Tai-Pan

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Five days later was race day.

And during this time the foundations of the new town had been laid. Following the lead of The Noble House, the traders had harnessed all the labor and skills of Tai Ping Shan into digging and carrying and building. The traders poured back into the land all the bullion Longstaff had given them. The brickmakers in Macao and the timber makers in Kwangtung—and all those who were concerned with the building of houses or factories or wharves—began to work night and day to satisfy the frantic zeal of the traders to replace that which had been abandoned. Wages rose. Coolies began to be in short supply—The Noble House alone employed three thousand bricklayers, builders and artisans of all kinds—even though each tide brought more workers. These quickly found well-paid work. Tai Ping Shan swelled even more. The foreshore around Glessing’s Point pulsated with energy.

And race day marked the fourteenth day since Struan and May-may had left their house in Happy Valley to move aboard

Resting Cloud.

“You dinna look well, lassie,” Struan said. “Best stay abed today.”

“I think I will,” she said. She had been restless all night and her head and neck and back had begun to ache. “It’s nothing, never mind. You look terriflcal good.”

“Thank you.” Struan was wearing new clothes that he had had made in honor of the meet. Dark green riding coat of the finest, lightest wool. White drill pleated trousers thonged under his half boots, waistcoat of primrose cashmere, green cravat.

May-may eased the ache in her shoulders and Ah Sam settled the pillow more comfortably for her. “It’s just a summer devil. I send for doctor. You go ashore now?”

“Aye. The meet begins in an hour. I think I’ll get our doctor, lass. He’ll—”

“

I will send for doctor. Chinese doctor. And that’s the end of that. Now, dinna forget, twenty taels on number-four horse in fourth race. The astrologer said it was absolute good winner.”

“I will na forget.” Struan patted her cheek. “You rest yoursel’.”

“When I win, I feel fantastical better, heya? Go along, now.”

He tucked her up and saw that fresh tea was brought and an earthenware bottle filled with hot water for her back. Then he went ashore.

The racetrack had been laid out to the west of Glessing’s Point and was mobbed with people. Part of the foreshore, near the post that marked both the starting and finishing lines, had been cordoned off for Europeans against the hordes of curious Chinese who swarmed around. Tents had been set up here and there. A paddock and betting stands had been constructed. Flags on bamboo poles marked the oval track.

The betting was heavy, and Henry Hardy Hibbs had the biggest book. “Take yor pick, gents,” he shouted in his sonorous voice, thumping his blackboard upon which he had chalked the odds. “Major Trent, up on the black stallion, Satan, be favorite in the first. Even money. Three to one the field!”

“God rot you, Hibbs,” Glessing said testily, sweating in the heat of the day. “Three to one the field and you’re bound to win. Give me six to one on the gray mare. A guinea!”

Hibbs glanced at the blackboard and whispered hoarsely, “For you, Capt’n, sir, five it is. One guinea it is. On Mary Jane.”

Glessing turned away. He was furious that he was not in Macao and that Culum’s promised letter had not arrived. Oh God above, he thought, frantic with worry, I should have heard from him by this time. What the devil’s the delay? What’s that bugger Horatio doing? Is he hacking at her again?

He walked moodily down to the paddock and saw Struan and Zergeyev together, but Longstaff joined them so he did not stop.

“What’s your choice, Your Highness?” Longstaff was saying jovially.

“The gelding,” Zergeyev replied, leaning on a stick. The excitement and the smell of the horses refreshed him and lessened much of his constant pain. He wished that he could be a rider, but blessed his luck that he had survived the wound. And blessed Struan. He knew that without Struan’s operation he would have died.

“La, Your Highness,” Shevaun said as she strolled up on Jeff Cooper’s arm. She was dressed in shimmering green and shaded by an orange parasol. “Have you a tip for me?” She favored all of them with a smile. Particularly Struan.

“The gelding’s the best horse, but who the best rider is I don’t know, Shevaun,” Zergeyev said.

Shevaun glanced at the big brown horse, its coat sleek and eyes full. “La,” she said with a mischievous twinkle, “Poor horse! If I were a horse and that’d been done to me, I swear I’d never run a foot. For no one! Barbaric!”

They laughed with her.

“Are you betting the gelding, Tai-Pan?”

“I dinna ken,” he said, worried about May-may. “Somehow I favor the filly. But I think I’ll make my final choice when they’re at the starting gate.”

She studied him for an instant, wondering if he was speaking in parables.

“Let’s take a closer look at the filly,” Jeff said, forcing a laugh.

“Why don’t you, Jeff, my dear? I’ll stay here and wait for you.”

“I’ll come along,” Longstaff said, missing Cooper’s flash of irritation. Cooper hesitated, then they walked off together.

Brock lifted his hat politely as he passed Shevaun and Struan and Zergeyev, but did not stop. He was glad that Struan had decided not to jockey one of the horses, for he was not fond of riding himself and his dig at Struan had been involuntary. God curse him, he thought.

“How is your wound, Your Highness?” Shevaun said.

“Fine. I’m almost whole again, thanks to the Tai-Pan.”

“I did nothing,” Struan said, embarrassed by Zergeyev’s praise. He noticed Blore down by the paddock in private conversation with Skinner. I wonder if I gambled correctly on the lad, he thought.

“Modesty becomes you, sir,” Shevaun said to Struan and bobbed a graceful curtsy. “Don’t they say

‘noblesse oblige’?”

Struan marked Zergeyev’s open admiration for the girl. “You’ve a fine ship, Your Highness.” The Russian vessel was four-masted, eight hundred tons burden. Many cannons.

“I’d be honored to have the captain show you over her,” Zergeyev said. “Perhaps we could talk specifics with you. When you’re ready.”

“Thank you, I’d like that.” Struan would have continued, but Blore rushed up to them, dusty and exhausted.

“Almost ready to begin, Tai-Pan—you look whizz-o, Miss Tillman—afternoon, Your Highness,” he said in a run. “Everyone put your money on number four in the fourth, decided to ride her myself—oh yes, Tai-Pan, I checked the stallion last night. He took the bit, so we can use him in the next meet—Your Highness, best let me guide you to your position, you’re starting the first race.”

“I am?”

“Didn’t His Excellency mention it? Blast the—I mean would you care to?”

Never had Blore worked so hard and never had he been so excited. “Would you follow me, please?” He guided Zergeyev hastily through the crowd.

“Blore’s a nice young man,” Shevaun said, glad to be alone with Struan at last. “Where did you find him?”

“He found me,” Struan said. “And I’m glad he did.”

His attention was distracted by an altercation near one of the tents. A group of soldier-guards was hustling a Chinese out of the enclosure. The coolie’s hat fell off—and with it the long queue. The man was Aristotle Quance.

“Excuse me a second,” Struan said. He hurried over and stood in front of the little man, shielding him with his bulk. “That’s all right, lads, he’s a friend of mine!” he said.

The soldiers shrugged and moved off.

“Great thundering cannon balls, Tai-Pan,” Quance choked out, adjusting his filthy clothes. “Saved in the nick. Bless you!”

Struan shoved the coolie hat back on Quance’s head and pulled him behind a flap of the tent. “What the devil are you doing here?” he whispered.

“Had to see the races, by God,” Quance said, settling the hat so that the queue fell down his back, “and wanted to talk to you.”

“This is nae time! Maureen’s in the crowd somewhere.”

Quance blanched. “God protect me!”

“Aye, though why He should, I’ve nae idea. Be off with you while you’re safe. I heard she’s booked passage for home next week. If she suspects—well, be it on your own head!”

“Just the first race, Tai-Pan?” Quance begged. “Please. And I’ve information for you.”

“What?”

To Struan’s shock, Quance told him what Gorth had done to the prostitute. “Ghastly! Poor girl’s near death. Gorth’s mad, Tai-Pan. Mad.”

“Send me word if the girl dies. Then we’ll—well, I’ll have to think about what to do. Thank you, Aristotle. Best you vanish while you can.”

“Just the first race? Please, for the love of God! You don’t know what it means to a poor old man.”

Struan looked around. Shevaun was studiously ignoring them. Then he noticed Glessing walking by. “Captain!”

When Glessing recognized Quance, his eyes soared to heaven. “By Jove! I thought you were on the high seas!”

“Do me a favor, would you?” Struan said quickly. “Mrs. Quance is over by the post. Would you keep Aristotle out of trouble and out of her way? Better, take him over there.” Struan pointed to where the Chinese were milling about. “Let him watch the first race, then take him home.”

“Certainly. Good God, Aristotle, I’m glad to see you,” Glessing said, then to Struan, “Have you heard from Culum? I’m terribly worried about Miss Sinclair.”

“No. But I told Culum to see her as soon as he arrived. We should hear any moment. I’m sure she’s all right.”

“I hope so. Oh, where should I take Aristotle after the race?”

“Mrs. Fortheringill’s.”

“By Jove! What’s it like, Aristotle?” Glessing asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Terrifying, my boy, mortal terrifying.” Quance grasped his arm and his voice hoarsened. “Can’t get a wink of sleep and the food’s hideous. Nothing but quent for breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner and supper. Can you lend me a few guineas, Tai-Pan?”

Struan grunted and walked off.

“What’s quent, Aristotle?”

“It’s, er, a kind of gruel.”

Struan rejoined Shevaun.

“A friend of yours, Tai-Pan?”

“It’s na politic to notice some friends, Shevaun.”

She tapped him lightly on the arm with her fan. “There’s never a need to remind me about politics, Dirk. I’ve missed you,” she added gently.

“Aye,” he said, realizing that it would be easy and wise to marry Shevaun. But na possible. Because of May-may. “Why do you want to be painted in the nude?” he asked suddenly, and he knew from the flash in her eyes that his hunch was correct.

“Aristotle said that?” Her voice was level.

“Great God, no. He’d never do that. But some months ago he was teasing us. Said he had a new commission. For a nude. Why?”

She blushed and fanned herself, and laughed. “Goya painted the Duchess of Alba. Twice, I believe. She became the toast of the world.”

His eyes crinkled with amusement. “You’re a devil, Shevaun. Did you really let him—well, see the subject?”

“That was poetic license on his part. We discussed the idea of two portraits. You don’t approve?”

“I’d say your uncle—and your father—would hit the sky if they heard about it, or if the portraits fell into the wrong hands.”

“Would you buy them, Tai-Pan?”

“To hide?”

“To enjoy.”

“You’re a strange girl, Shevaun.”

“Perhaps I despise hypocrisy.” She looked at him searchingly. “Like you.”

“Aye. But you’re a girl in a man’s world, and certain things you canna do.”

“There’s a lot of ‘certain’ things I would like to do.” There were cheers and the horses began to parade. Shevaun made a final decision. “I think I will leave Asia. Within two months.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“No, Tai-Pan. It’s just that I’m in love—and in love with life as well. And I agree with you. That the time to choose the winner is when they’re at the starting gate.” She fanned herself, praying that her gamble would justify the risk. “Who do you pick?”

He did not look at the horses. “The filly, Shevaun,” he said quietly.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“May-may,” he said, the light in his eyes gentle.

Her fan hesitated and then continued as before. “A race is never lost until the winner’s judged and garlanded.”

She smiled and walked away, head high, more beautiful than she had ever been. The filly lost the race. Only by a nose. But she lost.

“Back so soon, Tai-Pan?” May-may said thinly.

“Aye. I tired of the meet, and I was worried over you.”

“Did I win?”

He shook his head.

She smiled and sighed. “Oh well, never mind.” The whites of her eyes were pink, and her face was gray under the gold.

“Has the doctor been?” Struan asked.

“Na yet.” May-may curled on her side, but that did not ease her discomfort. She moved the pillow away, but that did not help either, so she replaced it again. “Your poor old mother’s just old,” she said with a forlorn grin.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Nowhere, everywhere. A good sleep will cure everything, never mind.”

He massaged her neck and her back and would not allow himself to think the unthinkable. He ordered fresh tea and light food and tried to persuade her to eat, but she had no appetite.

At sunset Ah Sam entered and spoke briefly to May-may.

“The doctor is come. And Gordon Chen,” May-may said to Struan.

“Good!” Struan got up and stretched.

Ah Sam walked over to a jewel cabinet and took out a small ivory statue of a nude woman lying on her side. To Struan’s astonishment, May-may pointed to parts of the tiny statue and spoke at length to Ah Sam. Ah Sam nodded and went out, Struan followed, bewildered.

The doctor was an elderly man, his queue long and well oiled, his ancient black robes threadbare. His eyes were clear and a few long hairs grew from a wart in his cheek. He had long thin fingers and the backs of his slender hands were blue-veined.

“So sorry, Tai-Pan,” Gordon said, and he bowed with the doctor. “This is Kee Fa Tan, the best doctor in Tai Ping Shan. We came as fast as we could.”

“Thank you. You’d better come this—” He stopped. Ah Sam had gone over to the doctor and had bowed deeply and shown him the statue, indicating parts of it in the same manner as May-may. And now she was answering questions volubly.

“What the devil’s he doing?”

“Making a diagnosis,” Gordon Chen said, listening attentively to Ah Sam and to the doctor.

“With the statue?”

“Yes. It would be unseemly for him to see the Lady if it was not necessary, Tai-Pan. Ah Sam is explaining where the pains are. Please be patient, I’m sure it’s not serious.”

The doctor contemplated the statue in silence. Finally he looked up at Gordon and said something softly.

“He says it is not an easy diagnosis. With your permission, he would like to examine the Lady.”

Seething with impatience, Struan led the way into the bedroom. May-may had dropped the curtains surrounding the bed. She was only a discreet shadow behind them.

The doctor went to May-may’s bedside and again fell silent. After a few minutes he spoke quietly. Obediently May-may’s left hand came from under the curtains. The doctor picked up her hand and examined it intently. Then he put his fingers on her pulse and closed his eyes. His fingers began tapping the skin gently.

The minutes passed. The fingers were tapping slowly as though seeking something impossible to find.

“What’s he doing now?” Struan asked.

“Listening to her pulse, sir,” Gordon whispered. “We must be very quiet. There are nine pulses in each wrist. Three on the surface and three a little lower and three deep down. These tell him the cause of the sickness. Please, Tai-Pan, be patient. It is most hard to listen with fingers.”

The finger tapping continued. It was the only sound in the cabin. Ah Sam and Gordon Chen watched spellbound. Struan shifted uneasily but made no sound. The doctor seemed to be in a mystical reverie. Then suddenly—as if falling on an elusive prey—the tapping ceased and the doctor pressed hard. For a minute he was like a statue. Then he let the wrist lie on the coverlet, and May-may silently gave him her right wrist and he repeated the procedure.

And again after many minutes the tapping abruptly ceased.

The doctor opened his eyes and sighed and put May-may’s wrist on the coverlet. He beckoned to Gordon Chen and to Struan.

Gordon Chen closed the door behind them. The doctor laughed softly and nervously and began speaking quietly and rapidly.

Gordon’s eyes widened.

“What’s the matter?” Struan said sharply.

“I didn’t know Mother was with child, Tai-Pan.” Gordon turned back to the doctor and asked a question and the doctor answered at length. Then silence.

“Well, what the devil did he say?”

Gordon looked at him and tried unsuccessfully to appear calm. “He says Mother’s very sick, Tai-Pan. That a poison has entered her bloodstream through her lower limbs. This poison has centered in her liver, and the liver is now”—he sought for the word—“maladjusted. Soon there will be fever, bad fever. Very bad fever. Then three or four days of time and again fever. And again.”

“Malaria? Happy Valley fever?”

Gordon turned back and asked the question.

“He says yes.”

“Everyone knows it’s the night gases—na poison through the skin, by God,” he slammed at Gordon. “She’s na been there for weeks!”

Gordon shrugged. “I only tell you what he says, Tai-Pan. I’m no doctor. But this doctor I would trust—I think you should trust.”

“What’s his cure?”

Gordon queried the doctor.

“He says, Tai-Pan: ‘I have treated some of those who suffered the Happy Valley poison. The successful recoveries were all strong men who took a certain medicine before the third fever attack. But this patient is a woman, and though in her twenty-first year and strong with a fire spirit, all her strength is going into the child that is four months in her womb.’” Gordon stopped, uneasily. “He fears for the Lady and the child.”

“Tell him to get the medicine and treat her now. Na after any attack.”

“That’s the trouble. He can’t, sir. He has none of the medicine left.”

“Then tell him to get some, by God!”

“There’s none on Hong Kong, Tai-Pan. He’s sure.”

Struan’s face darkened. “There must be some. Tell him to get it—whatever it costs.”

“But, Tai-Pan, he—”

“God’s blood, tell him!”

Again there was chatter back and forth.

“He says there is none in Hong Kong. That there will be none in Macao, or in Canton. That the medicine is made from the bark of a very rare tree that grows somewhere in the South Seas, or in lands across the seas. The tiny quantity he had came from his father who was also a doctor, who got it from his father.” Gordon added helplessly, “He says he’s completely sure that there’s no more.”

“Twenty thousand taels of silver if she’s cured.”

Gordon’s eyes widened. He thought a moment, then he spoke rapidly to the doctor. They both bowed and hurried away.

Struan took out his handkerchief, wiped the sweat off his face, and walked back into the bedroom.

“Heya, Tai-Pan,” May-may said, her voice even thinner. “Wat for is my joss?”

“They’ve gone to get a special medicine which’ll cure you. Nae anything to worry about.”

He settled her as best he could, his mind tormented. Then he hurried to the flagship and asked the chief naval doctor about the bark.

“Sorry, my dear Mr. Struan, but that’s an old wives’ tale. There’s a legend about Countess Cinchon, wife of the Spanish viceroy of Peru, who introduced a bark from South America into Europe in the seventeenth century. It was known as ‘Jesuits’ bark,’ and sometimes as ‘cinchona bark.’ Powdered and taken with water, it was supposed to cure the fever. But when it was tried in India it failed completely. Worthless! Damned Papists would say anything to get converts.”

“Where the devil can I get some?”

“I really don’t know, my dear sir, Peru, I suppose. But why your anxiety? Queen’s Town is abandoned now. No need to be concerned if you don’t breathe the night gas.”

“A friend’s just come down with malaria.”

“Ah! Then heroic purging with calomel. As soon as possible. Can’t promise anything, of course. We’ll leech him immediately.”

Struan tried the chief army doctor next, and then, in the course of time, all the lesser doctors—both service and civilian—and they all told him the same thing.

Then Struan remembered that Wilf Tillman was alive. He hastened to the Cooper-Tillman opium hulk.

And all the while Struan was questioning the doctors, Gordon Chen had returned to Tai Ping Shan and had sent for the ten Triad leaders under him. Then they had gone to their own headquarters and had sent for the ten leaders under them. Word spread with incredible speed that a certain bark of a certain tree was to be found. By sampan, by junk, word filtered out across the harbor to Wowloon, soon to reach hamlets and villages and towns and cities. Up the coast, down the coast, inland. Soon all the Chinese of Hong Kong—Triads and non-Triads—knew that a rare bark was being sought. They did not know by whom or for what reason: only that a great reward had been offered. And this knowledge fell into the ears of the anti-Triad agents of the mandarins. They too began to seek the bark, and not only for the reward; they knew that a portion of bark might perhaps be used as a lure to unmask the leaders of the Triad.

“Sorry to arrive uninvited, Wilf. I—” Struan stopped, alarmed by the sight of Tillman.

Tillman was propped on a sweat-stained pillow, his face skeletal—the color of unwashed ancient linen—the whites of his eyes filth-yellowed. “Come in,” he said, his voice hardly perceptible. And then Struan saw that Tillman, whose teeth had been fine and strong and white, was now toothless.

“What happened to your teeth?”

“The calomel. It affects some people . . .” Tillman’s voice trailed off dully. And his eyes took on a curious luster. “I’ve been expecting you. The answer’s no!”

“What?”

“No. A simple no.” Tillman’s voice grew stronger. “I’m her guardian and she’ll never marry you.”

“I did na come here to ask for her. I just came to see how you were and how the malaria—”

“I don’t believe you.” Tillman’s voice rose hysterically. “You’re just hoping I’ll die!”

“That’s ridiculous! Why should I want you dead?”

Tillman weakly lifted the handbell that was on the rancid coverlet and rang it. The door opened and a big Negro, Tillman’s slave, came in barefoot.

“Jebidiah, ask Mass’er Cooper and Missee to come here at once.”

Jebidiah nodded and closed the door.

“Still peddling humans, Wilf?”

“Jebidiah’s content as he is, goddam you! You’ve your way and we’ve ours, you pox-ridden swine!”

“The pox on your ways, you damned blackbirder.” Struan’s second ship was etched on his memory, and occasionally he still had nightmares that he was aboard again. With his share of Trafalgar’s prize money he had bought himself out of the navy and had signed as cabin boy on an English merchantman that plied the Atlantic. It was only when far out to sea that he discovered she was an illicit slave trader, sailing down to Dakar for slaves and then across the lower Atlantic and the doldrums to Savannah, the men, women and children crushed belowdecks like maggots. Their dying cries and whimpers filling his ears, the stench choking him, week after week after week. He a lad of eight, and helpless. He had deserted at Savannah. This was the only ship that he had deserted in his life.

“You’re worse than the slavers,” he said, his voice raw. “You just buy the flesh and put ’em on the block and take the profit. I’ve seen a slave market.”

“We treat them well!” Tillman shrieked. “They’re only savages and we give them a good life. We do!” His face twitched as he lay back and fought for strength, desperate with envy of Struan’s vitality and health, and feeling near death. “You’ll not benefit by my death, God curse you for eternity!”

Struan turned for the door.

“You’d better wait. What I have to say concerns you.”

“Nothing you could say would concern me!”

“You call me blackbirder? How’d you get your mistress, you goddam hypocrite?”

The door flung open and Cooper rushed in. “Oh, hello, Tai-Pan! I didn’t know you were aboard.”

“Hello, Jeff,” Struan said, hardly able to control his temper.

Cooper glanced at Tillman. “What’s up, Wilf?”

“Nothing. I wanted to see you and my niece.”

Shevaun came in, and stopped in surprise. “Hello, Tai-Pan. Are you all right, Uncle?”

“No, child. I feel very bad.”

“What’s the matter, Wilf?” Cooper asked.

Tillman coughed weakly. “The Tai-Pan came ‘visiting.’ I thought this a perfect time to settle an important matter. I’m due for another fever attack tomorrow and I think . . . well,”—the limp eyes turned on Shevaun—“I’m proud to tell you that Jeff has formally asked for your hand in marriage and I have accepted gladly.”

Shevaun blanched. “I don’t want to marry yet.”

“I’ve considered everything very carefully—”

“I

won’t!”

Tillman pulled himself up on one elbow with a great effort. “Now, you will listen to me!” he shrieked, strengthened by his anger. “I’m your legal guardian. For months I’ve been corresponding with your father. My brother has formally approved the match if I formally decide that it’s to your advantage. And I’ve decided it is. So—”

“Well, I haven’t, Uncle. It’s the nineteenth century, not the Middle Ages. I don’t want to marry yet.”

“I’m not concerned with your wishes, and you’re quite right, it is the nineteenth century. You

are betrothed. You

will be married. Your father’s hope and mine was that during your visit here Jeff would favor you. He has.” Tillman lay back exhaustedly. “It is a most pleasing match. And that’s the end to it.”

Cooper walked over to Shevaun. “Shevaun, darling. You know how I feel. I had no idea that Wilf was . . . I’d hoped that, well. . .”

She backed away from him and her eyes found Struan. “Tai-Pan! Tell my uncle. Tell him he can’t do this—he can’t betroth me—tell him he can’t!”

“How old are you, Shevaun?” Struan asked.

“Nineteen.”

“If your father approves and your uncle approves, you’ve nae option.” He looked at Tillman. “I suppose you have it in writing?”

Tillman motioned at a desk. “The letter’s there. Though it’s none of your goddam business.”

“That’s the law, Shevaun. You’re a minor and bound to do what your father wants.” Struan sadly turned for the door but Shevaun stopped him.

“Do you know why I’m being sold?” she burst out.

“Hold your tongue, girl!” Tillman cried. “You’ve been nothing but trouble since you got here, and it’s time you learned manners and respect for your elders and betters.”

“I’m sold for shares,” she said bitterly. “In Cooper-Tillman.”

“That’s not so!” Tillman said, his face ghastly.

“Shevaun, you’re overwrought,” Cooper began unhappily. “It’s just the suddenness and—”

Struan started to pass her, but she held on to him. “Wait, Tai-Pan. It’s a deal. I know how a politician’s mind works. Politics is an expensive business.”

“Hold your tongue!” Tillman shouted, then whimpered with pain and collapsed back into the bed.

“Without income from here,” she rushed on shakily. “Father can’t afford to be a senator. Uncle’s the oldest brother, and if Uncle dies, Jeff can buy out the Tillman interests at a nominal sum and then—”

“Come on, Shevaun,” Cooper interrupted sharply. “That has nothing to do with my love for you. What do you think I am?”

“Be honest, Jeff. It is true, isn’t it? About the nominal sum?”

“Yes,” Cooper replied after a grim pause. “I can buy out the Tillman interests under those circumstances. But I haven’t made such a deal. I’m not buying a chattel. I love you. I want you to be my wife.”

“And if I’m not, will you

not buy Uncle out?”

“I don’t know. I’ll decide that when the time comes. Your uncle could buy my shares if I were to die before him.”

Shevaun turned back to Struan. “Please buy me, Tai-Pan.”

“I canna, lass. But I dinna think Jeff’s buying you either. I know he’s in love with you.”

“Please buy me,” she said brokenly.

“I canna, lassie. It’s against the law.”

“It’s not. It’s not.” She wept uncontrollably.

Cooper put his arms around her, tormented.

When Struan returned to

Resting Cloud, May-may was still sleeping fitfully.

As he watched over her he wondered dully what to do about Gorth and about Culum. He knew that he should go to Macao at once. But na until May-may’s cured—oh God, let her be cured. Do I send

China Cloud and Orlov—perhaps Mauss? Or do I wait? I’ve told Culum to guard himsel’—but will he? Oh Jesus Christ, help May-may.

At midnight there was a knock on the door.

“Aye?”

Lim Din came in softly. He glanced at May-may and sighed. “Big Fat Mass’er come Tai-Pan see, can? Heya?”

Struan’s back and shoulders ached and his head felt heavy as he climbed the gangway to his quarters on the next deck.

“Sorry to come uninvited and so late, Tai-Pan,” Morley Skinner said, heaving his greasy, sweating bulk out of a chair. “It’s a little important.”

“Always pleased to see the press, Mr. Skinner. Take a seat. Drink?” He tried to turn his mind off May-may and forced himself to concentrate, knowing this was no casual visit.

“Thank you. Whiskey.” Skinner took in the rich interior of the large cabin: green Chinese carpets on well-scrubbed decks; chairs and sofas and the fragrance of clean oiled leather, salt and hemp; and the faint sweet oily smell of opium from the holds below. Well-trimmed oil lamps gave a warm pure light and shadowed the main-deck beams. He contrasted it with the hovel he had on Hong Kong—a threadbare and dirty and stench-ridden room over the large room that housed the printing press. “It’s nice of you to see me so late,” he said.

Struan raised his glass. “Health!”

“Yes, ‘health.’ That’s a good toast in these evil days. What with the malaria and all.” The little pig eyes sharpened. “I hear you’ve a friend who’s got malaria.”

“Do you know where to find cinchona?”

Skinner shook his head. “No, Tai-Pan. Everything I’ve read says that that’s a will-o’-the-wisp. Legend.” He pulled out a proof copy of the weekly

Oriental Times and handed it to Struan. “Thought you’d like to see the editorial about today’s races. I’m putting out a special edition tomorrow.”

“Thank you. Is that what you wanted to see me about?”

“No, sir.” Skinner gulped whiskey thirstily and looked at the empty glass.

“Help yoursel’ if you’d like another.”

“Thank you.” Skinner lumbered to the decanter, his elephantine buttocks jiggling. “Wisht I had your figure, Mr. Struan.”

“Then dinna eat so much.”

Skinner laughed. “Eating’s nothing to do with fatness. You’re fat or you aren’t. One of those things that the good Lord fixes at birth. I’ve always been heavy.” He filled his glass and walked back. “A piece of information came into my hands last night. I can’t reveal the source, but I wanted to discuss it with you before I print it.”

Which skeleton have you smelled out, my fine friend? Struan thought. There’re so many to choose from. I only hope it’s the right one. “I own the

Oriental Times, aye. As far as I know, only you and I are the ones that know. But I’ve never told you what to print or what na to print. You’re editor and publisher. You’re totally responsible, and if what you print’s libelous, then you’ll be sued. By whoever’s libeled.”

“Yes, Mr. Struan. And I appreciate the freedom you give me.” The eyes seemed to sink farther into the rolls of jelly. “Freedom necessitates responsibility—to oneself, to the paper, to society. Not necessarily in that order. But this is different, the—how shall I put it?—the ‘potentials’ are far-reaching.” He pulled out a scrap of paper. It was covered with speed-written hieroglyphics which only he could read. He looked up. “The Treaty of Chuenpi’s been repudiated by the Crown, and Hong Kong along with it.”

“Is this a funny story, Mr. Skinner?” Struan wondered how convincing Blore had been. Did you gamble correctly, laddie? he asked himself. The lad’s a fine sense of humor:

The stallion took the bit. Cart horse would be more apt.

“No, sir,” Skinner said. “Perhaps I’d better read it.” And he read out, almost word for word, what Sir Charles Crosse had written, what Struan had told Blore to whisper secretly in Skinner’s ear. Struan had decided that Skinner was the one to stir up the traders into a complex of fury so that they would all, in their individual ways, refuse to allow Hong Kong to perish; so that they would agitate as they had agitated so many years ago and had at length dominated the East India Company.

“I dinna believe it.”

“I think perhaps you should, Tai-Pan.” Skinner drained his glass. “May I?”

“Of course. Bring back the decanter. It’ll save you going back and forth. Who gave you the information?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“And if I insist?”

“I still won’t tell you. That would destroy my future as a newspaperman. There are very important ethics involved.”

Struan tested him. “A newspaperman must have a newspaper,” he said bluntly.

“True. That’s the gamble I’m taking—talking to you. But if you put it that way, I still won’t tell you.”

“Are you sure it’s true?”

“No. But I believe it is.”

“What’s the date of the dispatch?” Struan asked.

“April 27th.”

“You seriously believe that it could get here so fast? Ridiculous!”

“I said the same. I still think it’s true information.”

“If it’s true, then we’re all ruined.”

“Probably.” Skinner said.

“Na’ probably—certainly.”

“You forget the power of the press and the collective power of the traders.”

“We’ve nae power against the Foreign Secretary. And time’s against us. Are you going to print it?”

“Yes. At the correct time.”

Struan moved the glass and watched the lights flickering from its beveled edges. “I’d say when you do there’ll be a monumental panic. And Longstaff will carpet you right smartly.”

“I’m not worried about that, Mr. Struan.” Skinner was perplexed; Struan was not reacting as he had expected. Unless the Tai-Pan already knew, he told himself for the hundredth time. But it makes no sense for him to have sent Blore to me. Blore arrived a week ago—and in that week the Tai-Pan’s invested countless thousands of taels in Hong Kong. That would be the act of a maniac. So whom did Blore courier for? Brock? Unlikely. Because he’s spending as lavishly as Struan. It must be the admiral—or the general—or Monsey. Monsey! Who but Monsey has the high-level connections? Who but Monsey hates Longstaff and wants his job? Who but Monsey is vitally concerned that Hong Kong succeeds? For without a successful Hong Kong, Monsey has no future in the Diplomatic Corps. “It looks as though Hong Kong’s dead. All the money and effort you’ve put in—we’ve all put in—is tossed aside.”

“Hong Kong canna be finished. Wi’out the island all the future mainland ports we’ll have are so much dross.”

“I know, sir. We all do.”

“Aye. But the Foreign Secretary feels otherwise. Why? I wonder why. And what could we possibly do? How to convince him, eh? How?”

Skinner was as strong for Hong Kong as Struan was. Without Hong Kong there was no Noble House. And without The Noble House there was no weekly

Oriental Times and no job.

“Maybe we won’t have to convince that bugger,” he said shortly, eyes icy.

“Eh?”

“That bugger won’t always be in power.”

Struan’s interest heightened. This was a new slant, and unexpected. Skinner was a voracious reader of all newspapers and periodicals and a most well-informed man on “published” parliamentary affairs. At the same time—with an extraordinary memory and a vital interest in people—Skinner had sources of information that were manifold. “You think there’s a chance for a change in Government?”

“I’ll bet money that Sir Robert Peel and the Conservatives will topple the Whigs within the year.”

“That’d be a devilish dangerous gamble. I’d put money against you mysel’.”

“Would you gamble the

Oriental Times against the fall of the Whigs within the year—and a retention of Hong Kong by the Crown?”

Struan was aware that such a wager would put Skinner totally on his side and the paper would be a small price to pay. But a quick agreement would show his hand. “You’ve nae chance in the world of winning that wager.”

“It’s a very good one, Mr. Struan. The winter at home last year was one of the worst ever—economically and industrially. Unemployment’s incredible. Harvests have been terrible. Do you know the price of bread is up to a shilling and twopence a loaf according to last week’s mail? Lump sugar’s costing eightpence a pound; tea seven shillings and eightpence; soap ninepence a cake; eggs four shillings a dozen. Potatoes a shilling a pound. Bacon three shillings and sixpence a pound. Now take wages—artisans of all sorts, bricklayers, plumbers, carpenters—at most seventeen shillings and sixpence a week for sixty-four hours’ work; agricultural workers nine shillings a week for God knows how many hours; factory workers around fifteen shillings—all these

if work can be found. Good God, Mr. Struan, you live up in the mountains with incredible wealth where you can give a thousand guineas to a girl just because she’s got a pretty dress, so you don’t know, you can’t know, but one out of every eleven people in England is a pauper. In Stockton nearly ten thousand persons earned less that two shillings a week last year. Thirty thousand in Leeds under a shilling. Most everyone’s starving and we’re the richest nation on earth. The Whigs have their heads up their arses and they won’t face up to what anyone can see is outrageously unfair. They’ve done nothing about the Chartists except to pretend they’re anarchists. They won’t face up to the appalling conditions in the mills and the factories. Good Christ, children of six or seven are working a twelve-hour day, and women too, and they’re cheap labor and they put the men out of work. Why should the Whigs do anything? They own most of the factories and mills. And money’s their god—more and more and evermore and to hell with everyone. The Whigs won’t face up to the Irish problem. My God, there was a famine last year, and if there’s another this year, the whole of Ireland’ll be in revolt again and it’s about time. And the Whigs haven’t lifted a finger to reform banking. Why should they—they own the banks too! Look at your own bad luck! If we’d had a rightful proper law to protect depositors from the cursed machinations of the cursed Whigs—” He stopped with an effort, his jowls shaking and his face florid. “Sorry, didn’t mean to make a speech. Of course the Whigs have got to go. I’d say if they don’t go in the next six months, there’ll be a blood bath in England which’ll make the French Revolution look like a picnic. The only man who can save us is Sir Robert Peel, by all that’s holy.”

Struan remembered what Culum had said about conditions in England. He and Robb had discounted it as the ramblings of an idealistic university undergraduate. And he had discounted the things his own father had written as unimportant. “If Lord Cunaingtoa’s out, who’ll be the next Foreign Secretary?”

“Sir Robert himself. Failing him, Lord Aberdeen.”

“But both’re against free trade.”

“Yes, but both are liberal and pacific. And once in power, they’ll have to change. Whenever the Opposition get power and responsibility, they change. Free trade is the only way England can survive—you know that—so they’ll have to support it. And they’ll need all the support they can get from the powerful and the wealthy.”

“You’re saying I should support them?”

“The

Oriental Times, lock, stock and printing press, against a fall of the Whigs this year. And Hong Kong.”

“You think you can help that?”

“Hong Kong, yes. Oh, yes.”

Struan eased his left boot more comfortably and leaned back in his chair again. He let a silence hang. “A fifty percent interest, and you have a deal,” he said.

“All or nothing.”

“Perhaps I should throw you out and have done with it.”

“You should, perhaps. You’ve more than enough wealth to last you and yours forever. I’m asking you how much you want Hong Kong—and the future of England. I think I’ve a key.”

Struan poured himself some more whiskey and refilled Skinner’s glass. “Done. All or nothing. Would you care to join me in some supper? I’m feeling a little hungry.”

“Yes, indeed. Thank you. Talking’s hungry work. Thank you kindly.”

Struan rang the bell and blessed his joss that he had gambled. Lim Din arrived and food was ordered.

Skinner swilled his whiskey and thanked God that he had judged the Tai-Pan correctly. “You’ll not regret it, Tai-Pan. Now, listen a moment. The loss of Longstaff—I know he’s a friend of yours, but I’m talking politically—is a huge piece of luck for Hong Kong. First he’s a highborn, second a Whig, and third he’s a fool. Sir Clyde Whalen’s a squire’s son, second no fool, third a man of action. Fourth, he knows India—spent thirty years in service to the East India Company. Prior to that he was Royal Navy. Last, and most important of all, even though he’s a Whig outwardly, I’m sure he must secretly hate Cunnington and the present Government and would do anything in his power to cause their downfall.”

“Why?”

“He’s an Irishman. Cunnington’s been the spearhead of most of the Irish legislation for the past fifteen years, and directly responsible—all

Irishmen feel—for our disastrous Irish policy. That’s the key to Whalen—if we can find a way to exploit it.” Skinner chewed an ink-stained thumbnail.

Lim Din and another servant returned with plates of cold meats and pickled sausages and sweetmeats and cold pies and cold tarts and huge tankards of chilled beer, and champagne in an ice bucket.

Skinner smiled greedily. “A feast fit for a millowner!”

“Fit for a publisher-owner! Help yoursel’.” Struan’s mind was racing. How to twist Whalen? Will the Whigs fall from power? Should I switch my power to the Conservatives now? Stop supporting men like Crosse? By now word will be back in England that The Noble House is still The Noble House and stronger than ever. Do I gamble on Sir Robert Peel?

“When you publish this dispatch, a panic will hit everyone,” he said, closing in for the kill.

“Yes, Mr. Struan. If I wasn’t utterly opposed to letting Hong Kong go, I’ve the future of my paper to think of.” Skinner stuffed more food into his mouth, and talked as he chewed. “But there’re ways of presenting news and other ways of presenting news. That’s what makes newspaper work so exciting.” He laughed and some of the food dribbled down his chin. “Oh yes—I’ve the future of

my paper to think of.” He turned his full attention to the food and ate monstrously.

Struan ate sparingly, lost in thought. At last, when even Skinner was replete, he stood and thanked him for the information and advice.

“I’ll inform you privately before I publish the dispatch,” Skinner said, bloated. “It’ll be in a few days, but I need time to plan. Thank you, Tai-Pan.” He left.

Struan went below. May-may was still tossing in her sleep. He had a bunk made up in her room and let himself drift into half sleep.

At dawn May-may began to shiver. Ice was in her veins, in her head, and in her womb. It was the fifteenth day.