Oh, but I’ve taken legal advice and I’m advised you can. Also I intend to endow you and your church with an extra stipend—five hundred guineas a year.” He knew the man was hooked, for the offer was three or four times his present salary and twice what the lawyer had advised: Don’t spoil the old fart! “We’ll be in church on Sunday to hear the banns read, Tuesday’s the great day, the same day you get a hundred guineas advance for your trouble. Thank you, Reverend.” He stood but Tweet did not move and he saw his eyes fill with tears. “What on earth’s the matter?”
“I just can’t do what you ask,” Tweet spluttered. “It’s—it’s not possible. You see, your … even if that advice is correct, which I, er, I doubt … your mother wrote to me, she wrote formally, by the last post saying that … that your father had made her your legal guardian and you had been forbidden to marry.” The tears were flowing down his cheeks, his rheumy eyes bloodshot. “Dear God in Heaven, that’s so much money, more than I ever dreamed, but I can’t … I can’t go against the law or her, dear God no!”
“A thousand guineas.”
“Oh God, don’t, don’t,” the tired old man burst out. “Much as I want the money … don’t you see, the marriage wouldn’t be legal, it’s against Church law. God knows I’m as big a sinner as the next, but I can’t and if she wrote to me surely she wrote to Sir William, who must sanction any such marriage. God forgive me, I can’t …” He stumbled out of the room.
Malcolm stared after him. Speechless, his mind blank, his office suddenly a tomb. The plan, hatched with Heavenly Skye, had been perfect. They would marry quietly, just Jamie and perhaps Dmitri, then he would leave at once for Hong Kong after the duel to be there well before Christmas as his mother had asked and before the news could possibly reach her. Angelique would follow on the next boat.
“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man—or woman—cast asunder,” Heavenly Skye had intoned when he had consulted him.
“Perfect! That’s perfect, Heavenly.”
“Thank you, Tai-pan. The fee’s fifty guineas. Could I, er, could I have a down payment, cash, if you please?”
Fifty guineas was outrageous. Even so Malcolm Struan had given him ten sovereigns, with Noble House chits for the balance, and had walked home, feeling lighter than in weeks.
“You’re in a happy mood today, Malcolm. Good news?”
“Yes, my darling Angel, but I’ll share it with you tomorrow. Meanwhile, when do we see our picture? Your dress was really marvelous.”
“It takes such a time to develop whatever has to be developed. Perhaps tomorrow. You looked so handsome.”
“Wonderful. I think we should have a party ….”
But now, with the party arranged for tonight, it would not be wonderful. He was totally downcast. Perhaps there was a way to force Tweet? Should he have at him tomorrow when the shock had warn off? More money? Sir William? A sudden idea. He rang the bell. “Yes, Tai-pan?”
“Vargas, run over to the Catholic church and find Father Leo. Ask him if he could step by for a moment.”
“Certainly, Tai-pan. When should he come?”
“Now, as soon as possible.”
“Now, Tai-pan? But it’s lunchtime—”
“Now, by God!” Malcolm shouted, so pent up was his frustration that he had to ask others to do the simplest jobs that he could have done himself before the Tokaidō—God curse those swine, God curse the Tokaidō—it’s like B.C. and A.D. for me, except the bad is now, not the good. “Now. Hurry up!”
Vargas was white-faced as he rushed off. While he waited, Malcolm tried to think of ways to strong-arm Tweet, letting his mind brood and, as the minutes passed slowly, becoming ever more infuriated and ever more determined.
“Father Leo, Tai-pan.” Vargas stepped aside and closed the door after him.
The priest tried to hide his nervousness. Several times he had begun to walk here to discuss with the Senhor his conversion to Catholicism, but each time he had stopped, promising himself he would go tomorrow but never had, afraid of making a mistake, stumbling over the words. In desperation he had sought out André Poncin to arrange a rendezvous and had been shocked at the way Poncin, then the French Minister personally—who rarely talked to him—had reacted, telling him such a discussion was premature, advising him God’s work needed patience and prudence, forbidding the approach for the time being.
“’Morning,” Malcolm said weakly.
This was the first time any of the Protestant traders had ever invited him into an office. Throughout the Protestant world, feelings against Catholics and their priests were seriously antagonistic, accusing them of bloody pogroms and religious wars, recent and never to be forgotten, reminding them of the iron control they exercised over their converts and countries they dominated—Protestants equally loathed by Catholics, and according to Catholic beliefs, heretic.
“The Blessings of God upon thee,” Father Leo murmured tentatively. Before leaving his little bungalow adjoining the church he had hastily said a prayer that the summons was about what he had prayed so hard for. “Yes, my son?”
“Please, I want you to marry Miss Angelique and me.” Malcolm was astonished that his voice sounded so calm, abruptly appalled that he was not only saying it but had actually sent for the priest, whilst understanding clearly the implications of what he asked—Mother will have a fit, our friends and our whole world will think I’ve gone raving mad ….
“God be thanked,” Father Leo had burst out in ecstatic Portuguese, his eyes closed, arms lifted up to Heaven. “How marvelous are the ways of God, I thank Thee, thank Thee for answering my prayers, may I be worthy of Thy favor!”
“What?” Malcolm stared at him.
“Ah, senhor, my son, please forgive me,” he said in English again. “I was just thanking God that in His mercy He has
“Oh. Sherry?” was all Malcolm could think of to say.
“Ah, thank you, my son, but first will you pray with me?” At once the priest came nearer and went on his knees, closed his eyes and put his hands together in prayer. Embarrassed by the man’s sincerity—though disregarding his prayers as meaningless—and unable to kneel anyway, Malcolm stayed seated and closed his eyes and said a small prayer to God, sure that God would understand this momentary lapse, trying to convince himself it was quite all right to have this man do what was needed.
That the ceremony would probably be invalid in his world was unimportant. It would be valid for Angelique. She could join his marriage bed with a clear conscience. And once the initial storm in Hong Kong had settled and his mother won over—or even if she wasn’t—as soon as he was of age next May a proper ceremony would correct any little wrong.
He half opened his eyes. Father Leo was lost in the jumble of Latin. The prayer dragged on, and the blessing. When it was over Father Leo got to his feet, the little coffee beans of his eyes sparkling in his swarthy jowls. “Please allow me to serve the sherry, to save you pain, senhor, after all now I am your servant too,” he said jovially. “How are your wounds? How are you feeling?”
“Fair. Now …” Malcolm could not bring himself to call him “Father.” “Now, about the marriage, I th—”
“It will be done, my son, it will be done marvelously, I promise.” How wonderful are the works of God, Father Leo thought. I have not broken my promise to the French Minister, God has brought this poor youth to me. “Don’t worry, senhor, it is the will of God you have asked me, and it will be done for the Glory of God.” Father Leo gave him a full glass, and poured one for himself, spilling a little. “To your future happiness and God’s mercy.” He drank, then sat in the chair with such friendliness—the chair that such a short time ago had been occupied with such rejection—that Malcolm was further unsettled.
“Now, your wedding, it will be the best, the biggest ever held,” the priest said, and rushed onwards, his enthusiasm vast, and Malcolm’s spirits drooped lower, for he wanted this temporary wedding to be kept quiet. “We must have a choir and an organ, and new vestments and silver goblets for Communion, but before those details, my son, there are many wonderful plans to discuss. The children, for instance, now they will be saved, they will be Catholic and saved from Purgatory and the agonies of eternal Hellfire!”