Ryman, Rebecca (4 page)

Olivia's
spirits lifted, as they always did in the presence of her uncle, whom she liked
enormously. As senior partner of Calcutta's largest tea exporting house,
Templewood and Ransome, he was a merchant prince in stature, recently elected
chief official of Calcutta's Chamber of Commerce. If Olivia found anything
intellectually stimulating amidst the narrow confines of colonial society, it
was the rough and tumble of the city's corporate life. Here, as in New York and
Chicago, according to what her father had told her, murderous rivalries
prevailed, especially in the China Coast trade
where dog ate dog with neither
compunction nor compassion and only the most primeval laws of the jungle
applied.

This
complex, cold-blooded mercantile world fascinated Olivia. From her uncle she
had learned much of the honourable East India Company, the world's largest
trading establishment and bastion of English enterprise in India. From books
borrowed from Sir Joshua's ample library, she had gathered that the rise of the
establishment—known locally as John Company or Company Bahadur—had been
spectacular. It virtually ruled India under charter from the Crown, or that
part of India not ruled by the princes, and wielded immense power with its own
army and the right to wage war if necessary. Founded in 1600 by eighty canny,
hard-headed English businessmen, John Company capitalised with great profit on
the open-ended wealth of the Orient: spices, silks, China teas, indigo, jute,
cotton for Lancashire's mills, opium, camphor, shellac, perfumes and countless
other commercially lucrative commodities. The cut and thrust of commercial life
here reminded Olivia of her own country, where vast industries such as
railroads, steel, and coal and other mining were burgeoning and competition on
ever-expanding frontiers was as violent and fierce as in these imperial
market-places.

But
if Olivia's interest in Calcutta's commerce amused Sir Joshua, it aggravated
her aunt even more. After the men had eaten in the study, she cornered her
husband in the bedroom when he came up for a wash. "I do wish you wouldn't
encourage the girl, Josh, in these silly pursuits. Don't you consider her ideas
forward enough as they are?"

Standing
before the mirror brushing out his mutton chop whiskers, Sir Joshua grunted.
"The lass has a good brain between her ears. Let her use it if she wants
to."

"If
she has a good brain between her ears let her use it to find a decent English
husband!" his wife retorted. "She's here only for a year and she's
not getting any younger. Would you approve of a spinster daughter almost
twenty-
three!"

Having
no particular opinion in the matter, he merely shrugged. He gave his whiskers a
final pat and strolled out of the room, having no doubt dismissed the subject
entirely from his mind. In the art of solemnly hearing his wife without
listening to a word she said, Sir Joshua was something of a master.

It
was around ten that Olivia walked into Sir Joshua's study followed by Rehman
bearing the coffee salver. Sir Joshua and his junior partner in the firm,
Arthur Ransome, both held snifters of brandy and the air was thick with Havana
cigar smoke. "Ah, there you are, m'dear." Lifting his chin Sir Joshua
inhaled appreciatively. "I'm beginning to agree with Olivia, Arthur. There
is a great deal to be said for Brazilian coffee."

Arthur
Ransome rose to his feet with some awkwardness and bowed. "Indeed there
is. Could be we've been chasing the wrong beverage all these years."

The
banter continued through the appreciative sipping of coffee as Sir Joshua
regaled them with a literally blow-by-blow account of the morning's rumbustious
proceedings in the Chamber. Then Ransome made a comment, which Olivia missed.
Sir Joshua sobered. "I was not being frivolous, Arthur. I think it's a
perfectly viable project and draconian situations call for draconian action, at
least that much you will agree?"

It
was evidently the thread of an earlier conversation that was being picked up.
Ransome shook his head. "Draconian yes, but not suicidal! To act rashly
now would be to lose sight of the reality, Josh."

Without
comprehending the background to the dispute, Olivia listened intently. Although
Ransome was her uncle's closest and dearest friend apart from business partner,
the two men could not have been more different. Whereas Sir Joshua was large,
loose limbed and dominated with ease whatever environment he happened to be in,
Ransome was visibly sedate, squat, fastidious and content to remain in the
background. If there was occasional flamboyance and a certain simmering
ruthlessness about Sir Joshua, Ransome's middle name was caution, perhaps
because as an accountant said to be a genius with figures, he liked precision
and propriety. Olivia had met him before, of course, and had been impressed by
his unfailing courtesy.

"We
can't sit back and let them beat us at our own game, dammit! It's a challenge
that must be answered." Sir Joshua stood up to tower above his seated
partner, his face even more florid than usual.

"It
will be answered by others."

"Maybe.
But I don't give a damn what others do. There are rich pickings here, Arthur,
richer than available in London. I think we must bid for our share of them
now.
Isn't that
right, Olivia?" He suddenly spun around and impaled her with a stare.

"Isn't
what right?" Quickly, she reassembled her thoughts.

"Would
you not say that our chances of making hard dents in your American markets are
again good considering that three quarters of a century has elapsed since those
infernal Tea Parties?"

Olivia
pondered. Her uncle's habit of frequently asking her opinion on matters she
knew little about pleased her, since at home her father had always treated her
as an equal even when she was much younger. This time she knew to what her
uncle was referring—the Tea Act, which had imposed a threepenny per pound levy
on teas imported from England into America. The opposition to the levy had been
bitter and the first consignments received in 1773 in Boston, Greenwich,
Charleston, Philadelphia, New York, Annapolis and Edenton had been
unceremoniously dumped into the harbours, the incident earning the jocular
nickname of the "Tea Parties." In fact, it was this indignation that
had struck the first blow for the American War of Independence and,
understandably, soured American taste for tea.

Olivia
recalled these facts now in answer to Sir Joshua's query. "Well, I do know
that some folks back home still will not buy anything imported from England.
Besides, almost everyone we know drinks caw— coffee." Remembering her
aunt's advice, she hastily amended her long vowel. "And, surely, whatever
little demand there is for tea is satisfied by American importers who also sail
to the China Coast?"

"You
see, Arthur?" Sir Joshua smacked his thigh and looked pleased.
"Olivia has hit the nail on the head. It's because there
is
a demand that
Astor, Griswold, Howland and that bunch are making fortunes. By Jove, I'd
dearly like to have another poke at Boston!"

Ransome
continued puffing quietly at his pipe, unimpressed. "Not now, Josh. Maybe
later. We do pretty well in Mincing Lane and in the domestic market. Why reach
for the moon when we don't need it?"

"Because
when we do need it, it will have waned!" Exasperated, he controlled himself
with an effort. "Listen, Arthur, the Americans have an edge on us at the
moment, and do you know why? Not because they're better, not by a long-shot,
but because they're
faster."

"Agreed.
But we simply cannot afford one of these Baltimore clippers at the present
time. We have to operate with what we have, our ugly little tea wagons, and do
the best we can, which is pretty good."

"Precisely,
old boy! But if we modernised the tea wagons they could still be a match for
the clippers."

The
expression on Ransome's round, plump-cheeked face turned wary. "How?"

"By
refitting them with coal engines."

Ransome
laughed. "Coal engines! My dear fellow, that's a pipe dream, a pie in the
sky. It will be years before coal-powered navigation becomes commonly
available, within the reach of private merchants."

"You're
wrong there, Arthur." Hands clasped behind his back, Sir Joshua walked to
the glass-fronted cupboard in which reposed all the memorabilia of his sailing
days—carved ivory ornaments, jade figurines, etched metal vases, urns and
incense stands, brass Buddhas and Ming jars—and stared into it hard. "John
Company already uses steam packets for coastal and river traffic. England and
America have coal engines pulling trains. Why should we not make a start here?"

"Well,
for one," Ransome asked drily, "where's the coal? The Royal Navy
maintains its own coaling stations, which we cannot touch. Every lump mined at
Raniganj—and ninety thousand tons a year is still precious little—is being
stockpiled for the Bombay-Thana railway already under construction. Let's not
daydream, Josh." His tone sharpened. "Whatever coal exists at the
moment is not available for private business."

Sir
Joshua turned and strolled back toward Arthur, his face suddenly blank.
"Raniganj will expand. Other mines will open up. We know, for instance,
that there is coal in . . ." He paused and pulled in a deep breath and his
half smile was suddenly very sly, "in Kirtinagar."

"Ah!"
His partner's intake of breath was audible. "I've suspected for some time
that
this
is
what you've been building up to, Josh. And now I know you
are
reaching for the
moon!" He laughed but with irritation.

"Why?
I know the calibre of these native princes, Arthur. Show them a few pretty
baubles from Europe, tickle their fancies, prime their egos and pleasure them
well—and they'll sell their mothers to you if the price is right." His
face was now set and his voice harsh.

Ransome
sat up slowly and subjected his partner to a surprised stare. "But we both
know the reputation Arvind Singh has, Josh. He's not one of those maharajas you
have in mind."

"Pshaw!"
Sir Joshua threw up his hands in a gesture of
contempt. "Underneath,
they're all the same—and there's more than one way of catching a monkey. Arvind
Singh wants big money for that irrigation project of his. If the Europeans
formed a consortium with merchants like Jardine, Gillanders, Schoene, a jute
man or two, we could afford to make Arvind Singh an offer he would not be able
to refuse. There isn't a single merchant in Calcutta who wouldn't sell his soul
for steam navigation. What we need is some hard bargaining power."

All
at once, it seemed to Olivia, the timbre of the debate had changed subtly from
healthy disagreement to something else. There was tension in the air, an
unspoken feeling of disquiet. For a long while Ransome did not speak as he
exercised his right leg sorely afflicted by gout, and when he did speak it was
so quietly that Olivia could barely hear him.

"I'm
not certain, Josh, if you are forgetting the crux or missing it deliberately.
We both know that it is hardly the Maharaja's fancy that needs to be tickled,
and I can't bring myself to believe that you, especially you, are up to the
alternative." Presenting the expanse of an angry back to his partner, Sir
Joshua clenched his fists by his side but remained silent. Doggedly, Ransome
ploughed on. "It sours me too, Josh, that the man has had his clipper
refitted in Clydeside with a coal engine, which makes him twice as fast as any
of us, but he is an exception. Yes, I too am envious as hell of his successes,
but
we must accept
that we cannot match him in the American market. Not anymore. Kala Kanta has
too much of a head start. And now that he's devised this clever novelty of
selling tea in smaller, individual packets—"

"I
thought of that two years ago, dammit!"

"True,"
Ransome agreed calmly, "but it is Kala Kanta who has
done
it."

"Are
you chickening out of a challenge, Arthur?" There was anger in Sir
Joshua's hard, intractable tone. "He hasn't cornered
all
the market yet;
that moon still has slices for others, for
us!"