Tai-Pan

CHAPTER NINE

Four days later

China Cloud was secretly at anchor in Deepwater Bay, on the south side of Hong Kong Island. It was a cold morning with a sky cloud-locked, the sea gray.

Struan was standing by the diamond-shaped windows in the main cabin, looking at the island. The barren mountains fell steeply into the sea around the bay, their peaks cloud-shrouded. There was a small sand beach at the bay’s apex and then the land climbed quickly once more to the clouds, rugged and lonely. Sea gulls cawed. Waves lapped the hull of the ship sweetly and the ship’s bell sounded six times.

“Aye?” Struan said in answer to a knock.

“Cutter’s returned,” Captain Orlov said wearily. He was a vast-shouldered hunchback, barely five feet tall with massive arms and huge head. A fighting iron was thonged to his wrist. Since the bullion had come aboard he had worn the fighting iron night and day and had even slept with it. “By the beard of Odin, our cargo’s worse’n the black plague.”

“More trouble?”

“Trouble, you say? Never on a ship o’ mine, by Jesus Christ’s mother’s head!” The tiny, misshapen man cackled with malevolent glee. “Least not while I’m awake, eh, Green Eyes?”

Struan had found Orlov wandering the docks of Glasgow many years ago. He was a Norseman who had been shipwrecked in the dangerous Orkneys and could not find a new ship. Though seamen knew no nationality, no owner would trust a ship to so strange a man who would call no one “sir” or “mister,” who would serve only as captain—nothing less.

“I’m best in world,” Orlov would shout, his mottled, beak-nosed face shaking with fury. “I’ve served my time before the mast—never again! Test me, and I’ll prove it, by the blood of Thor!”

Struan had tested Orlov’s knowledge of sea and wind, and tested his strength and courage, and had found nothing wanting. Orlov could speak English, French, Russian, Finnish and Norwegian. His mind was brilliant and his memory astonishing. And though he looked like a goblin and could kill like a shark if need be, he was fair, and completely trustworthy. Struan had given him a small ship and then a bigger one. Then a clipper. Last year he had made him captain of

China Cloud and he knew that Orlov was everything he claimed.

Struan poured more tea, hot and sweet and spiced with rum. “As soon as Mr. Robb and Culum are aboard, make course for Hong Kong harbor.”

“Sooner the better, eh?”

“Where’s Wolfgang?”

“In his cabin. Do you want him?”

“Nay. And see that we’re na disturbed.”

Orlov shifted his damp sea clothes irritably as he left. “Sooner we get rid of this plague-besotted cargo the better. Terriblest I’ve ever had.”

Struan did not reply. He was exhausted but his brain was alert. Almost home, he told himself. A few more hours and you’ll be safe in harbor. Thank God for the Royal Navy. Alongside one of the frigates you can rest.

The main cabin was luxurious and spacious. But now it was cluttered with muskets and knives and fighting irons and swords and cutlasses. He had disarmed all his crew before bringing the bullion aboard. Now only he and Captain Orlov carried weapons. Struan could feel the violent tension that pervaded the ship. The bullion had infected everyone. Aye, he thought, it’ll leave no man untouched. Even Robb. Even Culum. Maybe even Orlov.

On the voyage from the Marble Pagoda Ah Gip had sunk into a coma and had died. Struan had wanted to bury her at sea, but May-may had asked him not to.

“Ah Gip was a faithful slave,” she had said. “It would be bad joss na to return her to her parents and bury her as a Chinese, oh, absolutely very bad terrifical, Tai-Pan.”

So Struan had changed course and gone to Macao. There, with Mauss’s help, he had bought Ah Gip a fine coffin and had given it to her parents. He had also given them ten taels of silver for her funeral. Her parents were Hoklo boat people, and they had thanked him and had pressed him to take Ah Gip’s younger sister, Ah Sam, in her place. Ah Sam was fifteen, a merry, round-faced girl, who could also speak pidgin and, most unusual for a Hoklo, had bound feet. May-may had known Ah Sam and approved of her, so Struan had agreed. The parents had asked three hundred taels of silver for Ah Sam. Struan would have given them the money but May-may had said that he and she would lose great face if they paid the first price asked. So she had bargained with the parents and knocked down the price to one hundred and sixteen taels.

Struan had gone through the formality of buying the girl because it was customary. But then, when the sale was complete and he, according to Chinese law, owned a slave, he had torn up the document in front of Ah Sam and had told her that she was not a slave but a servant. Ah Sam had not understood. Struan knew that later she would ask May-may why he had torn up the paper and May-may would say that some of the ways of the barbarian were strange. Ah Sam would agree with her and her fear of him would increase.

While

China Cloud was at Macao, Struan had confined his crew aboard—except Wolfgang Mauss. He was afraid that word of the bullion would leak out, and though he ordinarily trusted his crew he did not trust them when there was so much wealth ready just for the taking. He expected to be pirated either from within or from without. At Macao there had almost been a mutiny, and for the first time he and his officers had had to use the lash indiscriminately and put guards on the quarterdeck and anchor far out in the shallow harbor. All sampans had been forbidden to come within a hundred yards of

China Cloud.

He had sent his first mate, Cudahy, ahead to Hong Kong in the cutter to fetch Robb and Culum to the secret rendezvous at Deepwater Bay with strict instructions to say nothing about the bullion. He had known that this was an added danger, but he knew he had to take the risk. With the bullion safe in

China Cloud he had had time to think about Jin-qua and about The Noble House and Robb and Culum and what to do about the future. He knew that now it was time to set the future pattern of the company. With or without Robb and Culum. At all costs.

He had left May-may in Macao in the house that he had given her. Before he had sailed he and May-may had gone to the house of Chen Sheng.

Duncan, his three-year-old son, had begun to kowtow but he had lifted him up and told him that he must never do that again, to any man. Duncan had said, “Yes, Tai-Pan,” and had hugged him and May-may.

Kate, the baby, had been as cherished as Duncan, and Chen Sheng fussed like an old hen. Food and tea were brought, and then Chen Sheng had asked Struan’s permission to present Kai-sung, who wished to kowtow to the Tai-Pan.

Kai-sung was now thirty-six. She was dressed beautifully in robes of gold and crimson with jade and silver pins in her jet hair. It was almost as though the seventeen years had never been. Her face was like alabaster and her eyes as deep as in her youth.

But there were tears running down her cheeks and she whispered in Cantonese and May-may translated cheerfully. “Elder Sister’s so sorry your Tai-tai is deaded, Tai-Pan. Elder Sister says anytimes you want for the childrens to be here they are like hers. And she thanks you for being kind to her and her son.”

“Tell her she looks very pretty, and thank her.”

May-may did so and then wept a little with Kai-sung and then they were happy. Kai-sung kowtowed again and departed.

Chen Sheng had drawn Struan aside. “Hear maybe you good joss have got, Tai-Pan.” His huge face was a total smile.

“Maybe.”

“I buy mens build Hong Kong werry cheep ’gainst good joss!” Chen Sheng held his vast stomach and roared with laughter. “Heya, Tai-Pan! Have wirgin slave. You want? I buy you, heya? Cheep-cheep.”

“Ayee yah, wirgin! Troubles ’nuff hav got!”

Struan and May-may had taken their children and they went back to their home. The money May-may had lost to him was more than the value of the house. She formally gave him the deed of the house with great ceremony and simultaneously offered him a pack of cards. “Double or nothings, Tai-Pan, on debts.”

He had picked a jack and she had wailed and torn her hair. “Woe, woe, woe! I am for a lump of dogmeat-whore-strumpet! I wat for open my oily mouth?”

In utter agony she had closed her eyes and picked a card and cringed and half opened her eyes. It was a queen and she shrieked with happiness and flung herself into his arms.

He had arranged with May-may that he would come back quickly from Hong Kong or send

China Cloud for her, and then he had sailed for Deepwater Bay.

The cabin door opened.

“Hello, Father,” Culum said.

“Hello, Dirk,” Robb said.

“Welcome aboard. Did you have a good voyage?”

“Good enough.” Robb dropped into a chair. There were dark rings under his eyes.

“You look exhausted, Robb.”

“I am. I’ve tried everything, everything.” He eased out of his heavy, steaming topcoat. “No one’ll give us credit. We’re lost. What good news could you bring, Dirk?” He felt in the pocket of his reefer jacket and pulled out a letter. “Afraid I don’t bring good tidings either. This came for you in yesterday’s mail packet. From Father.”

All of Struan’s excitement and happiness at what he had achieved, disappeared. Winifred, he thought, it’s got to be about her. He took the letter. The seal was intact. He recognized his father’s spidery writing. “What’s the news from home?” he said, trying to level his voice.

“That’s all that came, Dirk. I got nothing. Sorry. How is it with you? What’s the matter with your face? Have you burned it? Sorry I’ve been so little help.”

Struan put the letter on the desk. “Did you buy the land?”

“No. The land sale’s been postponed.” Robb tried to keep his eyes off the letter.

“It’s tomorrow, Father. There wasn’t enough time to get the lots surveyed. So it was postponed.” Culum lurched unsteadily as the ship heeled under a press of canvas. He steadied himself against the desk. “Shall I open the letter for you?”

“Nay, thanks. Have you seen Brock?”

“The

White Witch came back from Whampoa two days ago,” Robb said. “Haven’t seen him myself. We’re really at war again?”

“Aye,” Struan said. “Is the fleet still at Hong Kong?”

“Yes. But when Eliksen came with the news, it deployed into war positions. Patrols were sent to guard the east and west entrances. Will they attack Hong Kong?”

“Dinna be ridiculous, Robbie.”

Robb watched the wake of the ship. Dirk looks different, he thought. Then he noticed the clutter of the cabin. “Why are there so many weapons here, Dirk? What’s amiss?”

“What’s Longstaff been up to, Culum?” Struan asked.

“I don’t know,” Culum said. “I’ve only seen him but once, and that was to get his approval for the postponement.”

“I haven’t seen him either, Dirk. After the piece about us in the paper I’ve had great difficulty in seeing a lot of people. Especially Longstaff.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“I saw him the next day. He said, ‘ ’Pon me word, is it true?’ and when I told him ‘Yes’ he took a pinch of snuff and said, ‘Pity. Well, I’m very busy, Robb. Good day,’ and took another glass of port.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know, Dirk. I suppose I expected sympathy. Or some help.”

“Longstaff did na sack Culum. That’s in his favor.”

“He wanted me back only because there’s no one else at the moment to do this for him,” Culum said. He had started to fill out in the last two weeks and was losing his plague pallor. “I think he enjoys the fact that we’re broken. At least,” Culum added quickly, “I’m unimportant. I mean that The Noble House is broken.”

“If it’s na us, it’s another company, Culum.”

“Yes, I know, Father. What I meant was . . . well, I think you were very special with Longstaff. He kowtowed to your knowledge because of your wealth. But without wealth you’ve no breeding. Without breeding you cannot be equal. Without equality you can’t have knowledge. None. I think that’s rather sad.”

“Where’d you learn ‘kowtow’?”

“Wait till you see Hong Kong.”

“What does that mean, lad?”

“We’ll be there in a few hours. You can see for yourself.” Then Culum’s voice sharpened. “Please open the letter, Father.”

“The news’ll keep. Winifred was failing when you left. Do you expect a miracle?”

“I hope for one, yes. I’ve prayed for one, yes.”

“Come below,” Struan said.

The neat stacks of silver bricks glinted eerily under the swaying lantern in the hold. The air was close and the sick-sweet smell of raw opium permeated it. Cockroaches swarmed.

“It’s impossible,” Robb whispered, touching the bullion.

“I didn’t know there was this much silver in one place on earth,” Culum said, as stunned.

“It’s here, right enough,” Struan said.

Robb picked up one of the bricks to reassure himself, his hand trembling. “Unbelievable.”

Struan told them how he obtained the bullion. He related all that Jin-qua had said, except about the chop and about the four half coins and about the five lacs to be put into Hong Kong land, and the five lacs to be kept safe and the one lac to Gordon Chen. He described the sea battle with Brock. But he made no mention of May-may.

“That bloody pirate!” Culum stormed. “Longstaff will have Brock and Gorth hanged when he hears about it.”

“Why?” Struan asked. “Brock did nae more than I’ve done. He simply happened to collide with me.”

“But that’s a lie. You can prove that he—”

“I can and will prove nothing. Brock tried and failed, that’s all. It’s our business, no one else’s.”

“I don’t like that,” Culum said. “That’s not a lawful way of looking at a deliberate piracy.”

“There’ll be a reckoning. In my own time.”

“God help us, we’re saved,” Robb said, his voice weak. “Now all the international money plans will go through. We’ll be the richest company in the Orient. Bless you, Dirk. You’re incredible.” Now the future’s assured, Robb inwardly exulted. Now there’ll be enough for even Sarah’s extravagant tastes. Now I can go home immediately. Perhaps Dirk will change his mind and never leave, will never go home, will forget Parliament. No more worries. Now I can buy a castle and live like a laird in peace. The children will marry and live well and there’ll be enough for their children’s children. Roddy can finish university and go into banking and never worry about the Orient. “Bless you, Dirk!”

Culum, too, was ecstatic. His brain shrieked, This isn’t bullion, but power. Power to buy guns, or to buy votes to dominate Parliament. Here is the answer for the Charter and the Chartists. As Tai-Pan I can use the power of all this wealth—and more—to a good end. I thank Thee, oh Lord, he prayed fervently, for helping us in our hour of need.

Culum saw his father very differently now. In the past weeks he had thought greatly about what his father had said concerning wealth and power and the uses thereof. Being close to Glessing and on the edge of Longstaff’s power, and feeling the covert smirks and open amusement at the death of The Noble House, he had realized that a man alone, without birthright or power, was defenseless.

Struan could feel Robb’s and Culum’s avarice. Aye, he told himself. But be honest. It’s what the bullion’d do to any. Look at yoursel’. You’ve killed eight, ten men to protect it. Aye, and you’ll kill a hundred more. Look what it’s forcing you to do to your son and to your brother.

“There’s something I want to make clear to you both,” he said. “This bullion’s been loaned to me. On my word. I’m responsible to Jin-qua for it.

I am. Na The Noble House.”

“I don’t understand, Dirk,” Robb said.

“What did you say, Father?”

Struan took out a Bible. “First swear on the Holy Book that what I say will be secret among the three of us.”

“Is it necessary to swear?” Robb said. “Of course I would never tell anyone.”

“Will you swear, Robb?”

“Of course.”

He and Culum swore secrecy.

Struan placed the Bible on the silver. “This bullion will be used to salvage The Noble House only with the proviso that when and if either of you become Tai-Pan you agree, first, to commit the company totally to the support of Hong Kong and to China trade; second, to headquarter the company permanently in Hong Kong; third, to take over my responsibility and my word to Jin-qua and to his successors; fourth, to guarantee that the successor you choose as Tai-Pan does the same; last”—Struan pointed at the Bible—“agree now that only a Christian, a kinsman, can ever be Tai-Pan. Swear on the Holy Book, as you agree to swear your successor on the Holy Book to the conditions before passing over control.”

There was a silence. Then Robb said, knowing how his brother’s mind worked, “Do we know all the conditions that Jin-qua imposed?”

“Nay.”

“What are the rest?”

“I’ll tell you after you’ve sworn. You can trust me or na, just as you like.”

“That’s not very fair.”

“This bullion is na very fair, Robb. I have to be sure. This is nae game for children. And I’m na thinking of either of you as kin at this moment. We’re playing with a hundred years. Two hundred years.” Struan’s eyes were a luminous green in the half-light of the swaying lantern, “I’m committing The Noble House to Chinese time. With or without the both of you.”

The air seemed to thicken perceptibly. Robb felt the wetness on his shoulders and neck. Culum stared at his father, astounded.

Robb said, “What does ‘commit the company totally to the support of Hong Kong’ mean to you?”

“To back it, guard it, make it a permanent base for trade. And trade means to open up China. All China. To bring China into the family of nations.”

“That’s impossible,” Robb said. “Impossible!”

“Aye, maybe. But that’s what The Noble House is going to try to do.”

“You mean, help China become a world power?” Culum asked.

“Aye.”

“That’s dangerous!” Robb snapped. “That’s madness! There’s enough trouble on earth without helping that heathen mass of humanity! They’ll swamp us. All of us. All Europe!”

“Every fourth person on earth’s Chinese now, Robb. We’ve the great chance to help them now. To learn our ways. British ways. Law and order and justice. Christianity. They’ll swarm out one day, on their own. I say we’ve got to show them our way.”

“It’s impossible. You’ll never change them. Never. It’s futile.”

“Those are the conditions. In five months you’re Tai-Pan. Culum follows you in time—if he’s worthy.”

“Christ in heaven!” Robb exploded. “Is this what you’ve been striving for all these years?”

“Aye.”

“I’ve always known you had dreams, Dirk. But this—this is too much. I don’t know whether it’s monstrous or marvelous. It’s beyond me.”

“Maybe,” Struan said, his voice hard. “But it’s a condition for your survival, Robbie, and your family’s and their future. You’re Tai-Pan in five months. For at least one year.”

“I’ve told you before, I think that’s another unwise decision,” Robb flared, his face contorted. “I’ve not the knowledge or the cunning to deal with Longstaff or to keep The Noble House at the forefront of all this war intrigue. Or to cope with the Chinese.”

“I know. And I know the risk I take. But Hong Kong’s ours now. The war will be over as quickly as the last one.” Struan waved a hand at the bullion. “All this is a rock which canna be dissipated easily. From now on it’s a matter of trade. You’re a good trader.”

“It’s not just trading. There’s ships to be sailed, pirates to be fought, Brock to be dealt with, and a thousand other things.”

“Five months will clean up the important ones. The rest are your problem.”

“Are they?”

“Aye. Because of all this bullion we’re worth more than three million. When I leave I take one. And twenty per cent of the profit for my lifetime. You do the same.” He glanced at Culum. “At the end of your term we will be worth ten million because I’ll protect you and The Noble House from Parliament and make her rich beyond your dreams. We’ll nae longer have to rely on Sir Charles Crosse, Donald MacDonald, McFee, Smythe, Ross or all the others we support to do our bidding—I’ll do it mysel’. And I’ll come back and forth to Hong Kong, so both of you have nae need to worry.”

“I want only enough wealth to let me dream quietly and wake up peacefully,” Robb said, “in Scotland. Not in the Orient. I don’t want to die here. I’m off by the next boat.”

“A year and five months is na much to ask.”

“It’s a demand, not an ask, Dirk.”

“I’m forcing nothing on you. A month ago, Robb, you were prepared to accept fifty thousand and leave. Very well. That offer still holds. If you want what is rightfully yours—more than a million—you’ll get it within two years.” Struan turned to Culum. “From you, lad, I want two years of your life. If you become Tai-Pan, a further three years. Five years in all.”

“If I don’t agree to the conditions, then I have to leave?” Culum asked, his mouth parched, heart hurting.

“Nay. You’re still a partner, albeit a junior one. But you’ll never be Tai-Pan. Never. I’ll have to find and train someone else. A year’s as much as it’s fair to ask—to demand—from Robb. He’s already been eleven years abuilding.” He picked up one of the bricks. “You’ll have to prove yoursel’, Culum, even if you agree now. You’ll be heir apparent, that’s all. You’ll na wax fat on my sweat, or Robb’s. That’s clan law and a good law of life. Every man has to stand on his own feet. Of course I’ll help you all I can—as long as I’m alive—but it’s up to you to prove your worth. Only a real man has the right to stand at the pinnacle.”

Culum flushed.

Robb was staring at Struan, detesting him. “You don’t want a Tai-Pan in five months, Dirk. Just a nursemaid for a year, isn’t that it?”

“Guarantee to take over five years and you choose whom you wish.”

“I can eliminate Culum right now, in return for a promise of five years?”

“Aye,” Struan said at once. “I think it would be a waste, but that’d be your decision. Aye.”

“You see what power does to a man, Culum?” Robb said, his voice strained.

“This version of The Noble House is dead without this bullion,” Struan said without rancor. “I’ve told you my conditions. Make up your own minds.”

“I understand why you’re hated throughout these seas,” Culum said.

“Do you, lad?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll never know that, truly know that, until your five years are up.”

“Then I’ve no option, Father. It’s five years or nothing?”

“It’s nothing or everything, Culum. If you’re prepared to be second-best, go topside now. What I’m trying to make you understand is that to be

the Tai-Pan of The Noble House you have to be prepared to exist alone, to be hated, to have some aim of immortal value, and to be ready to sacrifice anyone you’re na sure of. Because you’re my son I’m offering you today, untried, a chance at supreme power in Asia. Thus a power to do almost anything on earth. I dinna offer that lightly. I

know what it means to be

the Tai-Pan. Choose, by God!”

Culum’s eyes were transfixed by the Bible. And the bullion. I don’t want to be second-best, he told himself. I know that now. Second-best can never do worthwhile things. There’s all the time in the world to worry about conditions and Jin-qua and the Chinese and about the problems of the world. Perhaps I won’t have to worry about being Tai-Pan; perhaps Robb won’t think I’m good enough. Oh God, let me prove myself to become Tai-Pan so that I can use the power for good. Let this be a means to Thy ends. The Charter must come to pass. It is the only way.

Sweat pocked his forehead. He picked up the Bible. “I swear by the Lord God to abide by these conditions. If and when I become Tai-Pan. So help me God.” His fingers were trembling as he replaced the Bible.

“Robb?” Struan said, not looking up.

“Five years as Tai-Pan and I can send Culum back to Scotland? Now? Change anything and everything I like?”

“Aye, by God. Do I have to repeat mysel’? In five months you do what you like. If you agree to the other conditions. Aye.”

There was a vast silence in the hold, but for the constant scurry of the rats in the darkness.

“Why should you want me out, Uncle?” Culum said.

“To hurt your father. You’re the last of his line.”

“Aye, Robb. That he is.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say! Terrible.” Culum was aghast. “We’re kin. Kin.”

“Yes.” Robb said, anguished. “But we’ve been talking truths. Your father will sacrifice me, you, my children, to his ends. Why shouldn’t I do the same?”

“Maybe you will, Robb. Maybe you will,” Struan said.

“You know I’d do nothing to hurt you. Lord God on high, what’s happening to us? We’ve acquired some bullion and all of a sudden we’re stinking with greed and God knows what else. Please let me go. In five months. Please, Dirk.”

“I

must leave. Only in Parliament can I really control Longstaff and his successors—as you’ll do when you leave Asia. That’s where we can put the plan into effect. But Culum must be trained. A year as Tai-Pan and you leave.”

“How can he be trained in such a short time?”

“I’ll know in five months if he can be Tai-Pan. If na, I’ll make other arrangements.”

“What arrangements?”

“Are you ready to agree to the conditions, Robb? If so, swear on the Book and let’s go aloft.”

“What arrangements?”

“God’s death! Do you agree, Robb, or do you na? Is it one year or five? Or none?”

Robb shifted his weight on his legs as the ship heeled under a thickening wind. His whole being was warning him not to take the oath. But he had to. For his family’s sake he had to. He took the Bible and it was heavy. “Even though I loathe the Orient and everything it stands for, I swear by God to abide by the conditions to the best of my abilities, so help me God.” He handed the Bible to Struan. “I think you’ll regret making me stay as Tai-Pan—for one year.”

“I may. Hong Kong will na.” Struan opened the Bible and showed them the four half coins that he had stuck on the inside cover with sealing wax. He listed all Jin-qua’s conditions—except the one lac to Gordon Chen. That’s my business, Struan told himself, and he wondered briefly what Culum would think of his half brother—and of May-may—when he heard about them. Robb knew about May-may though he had never met her. Struan wondered if his enemies had already told Culum about Gordon and about May-may.

“I think you were right to swear us, Dirk,” Robb said. “God alone knows what devilment these coins mean.”

When they returned to the cabin, Struan went to the desk and broke the seal on the letter. He read the first paragraph and shouted with joy. “She’s alive! Winifred’s alive, by God. She got well!”

Robb grabbed the letter. Struan was beside himself and hugged Culum and began to dance a jig and the jig became a reel and Struan linked arms with Culum and they pulled Robb with them and all at once their hatred and distrust vanished.

Then Struan held them still with the hugeness of his strength. “Now, together! One, two, three,” and they shouted the Latin battle cry of the clan at the top of their voices.

“Feri!” Strike home!

Then he hugged them again and roared, “Steward!”

The seaman came running. “Aye, aye, sorr?”

“A double tot for all hands. Order the piper to the quarterdeck! Bring a bottle of champagne and another pot of tea, by God!”

“Aye, aye, sorr!”

So the three men made peace with each other. But they all knew in the secret depths of their minds that everything had changed between them. Too much had been said. Soon they would go their separate ways. Alone.

“Thank God you opened the letter afterward, Dirk,” Robb said. “Thank God for the letter. I was feeling terrible. Terrible.”

“And I,” Culum said. “Read it out, Father.”

Struan settled himself in the deep leather sea chair and read the letter to them. It was in Gaelic, dated four months ago, a month after Culum had sailed from Glasgow.

Parian Struan wrote that Winifred’s life had hung in the balance for two weeks and then she had begun to mend. The doctors could give no reason, other than to shrug their shoulders and say, “The will of God.” She was living with him in the little croft that Struan had bought for him many years ago.

“She’ll be happy there,” Culum said. “But there are only gillies and goats to talk to. Where’s she going to go to school?”

“First let her get very well. Then we can worry about that,” Robb said. “Go on, Dirk.”

Then the letter gave news of the family. Parian Struan had had two brothers and three sisters and they had all married, and now their children were married and they had children. And too, his own children, Dirk and Flora by his first marriage, and Robb, Uthenia and Susan by his second, had families.

Many of his descendants had emigrated: to the Canadian colonies, to the United States of America. A few were scattered over the Indies and Spanish South America.

Parian Struan wrote that Alastair McCloud, who had married Robb’s sister Susan, had come back from London with his son Hector to live again in Scotland—the loss of Susan and his daughter Clair from the cholera weighed heavily on him and had almost broken him; that he had received a letter from the Kerns—Flora, Dirk’s sister, had married Farran Ken and last year they had sailed for Norfolk, Virginia. They had arrived safely and the voyage had been good, and they and their three children were fit and happy.

The letter continued: “Tell Robb Roddy went off to university yesterday. I put him on the stagecoach for Edinburgh with six shillings in his pocket and food for four days. Your cousin Dougall Struan has written that he will take him in in his holidays and be his guardian until Robb comes home. I took the liberty of sending a sight draft in Robb’s name for fifty guineas to pay for a year’s room and board and a shilling a week for pocket money. I also gave him a Bible and warned him against loose women and drunkenness and gambling and read out the piece of Will Shakespeare’s

Hamlet about ‘neither a borrower nor a lender be’ and made the lad write it down and put it in the cover of the Good Book. He writes with a good hand.

“Your dear Ronalda and the children are buried in one of the plague pits. I am sorry, Dirk laddie, but the law said that all that died had to be buried thus with burning and then with quicklime for the safety of the living. But the burial was consecrated according to our faith and the land set aside as hallowed ground. God rest their souls.

“Do not worry about Winnie. The lassie is truly bonny now and here by Loch Lomond where the foot of God has lain, she will grow into a fine, Godfearing woman. Take heed now: Do not let the barbarian heathen in Indian Cathay take your soul awa’ and lock your door carefully against the evil that breeds in those devil lands. Will you not come home soon? My health is very fine and the good Lord has blessed me. Only seven more years for my three score and ten which the Lord promised but one in four hundred sees these evil days. I am very well. There were bad riots in Glasgow and in Birmingham and Edinburgh, so the papers say. More Chartists’ riots. The factory workers are demanding more money for their labors. There was a good hanging two days ago in Glasgow for sheep stealing. Damn the English! What a world we are living in when a good Scotsman’s hanged for just stealing an English sheep, by a Scots judge. Terrible. At the same assize hundreds were transported to Australian Van Diemen’s land for rioting and striking, and for burning down a factory. Culum’s friend, Bartholomew Angus, was sentenced to ten years’ transportation, to New South Wales, for leading a Chartist riot in Edinburgh. Folk are . . .”

“Oh my God!” Culum said.

“Who’s Bartholomew, Culum?” Struan said.

“We shared chambers at university. Poor old Bart.”

Struan said sharply, “Did you know he was a Chartist?”

“Of course.” Culum went to the window and gazed at the wake of the ship.

“Are you a Chartist, Culum?”

“You said yourself that the Charter was good.”

“Aye. But I also gave you my views on insurrection. Are you an active Chartist?”

“If I were home I would be. Most university students are in favor of the Charter.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re out here, by God. If Bartholomew led a riot then he deserved ten years. We’ve good laws and the finest parliamentary system on earth. Insurrection, rioting and, striking are na the ways to get changes made.”

“What else does the letter say, Father?”

Struan watched his son’s back for a moment, hearing an echo of Ronalda’s tone of voice. He made a mental note to look more carefully into Chartist affairs in the future. Then he began to read again: “Folk are still arriving daily in Glasgow from the Highlands where the lairds are still enclosing the clan lands and taking away the clansmen’s birthright. That blackhearted fiend, the Earl of Struan, may the Lord strike him dead, is raising a regiment to fight in the Indian colonies. Men are flocking to his banner sucked in by promises of loot and land. There’s a rumor that we will have to go to war again with the cursed Americans over the Canadian colonies, and there are stories that war has broken out between those devils the French and the Russians over the Ottoman Turks. Those cursed Frenchmen. As if we haven’t suffered enough over that archfiend Bonaparte.

“It is a sorry state we live in, laddie. Oh, I forgot to mention that plans have been laid for a railway to join Glasgow and Edinburgh within five years. Will that not be grand? Then mayhaps we Scots can band together and throw out the devil English and have our own king. I embrace you and your brother and hug Culum for me. Your respectful father, Parian Struan.”

Struan looked up with a wry smile. “Still as bloodthirsty as ever.”

“If the earl raises a regiment for India, it may come out here,” Robb said.

“Aye. I had the same thought. Well, lad, if he ever reaches the domain of The Noble House, that regiment will go home headless, so help me God.”

“So help me God,” Culum echoed.

There was a knock on the door and the steward hurried in with the champagne and glasses and tea. “Cap’n Orlov thanks you on behalf of the crew, sorr.”

“Ask him and Wolfgang to join us at the end of the watch.”

“Aye, aye, sorr.”

After the wine and tea had been poured, Struan raised his glass. “A toast. To Winifred, who has returned from the dead!”

They drank and Robb said, “Another toast. Here’s to The Noble House. Maybe we’ll never think or do evil to one another ever again.”

“Aye.”

They drank again.

“Robb, when we get to Hong Kong, write to our agents. Tell them to find out who the directors of our bank were and who was responsible for overextending credit.”

“All right, Dirk.”

“And then, Father?” Culum asked.

“Then we’ll destroy those responsible,” Struan said. “And their families.”

Culum felt chilled by the implacable finality of the sentence. “Why their families?”

“What did their greed do to ours? To us? To our future? We’ve to pay for years for their greed. So they’ll pay in like measure. All of them.”

Culum got up and walked for the door.

“What do you want, laddie?”

“The latrine. I mean the ‘head.’ ”

The door closed after him.

“Sorry about what I said.” Struan sighed. “It had to be done that way.”

“I know. I’m sorry too. But you’re right about Parliament. More and more power will pass to Parliament, and that’s where the big trading deals will be settled. I’ll watch the financing and we can both watch Culum and help him. Isn’t it wonderful about Winifred?”

“Aye.”

“Culum’s got very definite ideas about some things, hasn’t he?”

“He’s very young. Ronalda brought them up—well, she took the Scriptures literally, as you well know. Culum’ll have to grow up sometime.”

“What are you going to do about Gordon Chen?”

“You mean about him and Culum?” Struan watched the sea gulls mewing. “That has to be dealt with as soon as we get back to Hong Kong.”

“Poor Culum. Growing up’s not easy, is it?”

Struan shook his head. “It’s never easy.”

After a moment Robb said, “Remember my lassie, Ming Soo?”

“Aye.”

“I often wonder what happened to her and the bairn.”

“The money you gave her would set her up like a princess and find her a wonderful husband, Robb. She’s a mandarin’s wife somewhere. No need to worry about them.”

“Little Isabel would be ten now.” Robb let himself drift back into the everpleasant memory of her laughter, and the gratification Ming Soo had given him. So much, he thought. She had given him more love and kindness and gentleness and compassion in one day than Sarah had given him in all their marriage. “You should marry again, Dirk.”

“There’s time to think about that.” Struan absently checked the barometer. It read 30.1 inches, fair weather. “Ride Culum very hard, Robb, when you’re Tai-Pan.”

“I will,” Robb said.

As Culum came on deck,

China Cloud heeled over and broke out of the channel that the small offshore island of Tung Ku Chau formed with Hong Kong. The ship came swiftly out of the neck of the mountain-dominated passageway into open sea and turned southwest. Another larger island, Pokliu Chau, was two miles to port. A stiff northeast monsoon flecked the waves, and above was the dull blanket of clouds.

Culum picked his way forward, carefully avoiding the neat circles of ropes and hawsers. He skirted the gleaming rows of cannon and marveled at the cleanliness of everything. He had been aboard other merchantmen in Hong Kong harbor and they were all squalid.

The port head was occupied by two seamen, so he clambered over the side into the starboard one. He hung on to the lifelines and, with great difficulty, pulled down his trousers and squatted precariously on the netting.

A young, redheaded sailor wandered up and swung neatly over the gunnel into the head, and took down his pants. He was barefoot and did not hold on to the ropes as he squatted.

“Top o’ the morning, sorr,” the sailor said.

“And to you,” Culum said, holding grimly on to the lines.

The sailor was done quickly. He leaned forward to the gunnel and took a square of newspaper from a box and wiped himself, then carefully tossed the paper below and relied his pants around his waist.

“What’re you doing?” Culum asked.

“Eh? Oh, the paper, sorr? God rot me if I knows, sorr. It be the Tai-Pan’s orders. Wipe yor arse wiv paper or lose two month pay and ten days in the bleedin’ brig.” The sailor laughed. “The Tai-Pan be a right one, beggin’ yor pardon. But she be ’is ship, so you wipes yor bleedin’ arse.” He leaped aboard easily and dunked his hands in a pail of seawater and slopped it over his feet. “Wash yor bleeding ‘ands too, by God, then yor feets, or in the bleedin’ brig you goes! Right proper strange. Stark raving . . . beggin’ yor pardon, sorr. But wot wiv wiping yor bleedin’ ands an’ wiping yor bleedin’ arse an’ bathin’ once a bleedin’ week an’ fresh clothes once a bleedin’ week, life’s a proper bleeder.”

“Bleeder nuffink,” another sailor said, leaning on the gunnel, chomping on a tobacco quid. “Pay in good silver? When it be bleedin’ due, by God! Grub like a bleeder prince? Prize money to boot. Wot more you want, Charlie?” Then to Culum, “I ain’t about to know ’ows the Tai-Pan do it, sorr, but ’is ships got less pox an’ less scurvy’n any on the ’igh seas.” He spat tobacco juice to windward. “So I wipes me arse and ’appy to do it. Beggin’ yor pardon, sorr, if I wuz you, sorr, I’d do the same. The Tai-Pan be terrible fond o’ ’aving ’is orders obeyed!”

“Reef tops’ls and top ta’gallants,” Captain Orlov shouted from the quarterdeck, his voice huge for so small a man.

The sailors touched their forelocks to Culum and joined the men who were climbing into the shrouds.

Culum used the paper and washed his hands and went below and waited for the opportunity to break into their conversation.

“What’s the point of using paper?”

“Eh?” Struan said.

“In the head. Use paper or ten days in the brig.”

“Oh. I forgot to tell you, laddie. The Chinese think there’s some connection between dung and disease.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Culum scoffed.

“The Chinese dinna think so. Neither do I.” Struan turned to Robb. “I’ve tried it for three months on

China Cloud. Sickness is down.”

“Even compared with

Thunder Cloud?” Robb asked.

“Aye.”

“It’s a coincidence,” Culum said.

Robb grunted. “You’ll find a lot of coincidences in our ships, Culum. It’s only fifty-odd years since Captain Cook found that limes and fresh vegetables cured scurvy. Maybe dung does have something to do with disease.”

“When did you last bathe, Culum?” Struan said.

“I don’t know—a month—no, I remember. Captain Perry insisted that I bathe with the crew once a week in

Thunder Cloud. Nearly caught my death of cold. Why?”

“When did you last wash your clothes?”

Culum blinked at his father and looked down at his heavy brown woolen trousers and frock coat. “They’ve never been washed! Why should they be washed?”

Struan’s eyes glinted. “From now on, ashore or afloat, you bathe your whole body once a week. You use paper and wash your hands. You have your clothes washed once a week. You drink nae water, only tea. And you brush your teeth daily.”

“Why? No water? That’s madness. Wash my clothes? Why, that’ll make them shrink and spoil the cut and goodness knows what!”

“That’s what you’ll do. This is the Orient. I want you alive. And well. And healthy.”

“I will not. I’m not a child or one of your seamen!”

“You’d better do as your father says,” Robb said. “I fought him too. Every new idea he tried. Until he proved that these things worked. Why, no one knows. But where people have died like flies, we’re fit.”

“You’re not at all,” Culum said. “You told me you’re sick all the time.”

“Yes. But that goes back years. I never believed your father about water, so I kept drinking it. Now my guts bleed and they’ll always bleed. It’s too late for me, but, by God, I wish I’d tried.

Perhaps I’d be without gutrot. Dirk never drinks water. Only tea.”

“That’s what’s the Chinese do, lad.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Well, while you’re finding out the truth or na,” Struan snapped, “you’ll obey those orders. Those

are orders.”

Culum’s chin jutted. “Just because of some heathen Chinese customs, I have to change my whole way of life. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m prepared to learn from them. Aye. I’ll try anything to keep my health, and so will you, by God.” Struan let out a bellow. “Steward!”

The door opened. “Aye, aye, sorr.”

“Get a bath ready for Mr. Culum. In my cabin. And fresh clothes.”

“Aye, aye, sorr.”

Struan walked across the cabin, towering over Culum. He examined his son’s head. “You’ve lice in your hair.”

“I don’t understand you at all!” Culum burst out. “Everyone’s got lice. Lice are with us whether we like it or not. You scratch a little and that’s an end to it.”

“I dinna have lice, nor does Robb.”

“Then you’re peculiar. Unique.” Culum took an irritable swallow of champagne. “Bathing is a stupid risk to health, as everyone knows.”

“You stink, Culum.”

“So does everyone,” Culum said impatiently. “Why else do we always carry pomades? Stinking is a way of life, too. Lice are a curse of people, and that’s the end of it.”

“I dinna stink, nor does Robb and his family, nor do my men, and our health’s the best in the Orient. You’ll do as you’re told. Lice are na necessary and neither is stink.”

“Best you go to London, Father. That’s the biggest stink in the world. If people hear you go on about lice and stink, they’ll think you mad.”

Father and son glared at each other. “You’ll obey orders. You’ll clean yoursel’, by God, or I’ll get the bosun to do it for you. On deck!”

“Do it, Culum,” Robb interceded. He could feel Culum’s resentment and Struan’s inflexibility. “What does it matter? Compromise. Try it for five months, eh? If you don’t feel better yourself by that time, then go back to the usual way.”

“And if I refuse?”

Struan glowered down at him implacably. “I cherish you, Culum, beyond my own life. But certain things you’ll do. Else I’ll treat you like a disobedient seaman.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ll tow you behind the ship for ten minutes and wash you that way.”

“Instead of giving orders,” Culum burst out indignantly, “why don’t you just say ‘please’ occasionally?”

Struan laughed outright. “By God, you’re right, lad.” He thumped Culum on the back. “Will you please do what I ask? By God, you’re right. I’ll say ‘please’ more often. And dinna worry about clothes. We’ll get you the best tailor in Asia. You need more clothes anyway.” Struan glanced at Robb. “Your tailor, Robb?”

“Yes. As soon as we’re settled in Hong Kong.”

“We’ll send for him tomorrow to come from Macao, with his staff. Unless he’s already in Hong Kong. For five months, lad?”

“All right. But I still think it’s peculiar.”

Struan refilled their glasses.

“Now. I think we should celebrate the rebirth of The Noble House.”

“How, Dirk?” Robb asked.

“We’ll give a ball.”

“What?” Culum looked up excitedly, his indignation forgotten.

“Aye, a ball. For the whole European population. In princely style. A month from today.”

“That’ll set a hawk among the pigeons!” Robb said.

“What do you mean, Uncle?”

“There’ll be the biggest panic among the ladies you’ve ever seen. They’ll vie with each other for the honor of being the best-dressed—in the latest fashion! They’ll hound their husbands and try to steal each other’s dressmakers! My God, a ball is a marvelous idea. I wonder what Shevaun will wear.”

“Nothing—if it pleases her!” Struan’s eyes glowed. “Aye, a ball. We’ll give a prize for the best-dressed lady. I think the prize—”

“Have you not heard of the judgment of Paris?” Robb said aghast.

“Aye. But Aristotle’ll be the judge.”

“He’s much too clever to take that position.”

“We’ll see.” Struan reflected a moment. “The prize has to be worthy. A thousand guineas.”

“You must be joking!” Culum said.

“A thousand guineas.”

Culum was overwhelmed by the idea of such extravagance. It was obscene. Criminal. A thousand guineas in England today and you could live like a king, for five or ten years. The wage of a factory man who worked from sunup to sundown and deep into the night, six days a week, for all the weeks of the year, was fifteen to twenty pounds a year—and on this a home was made and children brought up and a wife kept, rent, food, clothing, coal. My father’s mad, he thought, money-mad. Think of the twenty thousand guineas he peed—yes, peed away—on the stupid bet with Brock and Gorth. But that was a gamble to dispose of Brock. A worthwhile gamble if it had come off, and in a way it has—the bullion is in

China Cloud and we’re rich again. Rich.

Now Cullum knew that to be rich was no longer to be poor. He knew that his father was right—it wasn’t money that was important. Only the lack of it.

“It’s too much, too much,” Robb was saying, shocked.

“Aye. In one way it is.” Struan lit a cheroot. “But it’s the duty of The Noble House to be princely. The news will flood like no news before. And the story of it will last for a hundred years.” He put his hand on Culum’s shoulder. “Never forget another rule, laddie: When you’re gambling for high stakes you must risk high. If you’re na prepared to risk high, you dinna belong in the game.”

“Such a—a huge amount will make, may make, some people risk more money than they can afford. That’s not good, is it?”

“The point of money is to use it. I’d say this is going to be money well spent.”

“But what are the stakes you gain?”

“Face, lad.” Struan turned to Robb. “Who’s the winner?”

Robb shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know. Beauty—Shevaun. But best-dressed? There’re some who’d risk a fortune to get the honor, let alone the prize.”

“Have you met Shevaun yet, Culum?”

“No, Father. I saw her once taking a promenade on the road that George—George Glessing—has laid out from Glessing’s Point to Happy Valley. Miss Tillman’s beautiful. But I think Miss Sinclair’s much more attractive. So charming. George and I spent some time in her company.”

“Did you, now?” Struan held down his sudden interest.

“Yes,” Culum replied ingenuously. “We had a farewell dinner with Miss Sinclair and Horatio on George’s ship. Poor George has had his ship taken away from him. He was most upset. We’re really going to have a ball?”

“Why has Glessing lost his ship?”

“Longstaff appointed him harbor master and chief surveyor, and the admiral ordered him to accept the positions. Miss Sinclair agreed with me that it was a good opportunity for him—but he didn’t think so.”

“Do you like him?”

“Oh, yes. He was very nice to me.” Culum almost added, even though I’m the son of the Tai-Pan. He thanked his luck that Glessing and he had a shared interest. Both were fine cricket players—Culum had captained the university team, and last year had played for his county.

“By Jove,” Glessing had said, “you must be damned good. Only fielded for the navy myself. What bat did you play?”

“First wicket down.”

“By Gad—best I’ve made was second. Damme, Culum old chap, perhaps we should set aside a place for a cricket ground, eh? Get a bit of practice in, eh?”

Culum smiled to himself, very glad he was a cricketer.

Without that he knew Glessing would have dismissed him; then he would not have had the pleasure of being near Mary. He wondered if he could escort her to the ball. “Miss Sinclair and Horatio like you very much, Father.”

“I thought Mary was in Macao.”

“She was, Father. But she came back to Hong Kong for a few days, a week or so ago. A lovely lady, isn’t she?”

There was a sudden clanging of the ship’s bell and the scurry of feet, and the cry “All hands on deck!” Struan bolted out of the cabin.

Robb started to follow, but stopped at the cabin door. “Two things quickly while we’re alone, Culum. First, do what your father says and be patient with him. He’s a strange man, with strange ideas, but most of them work. Second, I’ll help you all I can to become Tai-Pan.” Then he rushed out of the cabin, with Culum trailing behind.

When Struan burst onto the quarterdeck, the crew was already at action stations and opening the gunports, and aloft men were swarming the rigging.

Directly ahead, spread against the horizon, was a menacing fleet of war junks.

“By Thor’s left buttock, it’s a bloody fleet!” Captain Orlov said. “I’ve counted more than a hundred, Tai-Pan. Turn and run?”

“Hold your course, Captain. We’ve the speed of them. Clear decks! We’ll go closer and have a look. Set royals and fore-royals!”

Orlov bellowed aloft, “Set royals and fore-royals! All sails ho!” The officers took up the shouts and the men raced into the shrouds and unfurled the sails, and

China Cloud picked up speed and sliced through the water.

The ship was in the channel between the big island of Pokliu Chau, two miles to port, and the smaller island of Ap Li Chau half a mile to starboard. Ap Li Chau was a quarter of a mile off the coast of Hong Kong Island and formed a fine bay that had been named Aberdeen. On the shore at Aberdeen was a small fishing village. Struan observed more sampans and fishing junks than had been there a month ago.

Robb and Culum came up onto the quarterdeck. Robb saw the junks and his scalp prickled. “Who are they, Dirk?”

“Dinna ken, lad. Keep clear there!”

Culum and Robb jumped out of the way as a bevy of sailors clambered down the rigging and chanteyed the hawsers tight, then raced aft to their action stations. Struan passed the binoculars to Mauss, who had lumbered up beside him. “Can you make out the flag, Wolfgang?”

“No, not yet, Tai-Pan.” Wolfgang was peering dry-mouthed at a huge ponderous war junk in the lead, one of the biggest he had ever seen—over two hundred feet long and about five hundred tons, the dominating stern heeling slowly under the press of the three vast sails. “

Gott im Himmel, too many for a pirate fleet. Would they be an invasion armada? Surely they wouldn’t dare attack Hong Kong with our fleet so near.”

“We’ll soon find out,” Struan said. “Two points to starboard!”

“Two points to starboard,” the helmsman called. “Steady as she goes!” Struan checked the lie of the sails. The throbbing of the wind and the straining rigging filled him with excitement.

“Look!” Captain Orlov cried out, pointing astern. Another flotilla of junks was swooping out from behind the southern tip of Pokliu Chau, readying to cut off their retreat.

“It’s an ambush! Ready to go about . . .”

“Avast there, Captain! I’m on the quarterdeck!” Captain Orlov walked sourly over to the helmsman and stood by the binnacle, damning the rule which provided that when the Tai-Pan was on the quarterdeck of any ship of The Noble House he was captain.

Well, Orlov thought, good luck, Tai-Pan. If we don’t go about and run, those gallows-baited junks will cut us off and the others ahead’ll swamp us, and my beautiful ship will be no more. The devil she will! We’ll blow thirty of them to the fire pits of Valhalla and sail through them like a Valkyrie.

And for the first time in four days, he forgot the bullion and gleefully thought only of the coming fight. The ship’s bell sounded eight bells. “Permission to go below, Captain!” Orlov said. “Aye. Take Mr. Culum and show him what to do.” Orlov preceded Culum nimbly into the depths of the ship. “At eight bells in the forenoon watch—that’s noon, shore time—it’s the duty of the captain to wind the chronometer,” he said, relieved to be off the quarterdeck now that Struan had usurped command. But then, he told himself, if you were Tai-Pan you’d do the same. You’d never allow anyone to have the most beautiful job on earth when you were there.

His small blue eyes were studying Culum. He had seen Culum’s immediate distaste and the covert looks at his back and tiny legs. Even after forty years of such looks he still hated to be thought a freak. “I was birthed in a blizzard on an ice floe. My mother said I was so beautiful the evil spirit Vorg mashed me with his hoofs an hour after my birth.”

Culum moved uneasily in the half-darkness. “Oh?”

“Vorg has cloven hoofs.” Orlov chuckled. “Do you believe in spirits?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

“But you believe in the Devil? Like all good Christians?”

“Yes.” Culum tried to keep his fear off his face. “What has to be done to the chronometer?”

“It has to be wound.” Again Orlov chuckled. “If you’d been born as I was, mayhaps you’d be Culum the Hunchback instead of Culum the Tall and Fair, eh? You look at things differently from here.”

“I’m sorry—it must be very hard for you.”

“Not hard—your Shakespeare had better words. But don’t worry, Culum the Strong. I can kill a man twice my size so easily. Would you like me to teach you to kill? You couldn’t have a better teacher. Except the Tai-Pan.”

“No. No, thank you.”

“Wise to learn. Very wise. Ask your father. One day you’ll need such knowledge. Aye, soon. Did you know I had second sight?”

Culum shuddered. “No.”

Orlov’s eyes glittered and his smile made him more gnomelike and evil. “You’ve a lot to learn. You want to be Tai-Pan, don’t you?”

“Yes. I hope to be. One day.”

“There’ll be blood on your hands that day.”

Culum tried to control his sudden start. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’ve ears. You’ll have blood on your hands that day. Yes. And soon you’ll need someone you can trust for many a day. So long as Norstedt Stride Orlov, the hunchback, is captain of one of your ships, you can trust him.”

“I’ll remember, Captain Orlov,” Culum said, and promised himself that when he did become Tai-Pan Orlov would never be one of his captains. Then, as he looked back into the man’s face, he had the weird feeling that Orlov had seen into his heart.

“What’s the matter, Captain?”

“Ask yourself that.” Orlov unlocked the housing of the chronometer. To do this he had to stand on a rung of the ladder. Then he began to wind the clock carefully with a large key. “You wind this clock thirty-three times.”

“Why do you do it? Not one of the officers?” Culum asked, not really caring.

“It’s the captain’s job. One of them. Navigation’s one of the secret things. If all aboard knew how to do it, there’d be mutiny after mutiny. Best that only the captain and a few of the officers know. Then, without them, the seamen are lost and helpless. We keep the chronometer locked and here for safety. Isn’t it beautiful? The workmanship? Made by good English brains and good English hands. It tells London time exactly.”

Culum felt the closeness of the passageway and nausea building inside of him—overlaid by fear of Orlov and of the coming battle. But he caught hold of himself and was determined that he would not allow Orlov to bait him into losing his temper, and tried to close his nostrils against the pervading sour smell from the bilges. There’ll be a reckoning later, he swore. “Is a chronometer so very important?”

“You’ve been to university and you ask that? Without this beauty we’d be lost. You’ve heard of Captain Cook? He used the first one, and proved it, sixty years ago. Until that time we could never find our longitude. But now, with exact London time and the sextant, we know where we are to a mile.” Orlov relocked the housing and shot an abrupt glance at Culum. “Can you use a sextant?”

“No.”

“When we sink the junks, I’ll show you. You think you can be Tai-Pan of The Noble House ashore? Eh?”

There was the sound of scurrying feet on deck and they felt

China Cloud surge even faster through the waves. Here, below, the whole ship seemed to pulsate with life.

Culum licked his dry lips. “Can we sink so many and escape?”

“If we don’t, we’ll be swimming.” The little man beamed up at Culum. “Ever been shipwrecked or sunk?”

“No. And I can’t swim.”

“If you’re a sailor, best not know how to swim. Swimming only prolongs the inevitable—if the sea wants you and your time has come.” Orlov pulled the chain to make certain the lock was secure. “Thirty years I’ve been to sea an’ I can’t swim. I’ve been sunk upwards of ten times, from the China seas to the Bering Straits, but I’ve always found a spar or a boat. One day the sea’ll get me. In her own time.” He eased the fighting iron on his wrist. “I’ll be glad to be back in port.”

Culum thankfully followed him up the gangway. “You don’t trust the men aboard?”

“A captain trusts his ship, only his ship. And himself alone.”

“You trust my father?”

“He’s the captain.”

“I don’t understand.”

Orlov made no reply. Once on the quarterdeck, he checked the sails and frowned. Too much sail, too close to shore. Too many unknown reefs and the smell of a squall somewhere. The line of encroaching junks was two miles ahead: implacable, silent, closing in on them.

The ship had full sails set, the mainsails still reefed, the whole ship throbbing with joy. This joy permeated the crew. When Struan ordered the reefs let go, they sprang to the rigging and sang the sails into place and forgot about the bullion that had infected them. The wind freshened and the sails crackled. The ship heeled over and gathered speed, the seawater frothing like yeast in the scuppers.

“Mr. Cudahy! Take a watch below and bring arms aloft!”

“Aye, aye, sorr!” Cudahy, the first mate, was a black-haired Irishman with dancing eyes, and he wore a golden earring.

“Steady as she goes! Deck watch! Prepare cannon! Load grape!”

The men flung themselves at the cannons, wheeled them out of their ports, charged them with grape and wheeled them back again.

“Number-three gun crew an extra tot of rum! Number eighteen to clean out the bilges!”

There were cheers and curses.

It was a custom Struan had started many years ago. When going into a fight the first gun crew ready was rewarded and the last was given the dirtiest job on the ship.

Struan scanned the sky and the tautness of the sails and turned the binoculars on the huge war junk. It had many cannon ports and a dragon for a figurehead and a flag which at this distance was still indistinct. Struan could see dozens of Chinese thronging the decks and torches burning.

“Get the water barrels ready!” Orlov shouted.

“What’re the water barrels for, Father?” Culum said.

“To douse fires, lad. The junks have torches burning. They’ll be well stocked with fire rockets and stink bombs. Stink bombs’re made from pitch and sulphur. They can make havoc of a clipper if you’re na prepared.” He looked aft. The other flotilla of junks was surging into the channel behind them.

“We’re cut off, aren’t we?” Culum said, his stomach turning over.

“Aye. But only a fool’d go that way. Look at the wind, lad. That way we’d have to beat up against it, and something tells me it’d shift farther against us soon. But for’ard we’ve the wind and the speed of any junk. See how ponderous they are, laddie! Like cart horses against us—a greyhound. We’ve ten times the firepower, ship to ship.”

One of the halyards at the top of the mainmast parted abruptly and the spar screamed, smashing itself against the mast, the sail flapping free.

“Port watch aloft!” Struan roared. “Send up the royal lift line!”

Culum watched the seamen claw out onto the spar almost at the top of the mainmast, the wind ripping at them, hanging on with nails and toes, knowing he could never do that. He felt the fear bile in his stomach and could not forget what Orlov had said: blood on your hands. Whose blood? He lurched for the gunnel and vomited.

“Here, laddie,” Struan said, offering the water bag that hung from a belaying pin.

Culum pushed it away, hating his father for noticing that he had been sick.

“Clean your mouth out, by God!” Struan’s voice was harsh.

Culum obeyed miserably and did not notice that the water actually was cold tea. He drank some of it and it made him sick again. Then he rinsed out his mouth and sipped sparingly, feeling dreadful.

“First time I went into battle I was sick as a drunk gillie—sicker than you can imagine. And frightened to death.”

“I don’t believe it,” Culum replied weakly. “You’ve never been afraid or sick in your life.”

Struan grunted. “Well, you can believe it. It was at Trafalgar.”

“I didn’t know you were there!” In his astonishment Culum momentarily forgot his nausea.

“I was a powder monkey. The navy uses children on the capital ships to carry powder from the magazine to the gundecks. The passageway has to be as small as possible to lessen the chance of fire and the whole ship exploding.” Struan remembered the roaring guns and the screams of the wounded, limbs scattered on the deck, slippery with blood—and stench of blood and redness of the scuppers. Smell of vomit in the never-ending black little tunnel, slimy with vomit. Groping up to the exploding guns with kegs of powder, then groping down another time into the horrifying darkness, lungs on fire, heart a violent machine, terror tears streaming—hour after hour. “I was frightened to death.”

“You were really at Trafalgar?”

“Aye. I was seven. I was the oldest of my group but the most afraid.” Struan clapped his son warmly on the shoulder. “So dinna worry. Nae anything wrong in that.”

“I’m not afraid now, Father. It’s just the stench of the hold.”

“Dinna fool yoursel’. It’s the stench of the blood you think you smell—and the fear it’ll be your own.”

Culum quickly hung over the side of the ship as he retched again. Though the wind was brisk, it would not blow the sick sweet smell out of his head or the words of Orlov from his brain.

Struan went over to the brandy keg and drew a tot and handed it to Culum and watched while he drank it.

“Beggin’ yor pardon, sirr,” the steward said. “The bath wot was ordered be ready, sirr.”

“Thank you.” Struan waited until the steward had joined his gun crew, then he said to Culum, “Go below, lad.”

Culum felt the humiliation well in him. “No. I’m fine here.”

“Go below!” Though it was an order, it was given gently, and Culum knew that he was being allowed the chance to go below and save face.

“Please, Father,” he said, near tears. “Let me stay. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. I’ve been in this sort of danger a thousand times, so it’s easy for me. I know what to expect. Go below, lad. There’s time enough to bathe and come back on deck. And be part of a fight, if fight it is. Please go below.”

Despondently, Culum obeyed.

Struan turned his attention to Robb, who was leaning on the gunnel, gray-faced. Struan thought for a moment, then walked over to him. “Would you do me a favor, Robb? Keep the lad company? He’s na feeling well at all.”

Robb forced a smile. “Thanks, Dirk. But this time I need to stay. Sick or not. Is it an invasion armada?”

“Nay, lad. But dinna worry. We can blast a way through them if need be.”

“I know. I know.”

“How’s Sarah? She’s very near her time, is she na? Sorry, I forgot to ask.”

“She’s well as most women feel with a few weeks to go. I’ll be glad when the waiting’s over.”

“Aye.” Struan turned away and adjusted the course a shade.

Robb forced his mind off the junks that seemed to fill the sea ahead. I hope it’s another girl, he thought. Girls are so much easier to raise than boys. I hope she’s like Karen. Dear little Karen!

Robb hated himself again for shouting at her this morning—was it only this morning that they had all been together in

Thunder Cloud? Karen had disappeared, and Sarah and he had thought she had fallen overboard. They were frantic and when the search had begun, Karen had come blithely on deck from the hold where she had been playing. And Robb had been so relieved that he had shouted at her, and Karen had fled sobbing into her mother’s arms. Robb had cursed his wife for not looking after Karen more carefully, knowing that it was not Sarah’s fault, but being unable to stop himself. Then in a few minutes little Karen was like any child, in easy laughter, everything forgotten. And he and Sarah were like any parents, still sick with mutual anger, everything not forgotten . . .

Fore and aft, the junk fleets were blocking

China Cloud’s avenues of escape. Robb saw his brother leaning against the binnacle, casually lighting a cheroot from a smoldering cannon taper, and wished that he could be so calm.

Oh God, give me strength to endure five months and another twelve months and the voyage home, and please make Sarah’s time easy.

He leaned over the rail and was very sick.

“Two points to port,” Struan said, watching the shore of Hong Kong carefully. He was almost close enough to the finger of rocks off the starboard bow and well to windward of the line of junks. A few minutes more and he would turn and hurtle at the junk he had already marked for death, and he would smash through the line safely—if there were no fire ships and if the wind did not slacken and if no hidden reef or bank mutilated him.

The sky was darkening to the north. The monsoon was holding true, but Struan knew that in these waters the wind could shift a quarter or more with alarming suddenness, or a violent squall could sweep out of the seas. With the ship carrying so much sail he would be in great danger, for the wind could rip away his sails before he could reef them, or tear away his masts. Then too, there could be many reefs and shoals waiting to tear his ship’s belly open. There were no charts of these waters. But Struan knew that only speed would carry them to safety. And joss.

“

Gott im Himmel!” Mauss was peering through the binoculars. “It’s the Lotus! The Silver Lotus!”

Struan grabbed the binoculars and focused on the flag that flew atop the huge junk: a silver flower on a red background. No mistake. It was the Silver Lotus, the flag of Wu Fang Choi, the pirate king, whose sadism was legendary, whose countless fleets ravaged and ruled the coasts of all south China and exacted tribute a thousand miles north and south. Supposedly, his base was in Formosa.

“What’s Wu Fang Choi doing in these waters?” Mauss asked. Again he felt the weird hope-fear welling in him. Thy will be done, oh Lord.

“The bullion,” Struan said. “It must be the bullion. Otherwise Wu Fang Choi would never risk coming here, na with our fleet so close.”

For years the Portuguese and all the traders had paid tribute to Wu Fang Choi for the safe conduct of their ships. Tribute was cheaper than the loss of the merchantmen, and his junks kept the south China seas rid of other pirates—most of the time. But with the coming of the expeditionary force last year, the British traders had ceased paying for this safe passage, and one of Wu Fang’s pirate fleets had begun to plunder the sea-lanes and the coast near Macao. Four Royal Navy frigates had sought out and destroyed most of the pirate junks, and followed those that fled into Bias Bay—a pirate haven on the coast, forty miles north of Hong Kong. There the frigates had laid waste the pirate junks and sampans, and had fired two pirate villages. Since that time the flag of Wu Fang Choi had never ventured near.

A cannon boomed from the pirate flagship, and astonishingly all the junks except one turned into the wind and downed mainsails, leaving only their short sails aft to give them leeway. A small junk detached itself from the fleet and headed the mile toward

China Cloud.

“Helm alee!” Struan ordered, and

China Cloud was turned into the wind. The sails flapped anxiously and the ship lost way and almost stopped. “Keep her head t’wind!”

“Aye, aye, sorr!”

Struan was looking through the binoculars at the small junk. Waving from the masthead was a white flag. “God’s death! What’re they playing at? Chinese never use a flag o’ truce!” The ship came closer and Struan was even more dumfounded at the sight of a huge black-bearded European dressed in heavy seafaring clothes, cutlass at his belt, conning the junk. Beside the man was a young Chinese boy, richly dressed in green brocade gown and pants and soft black boots. Struan saw the European train his long telescope on

China Cloud. After a moment the man put the telescope down, laughed uproariously and waved.

Struan passed the binoculars to Mauss. “What do you make of that man?” He leaned across to Captain Orlov, who had a telescope trained on the junk. “Cap’n?”

“Pirate, that’s certain.” Orlov handed his telescope to Robb. “Another rumor is confirmed—that Wu Fang Choi has Europeans in his fleet.”

“But why would they all down sails, Dirk?” Robb said incredulously.

“The emissary’ll tell us.” Struan walked to the edge of the quarterdeck. “Mister,” he called out to Cudahy, “ready to put a shot across his bows!”

“Aye, aye, sorr.” Cudahy jumped for the first cannon and trained it.

“Cap’n Orlov! Get the longboat ready. You lead the boarding party. If we dinna sink her first.”

“Why board her, Dirk?” Robb said, approaching Struan.

“No pirate junk’s coming within fifty yards. It may be a fire ship or full of powder. In times like these it’s better to be ready for devilment.”

Culum self-consciously appeared in the companionway dressed in a seaman’s clothes—heavy woolen shirt and woolen jacket and wide-legged trousers and rope shoes.

“Hello, lad,” Struan said.

“What’s going on?”

Struan told him, and added, “The clothes suit you, lad. You’re looking better.”

“I am much better,” Culum said, feeling uncomfortable and alien.

When the pirate junk was a hundred yards away,

China Cloud put a shot across her bows and Struan picked up a horn. “Heave to!” he shouted. “Or I’ll blow you out of the water!”

Obediently the junk swung into the wind and dropped her sails and began to drift with the strength of the tide.

“Ahoy,

China Cloud! Permission to come aboard,” the black-bearded man shouted.

“Why, and who are you?”

“Cap’n Scragger, late o’ London Town,” the man called back and guffawed. “A word in yor ear, M’Lord Struan, privy like!”

“Come aboard alone. Unarmed!”

“Flag o’ truce, matey?”

“Aye!” Struan walked to the quarterdeck rail. “Keep the junk covered, Mr. Cudahy!”

“He be covered, sorr!”

A small dinghy was lowered over the side of the junk, and Scragger climbed into it nimbly and began rowing toward

China Cloud. As he approached he began singing in a rich, lilting voice. It was a sea chantey, “Blow the Man Down.”

“Cocky sod,” Struan said, amused in spite of himself.

“Scragger’s an uncommon name,” Robb said. “Didn’t Great-Aunt Ethel marry a Scragger of London?”

“Aye. I thought the same, lad.” Struan grinned. “Mayhaps we’ve a relation who’s a pirate.”

“Aren’t we all pirates?”

Struan’s grin broadened. “The Noble House’ll be safe in your hands, Robb. You’re a wise man—wiser than you give yoursel’ credit for.” He looked back at the dinghy. “Cocky sod!”

Scragger appeared to be in his thirties. His long unkempt hair and his beard were raven-black. His eyes were pale blue and small, and his hands like hams. Golden rings hung from his ears and a jagged scar puckered the left side of his face.

He tied his dinghy up and scaled the boarding net with practiced ease. As he jumped onto the deck he touched his forelock with mock deference to the quarterdeck and made an elaborate bow. “Morning, Yor Honors!” Then to the seamen who were gaping at him, “Morning, mateys! Me guv’, Wu Fang Choi, wishes you a safe journey ’ome!” He laughed and showed broken teeth, then came to the quarterdeck and stopped in front of Struan. He was shorter than Struan but thicker. “Let’s go below!”

“Mr. Cudahy, search him!”

“Now, it be a flag o’ truce and I ain’t armed, that be the truth. You’ve me oath, so help me!” Scragger said, the picture of innocence.

“So you’ll be searched anyway!”

Scragger submitted to the search. “Be you satisfied, Tai-Pan?”

“For the moment.”

“Then let’s below. Alone. Like I asked.”

Struan checked the priming of his pistol and motioned Scragger down the gangway. “Rest of you stay on deck.”

To Struan’s amazement, Scragger proceeded through the ship with the familiarity of one who had been aboard before. Reaching the cabin, he plopped to the sea chair and stretched out his legs contentedly. “I’d like to wet me whistle afore I starts, if it please you. Rowin’ be thirsty work.”

“Rum?”

“Brandy. Ah, brandy! An’ if you’ve a keg to spare, I’ll be mighty favorable inclined.”

“To do what?”

“To be patient.” Scragger’s eyes were steely. “You be like wot I thort you be like.”

“You said you were late o’ London Town?”

“Yus, that I did. A long time ago. Ah, thankee,” Scragger said, accepting the tankard of fine brandy. He sniffed it lovingly, then gulped it down and sighed and brushed his greasy whiskers. “Ah, brandy, brandy! Only thing wrong with me present post be the lack of brandy. Does me heart good.”

Struan refilled the tankard.

“Thankee, Tai-Pan.”

Struan toyed with his pistol. “What part of London are you from?”

“Shoreditch, matey. That were where I were brung up.”

“What’s your Christian name?”

“Dick. Why?”

Struan shrugged. “Now get to the point,” he said. He planned to write by the next mail to find out if Dick Scragger was the name of a descendant of his great-aunt.

“That I will, Tai-Pan, that I will. Wu Fang Choi wants to talk to you. Alone. Now.”

“What about?”

“I didn’t askt him and ’ee didn’t tell me. ‘Go get the Tai-Pan,’ says he. So here I am.” He emptied the tankard, then smirked. “You’ve bullion aboard, so the rumor says. Eh?”

“Tell him I’ll see him here. He can come aboard alone and unarmed.”

Scragger roared with laughter and scratched unconsciously at the lice that infested him. “Now, you knows he baint about t’ do that, Tai-Pan, any more’n you’d go aboard alone his ship wivout protection like. You seed the boy aboard my junk?”

“Aye.”

“It be his youngest son. He be hostage. You’re to go aboard, armed if you likes, an’ the boy stays here.”

“And the boy turns out to be just a dressed-up coolie’s son and I get chopped!”

“Oh no,” Scragger said, pained. “You’ve me oath, by God, and ’is. We baint a scalawag bunch o’ pirates. We’ve three thousand ships in our fleets and rule these coasts as you rightly knowed. You’ve me oath, by God. An’ his.”

Struan noticed the white scars on Scragger’s wrists and knew there would be more on his ankles. “Why’re you, an Englishman, with him?”

“Why indeed, matey? Why indeed?” Scragger replied, rising. “Can I helps meself to more grog? Thank you kindly.” He brought the bottle back to the desk and settled himself again. “There be upwards of fifty of us Limeys through ‘is fleet. And fifteen or so others, Americans mostly, an’ one Frenchy. Captains, cannon makers, gunners, mates. I were a bosun’s mate by trade,” he continued expansively, inspired by the brandy. “Ten year or more ago I were shipwrecked on some islands north. The dirty little heathen bastards catched me for slave, Japaners they were. They sold me to some other heathen bastards, but I escaped and fell in with Wu Fang. He offer me a berth when he knowed I were a bosun’s mate and could do most things aboard.” He drained the tankard, belched, and refilled it. “Now, do we go or doan we?”

“Why do you na stay aboard now? I can blow a path through Wu Fang right smartly.”

“Thank you, matey, but I likes it where I be.”

“How long were you a convict?”

Scragger’s tankard stopped in midair and his expression became guarded. “Long enough, matey.” He looked at the wrist scars. “The iron marks, hey? Aye, the marks be still with me after twelve year.”

“Where’d you escape from? Botany Bay?”

“Aye, Botany Bay it were,” Scragger said, amiable once more. “Fifteen year transportation I got when just a lad, leastways when I were younger. Twenty-five abouts. How old be you?”

“Old enough.”

“I’ve never knowed for sure. Maybe I’m thirty-five or forty-five. Yus. Fifteen year for striking a muck-pissed mate on a muck-pissed frigate.”

“You were lucky you were na hanged.”

“Yus, that I were.” Scragger happily belched again. “I likes talking to you, Tai-Pan. It be a change from me mates. Yus, transported from Blighty I were. Nine month at sea chained along o’ four hundred other poor devils an’ the same of women or thereabouts. Chained belowdecks we were. Nine months or more. Water an’ hardtack an’ no beef. That’s no way to treat a man, no way at all. A hundred of us lived to reach port. We mutinied in the port o’ Sydney and broke our chains. Killed all the muck-ficked jailers. Then into the bush for a year, then I found me a ship. A merchantman.” Scragger chuckled malevolently. “Leastways, we fed on merchantmen.” He gazed into the depths of his tankard and his smile disappeared. “Yus, gallows bait, that what we all be, God curse all piss-arsed peelers,” he snarled. For a moment he fell silent, lost in his memories. “But I were shipwrecked like I said, and the rest.”

Struan lit a cheroot. “Why serve a mad-dog pirate scum like Wu Fang?”

“I’ll tell you, matey. I’m free like the wind. I got three wives an’ all the food I can eat, an’ pay, an’ I be captain of a ship. He treats me better’n my God-cursed kin. God-cursed kin! Yus. I be gallows bait to they. But to Wu Fang I baint, an’ where else and how else could the likes o’ me have wives an’ food and loot and no peelers an’ no gallows, eh? Course I be wiv him—or any wot gives me that.” He got up. “Now be you acomin’ like he asked or do we have to board you?”

“Board me, Captain Scragger. But first finish your brandy. It’ll be the last you taste on this earth.”

“We be having more’n a hundred ships again’ you.”

“You must think me a right proper fool. Wu Fang’d never venture personally into these waters. Never. Na with our warships just the other side of Hong Kong. Wu Fang’s na wi’ your fleet.”

“You be right proper smart, Tai-Pan,” Scragger cackled. “I were warned. Yus. Wu Fang baint with us but his chief admiral be. Wu Kwok, his eldest son. An’ the boy be ’is. That be the truth.”

“Truth wears many faces, Scragger,” Struan said. “Now get to hell off my ship. The flag o’ truce is for your vessel only. I’ll show you what I think of your godrotting pirate fleet.”

“That you will, Tai-Pan, given ’arf a chance. Oh yus, I forgot,” he said and pulled out a small leather bag that was thonged around his neck. He took out a folded piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. “I were to give you this,” he said, his face twisting derisively.

Struan unfolded the paper. It bore Jin-qua’s chop. And it contained one of the coin halves.