Tai-Pan

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

China Cloud came back into harbor through the western channel. The rising sun was strong, the wind east and steady—and humid.

Struan was on the quarterdeck, naked to the waist, his skin deeply tanned and his red-gold hair sun-bleached. He trained his binoculars on the ships of the harbor. First

Resting Cloud. Code flags fluttered on the mizzen: “Zenith”—owner to come aboard immediately. Only to be expected, he thought. He remembered the last time—an eternity ago—that he had read “Zenith” on

Thunder Cloud, the time that had heralded the news of so many deaths, and Culum’s arrival.

In the harbor there were more troopships than before. They were all flying the East India Company flags. Good. The first of the reinforcements. He saw a large three-masted brigantine near the flagship. The Russian flag flew aft and the tsarist pennant aloft the mainmast.

There were many more sampans and junks than usual scurrying over the waves.

After he had scanned the rest of the fleet meticulously, he turned to the shore, the sea tang mixing nicely with the smell of land. He could see activity near Glessing’s Point and many Europeans and clusters of beggars walking Queen’s Road. Tai Ping Shan seemed to have grown appreciably.

The Lion and the Dragon flew over the abandoned factory of The Noble House and the abandoned emptiness of Happy Valley.

“Four points t’ starboard!”

“Aye, aye, sorr,” the helmsman sang.

Struan adroitly conned the lorcha alongside

Resting Cloud. He pulled on a shirt and went aboard.

“Morning,” Captain Orlov said. He knew the Tai-Pan too well to ask where he had been.

“Morning. You’re flying ‘Zenith.’ Why?”

“Your son’s orders.”

“Where is he?”

“Ashore.”

“Please fetch him aboard.”

“He was sent for when you came into harbor.”

“Then why is he na here?”

“Can I have my ship back now? By Thor, Green Eyes, I’m mortal tired of being a captain-flunky. Let me be a tea captain or an opium captain, or let me take her into Arctic waters. I know fifty places to get a cargo of furs—more bellygutting bullion for your coffers. That’s not much to ask.”

“I need you here.” Struan grinned and years dropped from him.

“You can laugh, by Odin’s foreskin!” Orlov’s face twisted with his own smile. “You’ve been to sea and I’ve been stuck on an anchored hulk. You look like a god, Green Eyes. Did you have storm? Typhoon? And why’s my mains’l changed, and the foreroyal, crossjack, the flying jib? There’re new halyards and stays and clew lines all over. Why, eh? Did you tear the heart out of my beauty just to clean your soul?”

“What kind of furs, Captain?”

“Seal, sable, mink—you name them and I’ll find them—just so long as I can say to any, ‘Get to Hades off my ship,’ even you.”

“In October you sail north. Alone. Does that satisfy you? Furs for China, eh?”

Orlov peered up at Struan and knew at once that he would never sail north in October. A little shudder ran through him and he hated the second sight that plagued him. What’s going to happen to me twixt June and October? “Can I have my ship now? Yes or no, by God? October’s a bad month and far off. Can I have my ship now, yes or no?”

“Aye.”

Orlov shinned over the side and stamped onto the quarterdeck. “Let go the forehawser,” he shouted, then waved to Struan and laughed uproariously.

China Cloud fell away from the mother ship and snaked daintily for her storm mooring off Happy Valley.

Struan went below to May-may’s quarters. She was deeply asleep. He told Ah Sam not to awaken her; he would come back later. Then he went to the deck above, to his own private quarters, and bathed and shaved and put on fresh clothes. Lim Din brought him eggs and fruit and tea.

The cabin door opened and Culum hurried in. “Where’ve you been?” he began with a rush. “There’re a thousand things that need to be done and the land sale’s this afternoon. You might have told me before you disappeared. The whole place’s in turmoil and—”

“Do you na knock on doors, Culum?”

“Of course, but I was in a hurry. I’m sorry.”

“Sit down. What thousand things?” Struan asked. “I thought you could manage everything.”

“You’re Tai-Pan, I’m not,” Culum said.

“Aye. But say I’d na come back today, what would you have done?”

Culum hesitated. “Gone to the land sale. Bought land.”

“Did you make a deal with Brock on which lots we would na bid against each other on?”

Culum was unsettled by his father’s eyes. “Well, in a way. I made a tentative arrangement. Subject to your approval.” He took out a map and laid it on the desk. The site of the new town surrounded Glessing’s Point, two miles west of Happy Valley. Level building space was cramped by the surrounding mountains and barely half a mile wide and half a mile deep from the shore. Tai Ping Shan overlooked the site and blocked expansion eastward.

“These are all the lots. I picked 8 and 9. Gorth said they wanted 14 and 21.”

“Did you check this with Tyler?”

“Yes.”

Struan glanced at the map. “Why pick two lots next to each other?”

“Well, I don’t know anything about land or factories or wharves, so I asked George Glessing. And Vargas. Then privately, Gordon Chen. And—”

“Why Gordon?”

“I don’t know. Just that I thought it was a good idea. He seems to be very smart.”

“Go on.”

“Well, they all agreed 8, 9, 10, 14 and 21 were the best of the marine lots. Gordon suggested two together in case we wanted to expand, then one wharf would service two factories. At Glessing’s suggestion I had Captain Orlov privately plumb the depth offshore. He said there’s good rock bottom, but the shelf is shallow. We’ll have to reclaim land from the sea and put our wharf well out.”

“Which suburban lots did you pick?” Culum nervously pointed them out. “Gordon thought we should bid on this property here. It’s—well, it’s a hill, and—well, I think it would be a fine place for the Great House.”

Struan got up and went to the stern windows and looked through the binoculars at the hill. It was west of Tai Ping Shan on the other side of the site. “We’d have to build a road up there, eh?”

“Vargas said if we could buy suburban lots 9A and 15B we’d have an—I think he called it an ‘easement,’ something like that, and that would protect our property. Later we could build on them and rent if we wished. Or resell later.”

“Have you discussed this with Brock?”

“No.”

“Gorth?”

“No.”

“Tess?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“No reason. I like talking to her. We talk about lots of things.”

“It’s dangerous to talk to her about a matter like this. Like it or na, you’ve put her to a test.”

“What?”

“If Gorth or Brock bid for 9A and 15B, you know she canna be trusted. Without the smaller lots the hill’s an extreme gamble.”

“She’d never say anything,” Culum said belligerently. “It was private, between ourselves. Perhaps the Brocks have had the same idea. It won’t prove anything if they do bid against us.”

Struan studied him. Then he said, “Drink or tea?”

“Tea, thank you.” The palms of Culum’s hands felt clammy. He wondered if Tess had indeed talked to Brock or to Gorth. “Where did you go?”

“What other things need decisions?”

Culum collected his thoughts with an effort. “There’s a lot of mail, both for you and Uncle Robb. I didn’t know what to do about it, so I put it all in the safe. Then Vargas and Chen Sheng estimated our Happy Valley costs and I—well—I signed for the bullion. Longstaff’s paid everyone, like you said. I signed for it and counted it. And yesterday a man arrived from England on Zergeyev’s ship. Roger Blore. He said he picked her up in Singapore. He wants to see you urgently. He won’t tell me what he wants but, well—anyway I put him on the small hulk. Who is he?”

“I dinna ken, lad,” Struan said thoughtfully. He rang the bell on the desk and the steward came in. Struan ordered a cutter sent for Blore.

“What else, lad?”

“Orders for building materials and ships’ supplies are piling up. We have to order new stocks of opium—a thousand things.”

Struan played with his mug of tea. “Has Brock given you an answer yet?”

“Today’s the last day. He asked me aboard the

White Witch tonight.”

“Tess has na indicated her father’s decision?”

“No.”

“Gorth?”

Again Culum shook his head. “They’re leaving for Macao tomorrow. Except Brock. I’ve been invited to go with them.”

“Are you going?”

“Now that you’re back, I would like to. For a week—if he says we can marry soon.” Culum drank some tea. “There’d be furniture to buy and—well, that sort of thing.”

“Did you see Sousa?”

“Oh yes, we did. The land is wonderful, and the plans are already drawn. We can’t thank you enough. We were thinking—well, Sousa told us about the separate room for the bath and toilet you designed for your house. We—well, we asked him to build us one.”

Struan offered a cheroot, and lit it. “How long would you have waited, Culum?”

“I don’t understand.”

“For me to come back. The sea might have swallowed me.”

“Not you, Tai-Pan.”

“One day she might—one day she will.” Struan blew out a thread of smoke and watched it float. “If I ever leave again without telling you where I’m going, wait forty days. Nae more. I’m either dead or never coming back.”

“Very well.” Culum wondered what his father was getting at. “Why did you leave like that?”

“Why do you talk to Tess?”

“That’s no answer.”

“What else has happened since I left?”

Culum was desperately trying to understand, but he could not. He had greater respect than before for his father, yet he still felt no filial love. He had talked for hours with Tess and had found an uncanny depth to her. And they had discussed their fathers, trying to fathom the two that they loved and feared and sometimes hated most on earth, yet ran to at the breath of danger. “The frigates returned from Quemoy.”

“And?”

“They laid waste fifty to a hundred junks. Big and small. And three pirate nests ashore. Perhaps they sank Wu Kwok, perhaps they didn’t.”

“I think we’ll know soon enough.”

“The day before yesterday I checked your house in Happy Valley. The watchmen—well, you know no one will stay at night—I’m afraid it was broken into and looted badly.”

Struan wondered if the secret safe had been tampered with. “Is there na any good news?”

“Aristotle Quance escaped from Hong Kong.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Mrs. Quance doesn’t believe it, but everyone—at least almost everyone—saw him on the ship, the same that took Aunt Sarah home. The poor woman believes he’s still in Hong Kong. Did you know about George and Mary Sinclair? They’re going to be married. That’s good, even though Horatio is terribly upset about it. But that’s not all good either. We’ve just heard Mary’s very sick.”

“Malaria?”

“No. A flux of some kind in Macao. It’s very strange. George got a letter yesterday from the mother superior of the Catholic Nursing Order. Poor fellow’s worried to death! You can never trust those Papists.”

“What did the mother superior say?”

“Only that she felt she should inform Mary’s next of kin. And that Mary had said to write to George.”

Struan frowned. “Why the devil did she na go to the Missionary Hospital? And why did she na inform Horatio?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you told Horatio?”

“No.”

“Would Glessing have told him?”

“I doubt it. They seem to hate each other now.”

“You’d better go with the Brocks and find out how she is.”

“I thought you’d want firsthand news, so I sent Vargas’ nephew, Jesus, by lorcha yesterday. Poor George couldn’t get leave of absence from Longstaff, and I wanted to help him as well.”

Struan poured more tea and then looked at Culum with new respect. “Very good.”

“Well, I know she’s almost like your ward.”

“Aye.”

“The only other thing is that the inquiry into the archduke’s accident was held a few days ago. The jury found that it was just an accident.”

“Do you think it was?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

“Have you visited Zergeyev?”

“At least once a day. He was at the inquiry, of course, and he—he said many nice things about you. How you helped him, saved his life, things like that. Zergeyev attached blame to no one and said that he had informed the tsar to that effect. He said openly that he thought he owed his life to you. Skinner brought out a special edition of the

Oriental Times covering the inquiry. I have it for you.” Culum handed him the paper. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a royal commendation from the tsar personally.”

“How is Zergeyev?”

“He’s walking now, but his hip’s very stiff. I think he’s in great pain though he never mentions it. He says he’ll never ride again.”

“But he’s well?”

“As well as a man can be who lives to ride.” Struan went to the sideboard and poured two sherries. The lad’s changed, he thought. Aye, very much changed. I am proud of my son.

Culum accepted the glass and stared at it.

“Health, Culum. You’ve managed very well.”

“Health, Father.” Culum had chosen the word deliberately.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I want to be Tai-Pan of The Noble House. Very much. But I don’t want a dead man’s shoes.”

“I never thought you did,” Struan snapped.

“Yes, but I considered it. And I know in truth I don’t like that idea.”

Struan asked himself how his son could say such a thing, so calmly. “You’ve changed a lot in the last few weeks.”

“I’m learning about myself, perhaps. It’s Tess mostly—and being alone for seven days. I found I’m not ready to be alone yet.”

“Does Gorth share your opinion of dead men’s shoes?”

“I can’t answer for Gorth, Tai-Pan. Only for myself. I know that you’re mostly right, that I love Tess, that you’re going against everything you believe to help me.”

Again Struan remembered Sarah’s words.

He sipped his drink contemplatively.

Roger Blore was in his early twenties, his face as taut as his eyes. His clothes were expensive but threadbare, and his short frame spare and fatless. He had dark blond hair, and his blue eyes were deeply fatigued.

“Please sit down, Mr. Blore,” Struan said. “Now, what’s all the mystery? And why must you see me alone?”

Blore remained standing. “You’re Dirk Lochlin Struan, sir?”

Struan was surprised. Very few people knew his middle name. “Aye. And who might you be?” Neither the man’s face nor his name meant anything to Struan. But his accent was cultured—Eton or Harrow or Charterhouse.

“May I see your left foot, sir?” the youth asked politely.

“God’s death! You insolent puppy! Come to the point or get out!”

“You’re perfectly correct to be irritated, Mr. Struan. The odds that you’re the Tai-Pan are fifty to one on. A hundred to one on. But I must be sure you’re who you say you are.”

“Why?”

“Because I have information for Dirk Lochlin Struan, Tai-Pan of The Noble House, whose left foot is half shot away—information of the greatest importance.”

“From whom?”

“My father.”

“I dinna ken your name or your father and I’ve a long memory for names, by God!”

“My name’s not Roger Blore, sir. That’s just a pseudonym—for safety. My father’s in Parliament. I’m almost sure you’re the Tai-Pan. But before I pass the information, I have to be absolutely sure.”

Struan pulled the dirk out of his right boot and lifted the left boot. “Take it off,” he said dangerously. “And if the information’s na ’of the greatest importance, I’ll carve my initials on your forehead.”

“Then I suppose I stake my life. A life for a life.”

He pulled the boot off, sighed with relief, and sat weakly. “My name’s Richard Crosse. My father’s Sir Charles Crosse, member of Parliament for Chalfont St. Giles.”

Struan had met Sir Charles twice, some years ago. At that time Sir Charles was a small country squire with no means, a vehement supporter of free trade and of the importance of Asian trade, and well liked in Parliament. Over the years Struan had supported him financially and had never regretted the investment. It must be about the ratification, he thought eagerly. “Why did you na say so in the first place?”

Crosse rubbed his eyes tiredly. “May I have a drink, please?”

“Grog, brandy, sherry—help yoursel’.”

“Thank you, sir.” Crosse poured himself some brandy. “Thanks. Sorry, but I’m—well, a little tired. Father told me to be very careful—to use a pseudonym. To speak only to you—or if you were dead, to Robb Struan.” He undid his shirt and worked open a pouch that was strapped around his waist. “He sent you this.” He handed Struan a soiled, heavily sealed envelope and sat down.

Struan took the envelope. It was addressed to him, dated London, April 29th. Abruptly he looked up and his voice grated. “You’re a liar! It’s impossible for you to have got here so quickly. That’s only sixty days ago.”

“Yes it is, sir,” Crosse said breezily. “I’ve done the impossible.” He laughed nervously. “Father will almost never forgive me.”

“No one’s ever made the journey in sixty days. What’s your game?”

“I left on Tuesday the 29th of April. Stagecoach London to Dover. I caught the mail ship to Calais by a nose. Stage to Paris and another to Marseilles. The French mail to Alexandria, by a hair. Overland to Suez through the good offices of Mehemet AM—whom Father met once—and then the Bombay mail by a whisker. I rotted in Bombay for three days and then had a fabulous stroke of luck. I bought passage on an opium clipper for Calcutta. Then—”

“What clipper?”

“Flying Witch, belonging to Brock and Sons.”

“Go on,” Struan said, his eyebrows soaring.

“Then an East Indiaman to Singapore. The

Bombay Prince. Then bad luck, no ship scheduled for Hong Kong for weeks. Then huge luck. I talked myself onto a Russian ship—that one,” Crosse said, pointing out the stern windows. “She was the most dangerous gamble of all, but it was my last chance. I gave the captain every last guinea I had. In advance. I thought they’d be sure to cut my throat and throw me overboard once out to sea, but it was my last chance. Fifty-nine days, sir, actually—London to Hong Kong.”

Struan got up and poured another drink for Crosse and took a large one for himself. Aye, it’s possible, he thought. Na probable but possible. “Do you know what’s in the letter?”

“No, sir. At least I know only the part that refers to me.”

“And what’s that?”

“Father says that I’m a wastrel, a ne’er-do-well, gambler and horse-mad,” Crosse said with disarming frankness. “That there’s a debtor’s warrant out for my arrest from Newgate Prison. That he commends me to your generosity and hopes you’ll be able to find a use for my ‘talents’—anything to keep me out of England and away from him for the rest of his life. And he sets forth the stakes of the wager.”

“What wager?”

“I arrived yesterday, sir. June 28th. Your son and many others are witnesses. Perhaps you should read the letter, sir. I can assure you my father’d never wager with me unless it was news of the ‘utmost importance.’ ”

Struan re-examined the seals and broke them. The letter read: “Westminister, 11 o’clock the evening of April 28th, ‘41. My dear Mr. Struan: I have just become secretly privy to a dispatch the Foreign Secretary, Lord Cunnington, sent yesterday to the Hon. William Longstaff, Her Majesty’s plenipotentiary in Asia. The dispatch read in part: ‘You have disobeyed and neglected my directives and appear to consider them so much flatulence. You obviously seem determined to settle the affairs of Her Majesty’s Government at your whim. You impertinently disregard instructions that five or six mainland Chinese ports are to be made accessible to British trading interests, and that full and diplomatic channels be permanently established therein; that this be done expeditiously, preferably by negotiation, but if negotiation be impossible, by use of the Force sent for this explicit purpose and at considerable cost. Instead you settle for a miserable rock with hardly a house on it, for an entirely unacceptable treaty, and at the same time—if naval and army dispatches are to be believed—continually misuse Her Majesty’s Forces under your command. In no way can Hong Kong ever become the market emporium for Asia—any more than Macao has become one. The Treaty of Chuenpi is totally repudiated. Your successor, Sir Clyde Whalen, will be arriving imminently, my dear Sir. Perhaps you would be kind enough to hand over your duties to your deputy, Mr. C. Monsey, on receipt of this dispatch, and leave Asia forthwith on a frigate which is hereby detached for this duty. Report to my office at your earliest convenience.’

“I am at my wits’ end . . .”

Impossible! Impossible that they could make such a god-rotting-fornicating-stupid-Christforsaken-unbelievable mistake! Struan thought. He read on: “I’m at my wits’ end. There’s nothing I can do until the information is presented officially in the House. I daren’t use this secret information openly. Cunnington would have my head and I’d be damned out of politics. Even putting it on paper to you in this fashion is giving my enemies—and who in politics has only a few?—an opportunity to destroy me and, with me, all those who support free trade and the position you’ve so zealously fought for all these years. I pray God my son puts it into your hands alone. (He knows nothing of the private contents of this letter, by the way.)

“As you know, the Foreign Secretary is an imperious man, a law unto himself, the bulwark of our Whig party. His attitude in the dispatch is perfectly clear. I’m afraid that Hong Kong is a dead issue. And unless the Government is defeated and Sir Robert Peel’s Conservatives come into power—an impossibility, I would say, in the foreseeable future—Hong Kong is likely to remain a dead issue.

“The news of the failure of your bank spread through the inner circles in the City—greatly assisted by your rivals, headed by young Morgan Brock. ‘In great confidence’ Morgan Brock judiciously dropped seeds of distrust, along with the information that the Brocks now own most, if not all, of your outstanding paper, and this has immeasurably hurt your influence here. And, too, a letter from Mr. Tyler Brock and certain other traders arrived, almost simultaneously with Longstaff’s ‘Treaty of Chuenpi’ dispatch, in violent opposition to the Hong Kong settlement and to Longstaff’s conduct of hostilities. The letter was addressed to the Prime Minister, the Foreign Secretary, with copies to their enemies—of which, as you know, there are many.

“Knowing that you may have put the remainder of your resources, if any, into your cherished island, I write to give you the opportunity to extricate yourself and save something from the disaster. It may be that you have made some form of settlement with Brock—I pray you have— though if the arrogant Morgan Brock is to be believed, the only settlement that will please them is the obliteration of your house. (I have good reason to believe that Morgan Brock and a group of Continental banking interests— French and Russian, it is further rumored—started the sudden run on the bank. The Continental group proposed the ploy when news somehow leaked out about Mr. Robb Struan’s planned international structure. They broke your bank in return for fifty percent of a similar plan which Morgan Brock is now trying to effect.)

“I’m sorry to bear such bad tidings. I do so in good faith, hoping that somehow the information will be of value and that you will be able to survive to fight again. I still believe your plan for Hong Kong is the correct one. And I intend to continue to try to put it into effect.

“I know little about Sir Clyde Whalen, the new Captain Superintendent of Trade. He served with distinction in India and has an excellent reputation as a soldier. He’s no administrator, so I believe. I understand that he leaves tomorrow for Asia; thus his arrival would be imminent.

“Last: I commend my youngest son to you. He is a wastrel, black sheep, ne’er-do-well whose only purpose in life is to gamble, preferably on horses. There is a debtor’s warrant out for him from Newgate Prison. I told him that I would—a last time—settle his debts here if he would forthwith undertake this dangerous journey. He agreed, wagering that if he achieved the impossible feat of arriving in Hong Kong in under sixty-five days—half the normal time—I would give him a thousand guineas to boot.

“To insure as fast a delivery as possible, I said five thousand guineas if under sixty-five days; five hundred guineas less for every day over that stipulated period; all provided that he stayed out of England for the rest of my life—the money to be paid at five hundred guineas per year until finished. Enclosed is the first payment. Please advise me by return mail the date of his arrival.

“If there is any way you could use his ‘talents’ and control him, you would earn a father’s undying gratitude. I’ve tried, God help both me and him, and I’ve failed. Though I love him dearly.

“Please accept my sorrow at your bad luck. Give my best to Mr. Robb, and I end on the hope that I will have the pleasure of meeting you personally under more favorable circumstances. I have the honor to be, Sir, your most obedient servant, Charles Crosse.”

Struan gazed out at the harbor and the island. He remembered the cross that he had burned on the first day. And Brock’s twenty golden guineas. And Jin-qua’s remaining three coins. And the lacs of bullion that were to be invested for someone who, one day, would come with a certain chop. Now all the sweat and all the work and all the planning and all the deaths were wasted. Through the stupid arrogance of one man: Lord Cunnington.

Good sweet Christ, what do I do now?

Struan overcame the shock of the news and forced himself to think. The Foreign Secretary’s a brilliant man. He would not repudiate Hong Kong lightly. There must be a reason. What can it be? And how am I to control Whalen? How to fit a “soldier and no administrator” into the future? Perhaps I should stop buying the land today. Let the rest of the traders buy and to hell with them. Brock’ll be crushed along with the others, for Whalen and the news will na arrive for a month or more. By that time they’ll be deep into desperate building. Aye, that’s one way, and when the news is common knowledge, we all retire to Macao—or to one of the treaty ports that Whalen will get—and everyone else is smashed. Or hurt very badly. Aye. But if I can get this information, Brock can too. So perhaps he’ll na be sucked in. Perhaps.

Aye. But that way you lose the key to Asia: this miserable threadbare rock, without which all the open ports and the future will be meaningless.

The alternative is to buy and build and gamble that—like Longstaff—Whalen can be persuaded to exceed his directives, that Cunnington himself can be got at. To pour the wealth of The Noble House into the new town. Gamble. Make Hong Kong thrive. So that the Government will be forced to accept the colony.

That’s mortal dangerous. You canna force the Crown to do that. The odds are terrible, terrible. Even so, you’ve nae choice. You have to gamble.

Odds reminded him of young Crosse. Now, here’s a valuable lad. How can I use him? How can I keep his mouth shut tight about his fantastic journey? Aye, and how can I create a favorable impression on Whalen for Hong Kong? And get closer to Cunnington? How can I keep the treaty as I want it?

“Well, Mr. Crosse, you did a remarkable voyage. Who knows how long it took you?”

“Only you, sir.”

“Then keep it to yoursel’.” Struan wrote something on a pad of paper. “Give this to my chief clerk.”

Crosse read the note. “You’re giving me the whole five thousand guineas?”

“I’ve put it in the name of Roger Blore. I think you’d better keep that name—for the time, anyway. ”

“Yes, sir. Now I’m Roger Blore.” He stood up. “Are you finished with me now, Mr. Struan?”

“Do you want a job, Mr. Blore?”

“I’m afraid there’s—well, Mr. Struan, I’ve tried a dozen things but it never works. Father’s tried everything and, well—I’m committed—perhaps it was preordained—to what I am. I’m sorry, but you’d be wasting good intentions.”

“I’ll bet you five thousand guineas you’ll accept the job I’ll offer you.”

The youth knew that he’d win the wager. There was no job, none that the Tai-Pan could offer him, that he would accept.

But wait. This is no man to play with, no man to wager lightly with. Those devil calm eyes are flat. I’d hate to see them across a poker table. Or at baccarat. Watch your step, Richard Crosse Roger Blore. This is one man who’ll collect a debt.

“Well, Mr. Blore? Where’re your guts? Or are you na the gambler you pretend?”

“The five thousand guineas is my life, sir. The last stake I’ll get.”

“So put up your life, by God.”

“You’re not risking yours, sir. So the wager’s uneven. That sum’s contemptible to you. Give me odds. Hundred to one.”

Struan admired the youth’s brashness. “Very well—the truth, Mr. Blore. Before God.” He shoved out his hand, and Blore reeled inside for he had gambled that asking for such odds would kill the wager. Don’t do it, you fool, he told himself. Five hundred thousand guineas!

He shook Struan’s hand.

“Secretary of the Jockey Club of Hong Kong,” Struan said.

“What?”

“We’ve just formed the Jockey Club. You’re secretary. Your job is to find horses. Lay out a racetrack. A clubhouse. Begin the richest, finest racing stable in Asia. As good as Aintree or any in the world. Who wins, lad?”

Blore desperately wanted to relieve himself. For the love of God, concentrate, he shouted to himself. “A race track?”

“Aye. You start it, run it—horses, gambling, stands, odds, prizes, everything. Begin today.”

“But, Jesus Christ, where’re you going to get the horses?”

“Where will

you get the horses?”

“Australia, by God,” Blore burst out. “I’ve heard they’ve horses to spare down there!” He shoved the banker’s draft back at Struan and let out an ecstatic bellow. “Mr. Struan, you’ll never regret this.” He turned and rushed for the door.

“Where’re you going?” Struan asked.

“Australia, of course.”

“Why do you na see the general first?”

“Eh?”

“I seem to remember they’ve some cavalry. Borrow some horses. I’d say you could arrange the first meet next Saturday.”

“I could?”

“Aye. Saturday’s a good day for race day. And India’s nearer than Australia. I’ll send you by the first available ship.”

“You will?”

Struan smiled. “Aye.” He handed back the slip of paper. “Five hundred is a bonus on your first year’s salary, Mr. Blore, of five hundred a year. The rest is prize money for the first four or five meets. I’d say eight races, five horses each, every second Saturday.”

“God bless you, Mr. Struan.”

Then Struan was alone. He struck a match and watched the letter burn. He ground the ashes to dust then went below. May-may was still in bed, but she was freshly groomed and looked beautiful.

“Heya, Tai-Pan,” May-may said. She kissed him briefly, then continued fanning herself. “I’m gracious glad you’re back. I want you to buy me a small piece of land because I’ve decided to go to bisness.”

“What sort of business?” he asked, slightly peeved at the offhand welcome but pleased that she accepted his going and returning without question, and without fuss.

“You will see, never mind. But I want some taels to begin. I pay ten percent interest, which is first-class. A hundred taels. You will be a sleep partner.”

He reached over and put his hand on her breast. “Talking about sleeping, there’s—”

She removed his hand. “Bisness before sleepings. You buy me land and lend me taels?”

“Sleepings before business!”

“Ayeee yah, in this hot?” she said with a laugh. “Very well. It’s terrifical bad to tax yoursel’ in this hot—your shirt sticks already to your back. Come along, never mind.” She obediently walked toward her bedroom door, but he caught her.

“I was just teasing. How are you? Has the baby given you any troubles?”

“Of course na. I am a very careful mother, and I eat only very special foods to build a fine son. And think warlike thoughts to make him Tai-Pan-brave.”

“How many taels do you want?”

“A hundred. I already said. Have you nae ears? You’re terrifical strange today, Tai-Pan. Yes. Certainly very strange. You’re na sick, are you? You have bad news? Or just tired?”

“Just tired. A hundred taels, certainly. What’s the ‘bisness’?”

She clapped her hands excitedly and sat back at the table. “Oh, you will see. I’ve thought much since you gone. What do I do for you? Make love and guide you both terrifical good, to be sure, but that’s na enough. So now I make taels too for you, and for my old age.” She laughed again and he delighted in her laugh. “But only from the barbarians. I will make fortunes—oh, you will think I am cleveritious.”

“There’s nae such word.”

“You know very well what I mean.” She hugged him. “You want to make love now?”

“There’s a land sale in an hour.”

“True. Then best you change clotheses and hurry back. A small lot on Queen’s Road. But I pay no more than ten taels’ rent a year! Did you bring me present?”

“What?”

“Well, it’s a good custom,” she said, her eyes innocent, “that when a man leaves his woman, he brings her present. Jades. Things like that.”

“Nae jades. But next time I’ll be more attentive.”

She shrugged. “Good custom. Your poor old mother’s werry impoverish. We eat later, heya?”

“Aye.” Struan went to his own staterooms on the next deck above.

Lim Din bowed. “Bathe werry cold, all same, Mass’er. Wantshee?”

“Aye.”

Struan took off his limp clothes and lay in the bath and let his mind consider the implications of Sir Charles’s news, his fury at Cunnington’s stupidity almost overwhelming him. He dried himself and dressed in fresh clothes, and in a few moments his shirt was damp with sweat again.

Best I sit and think it out, he thought. Let Culum take care of the land. I’ll bet my life Tess told her father about his plan for the hill. Maybe Culum’ll be trapped into overbidding. The lad did well; I must trust him with this.

So he sent word to Culum to bid for The Noble House, and also told him to buy a small but good lot on Queen’s Road. And he sent word to Horatio that Mary was poorly and arranged for a lorcha to take him immediately to Macao.

Then he sat in a deep leather chair and stared out a porthole at the island and let his mind roam.

Culum bought the marine and suburban lots, proud to bid for The Noble House and to gain more face. He was asked by many where the Tai-Pan was—where he had been—but he answered curtly that he had no idea and continued to imply a hostility he no longer felt.

He bought the hill—and the lots that made the hill safe—and he was relieved that the Brocks did not bid against him, thus proving that Tess could be trusted. Even so, he decided to be more cautious in the future, and not put her in such a position again. It was dangerous to be too open with some knowledge, he thought. Dangerous for her and for himself. For example, the knowledge that the thought of her, the slightest touch of her, drove him almost frantic with desire. Knowledge that he could never discuss with her or his father but only with Gorth, who understood: “Yes, Culum lad. I knows only too well. It be terrible pain, terrible. Thee can hardly walk. Yes—and it be terrible hard to control. But doan worry, lad. We be pals and I understands. It be right to be frank, thee and me. It be terrible dangerous for thee to be like monk. Yes. Worse’n that, it be storing up troubles in the future—and even worse, I beared tell it be making for sickly offspring. The pain in thy guts be the warning of God. Yes—that pain’ll sicken a man all his life, and that be the mortal truth, so help me God! Doan thee worry—I knowed a place in Macao. Doan thee worry, old lad.”

And though Culum did not truly believe the superstitions that Gorth pronounced, the pains he endured day and night sapped his will to resist. He wanted relief. Even so, he swore, if Brock agrees to let us marry next month, then I won’t go to a whorehouse. I won’t!

At sunset Culum and Struan went aboard the

White Witch. Brock was waiting for them on the quarterdeck, Gorth beside him. The night was cool and pleasant.

“I be decided about thy marrying, Culum,” Brock said. “Next month be unseemly. Next year be probable better. But the third month from now be Tess’s seventeenth birthday, and on that day, the tenth, thee can marry.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brock,” Culum said. “Thank you.”

Brock grinned at Struan. “Do that suit thee, Dirk?”

“It’s your decision, Tyler, na mine. But I think three months or two’s nae different to one. I still say next month.”

“September suit thee, Culum? Like I sayed? Be honest, lad.”

“Yes. Of course. I’d hoped, but—well, yes, Mr. Brock.” Culum swore that he would wait the three months. But deep inside he knew that he could not.

“Then that be settled proper.”

“Aye,” Struan echoed. “Three months it is, then.” Aye, he told himself, three months it is. You’ve just signed a death warrant, Tyler. Maybe two.

“And, Dirk, mayhaps thee’ll give me time tomorrer? We can fix dowry and wot not,”

“At noon?”

“Yus. At noon. And now I thinks we be joining the ladies below. You be staying for supper, Dirk?”

“Thank you, but there are some things I have to attend to.”

“Like the races, eh? I’ve to hand it to you. Proper smart to brung that Blore fellow out from home. He be a proper young spark. The last race o’ every meet be the Brock Stakes. We be putting prize money.”

“Aye. So I hear. It’s fitting we have the best track in Asia.”

Blore had made the announcement at the land sale. Longstaff had agreed to be the first president of the Jockey Club. The annual membership fee was set at ten guineas, and every European on the island had immediately joined. Blore was besieged with volunteers to ride the cavalry mounts the general had agreed to provide. “Thee can ride, Dirk?”

“Aye. But I’ve never raced.”

“Me likewise. But mayhaps we should try our hands, eh? You ride, Culum?”

“Oh, yes. But I’m not an expert.”

Gorth clapped him on the back. “We can get mounts in Macao, Culum, practice a little. Mayhaps we can take on our Da’s, eh?”

Culum smiled uneasily.

“Aye, we might at that, Gorth,” Struan said. “Well, good night. I’ll see you at noon, Tyler.”

“Yus. Night, Dirk.”

Struan left.

During dinner Culum tried to heal the antagonism that existed between Gorth and Brock. He found it strange that he liked them both, could see through them both—could understand why Gorth wanted to be Tai-Pan and why Brock would not pass over control, not for a time. And strange why he felt wiser in this than Gorth. Not so strange, really, he thought. Gorth hadn’t suddenly been left alone for seven long days with all the responsibility.

The day I marry Tess I’m throwing away Brock’s twenty sovereigns. Not right to keep them now. Whatever happens, we’re starting afresh. Only three months. Oh God, thank you.

After dinner Culum and Tess went on deck by themselves. Both were breathless under the stars, holding hands and aching. Culum brushed her lips in a first tentative kiss, and Tess remembered the roughness of Nagrek’s kiss and the fire that had followed his hands and the pain that he had caused—not pain really, but an agony-pleasure that in the remembrance always made her burn anew. She was glad that soon she would be able to quench the fire inside her. Only three months, then peace.

They returned to the fetid cabin below, and after Culum had left, she lay in her bunk. Her longing racked her and she wept. Because she knew that Nagrek had touched her in a way that only Culum should have touched her, knowing that this knowledge must be held secret from him for all eternity. But how? Oh, my love, my love.

“I tell thee, Da’, that were a mistake,” Gorth was saying in the great cabin, keeping his voice low. “A terrible mistake!”

Brock slammed the tankard down and beer slopped onto the table and the floor. “It be my decision, Gorth, and that be the end of it. They be wed come September.”

“And it were mistake not to bid on the hill. That devil’s stolen another march on us’n, by God.”

“Use thy brains, Gorth!” Brock hissed. “If we’d done that, then young Culum’d knowed for sure that Tess be telling me innocent wot’s sayed and wot baint. The hillock were unimportant. Mayhaps there be a time when she be saying somethin’ wot’ll gut Dirk, and that’s wot I wants to know, naught else.” Brock despised himself for listening to Tess and for using her unknowingly to spy on Culum, and as a tool against Dirk Struan. But he loathed Gorth more, and distrusted him more than ever. Because he knew that Gorth was right. But he wanted Tess’s happiness more than anything, and this knowledge made him dangerous. Now the fruit of Struan’s godrotting loins would join with his adored Tess. “I swear to Christ I’ll kill Culum if he hurts a hair on her head,” he said, his voice terrible.

“Then why let Culum marry her fast, by all that’s holy? ’Course he’ll hurt her and use her against us’n now.”

“And wot’s changed thy mind, eh?” Brock flared. “Thee was for it—enthusiastical for it.”

“I still be, but not in three month, by God. That be the ruination of everything.”

“Why?”

“Course it ruin everything,” he said. “When I were for it, Robb were alive, eh? Then the Tai-Pan were leaving this summer for good and passing over Tai-Pan to Robb—then to Culum in a year. It be the truth. They’s marrying next year’d be perfect. But now the Tai-Pan be staying. And now that thee agree to marrying in three month, the Tai-Pan’ll take her away from thee and train Culum against us’n and now I thinks he be never leaving. And certainly never while yo’re Tai-Pan of Brock and Sons!”

“He never be leaving Asia, wotever he sayed to Culum. Or Robb. I knows Dirk.”

“And I knows thee!”

“When he be leaving—or deaded—then I be leaving.”

“Then he better be deaded right smartly.”

“Thee better possess thyself with patience.”

“I be patient, Da’.”

It was on the tip of Gorth’s tongue to tell Brock the vengeance he had planned on Struan—through Culum—in Macao. But he did not. His father was more concerned with the happiness of Tess than with becoming Tai-Pan of The Noble House. His father no longer had the necessary consuming ruthlessness that Struan possessed in a measure that made being

the Tai-Pan possible.

“Remember, Da’—he outsmarted thee with the bullion, on their house, the marriage, even on the ball. Tess’s thy weakness,” he stormed. “He knowed it, and thee beed set up with her as thy wrecker’s beacon and thee’s heading for disaster.”

“I baint. I baint! I knowed wot I be doing,” Brock said, trying to keep his voice low, the veins in his temples like the knots in a cat-o’-nine-tails. “An’ I warned thee afore. Doan go after that devil by thyself. He’ll cut off thy balls and feed ’em to thee. I knowed that devil!”

“Yes, that you do, Da!” Gorth could smell the age of his father, and knew for the first time that in truth he could crush him, man to man. “So get thee out of the way and let a man do a man’s job, by God!”

Brock slammed to his feet and the chair crashed over.

Gorth was up and waiting for his father to snake for his knife, knowing that now and forevermore he could afford to wait, for he had the measure of him.

Brock saw clearly that this was his last chance to dominate Gorth. If he did not go for the knife, he was lost. If he went for the knife, he would have to kill Gorth. He knew that he could—but only by cunning, no longer by strength alone. Gorth be yor son, yor eldest son. He baint enemy, he told himself. “Baint right,” he said, stifling his desire to kill. “Baint right for thee—for thee ‘n’ me—like this’n. No, by God. I tell thee a last time, thee go after him, thee’ll meet thy Maker.”

Gorth felt the thrill of victory. “Only joss’ll get us’n out of this mess.” He kicked his chair out of the way. “I be going ashore.”

Brock was alone. He finished the tankard, and another, and another. Liza opened the door but he did not notice her and she left him to his drinking, and she went to bed and prayed for the happiness of the marriage. And for her man.

Gorth went ashore. To Mrs. Fortheringill’s house.

“I’m not wanting your business, Mr. Brock,’” she said. “The last one were hurt brutal.”

“Wot’s a monkey to you, you old witch? Here!” Gorth slammed twenty gold sovereigns on the table. “An’ here’s the same to keep yor trap shut.”

She gave him a young Hakka girl and a cellar far to the back of the house.

Gorth abused the girl, flogged her brutally, and left her dying.

The next day he set out in the

White Witch for Macao, forty miles southwest. All the Brocks were aboard except Brock himself. Culum also stood on the quarterdeck, his arm linked with Tess’s.