Tai-Pan

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

China Cloud slipped her moorings at dawn. The sea was calm and the wind east and firm. But two hours out to sea the breeze freshened, and Struan left May-may in the great cabin and went on deck.

Orlov was scanning the sky. It was clear to the horizon, but far off a few cumulus clouds were gathering. “No danger there,” he said.

“Nothing amiss there either,” Struan said, gesturing toward the sea. He strolled along the deck and then swung into the foremast shrouds. He climbed easily, the wind tugging him pleasantly, and he did not stop until he was braced on the topgallant halyards at the pinnacle of the foremast.

He searched the sea and the sky, meticulously seeking the squall or storm that might be lurking, or the hidden reef or uncharted shoal. But there were no danger signs as far as the horizon.

For a moment he let himself enjoy the speed and the wind and the limitlessness, blessing his joss for life and for May-may, She was much better—still quite weak, but strong compared to yesterday.

He examined all the rigging in sight, checking for damage or weakness, then climbed down and went back to the quarterdeck. An hour later the wind freshened again and the clipper heeled over more, spray digging into the lower sails.

“I’ll be glad to be in harbor tonight,” Orlov said uneasily.

“Aye. You feel it too?”

“I feel nothing. Only that I’ll be happy to be in harbor tonight.” Orlov spat to leeward and shifted his tobacco quid. “Sea’s fair, wind’s fair, sky’s clean—even so, there’s devilment abrewing.”

“It’s always brewing in these waters.”

“With your permission we’ll reef down and I’ll get the leadsman acalling the fathoms. Mayhaps it’s just a shoal or stinking, belly-gutting rock out there somewhere.” Orlov shivered and pulled his sea jacket closer, even though the day was warm and the wind safe.

“Aye.”

So the leadsman was sent forward, and he tolled the fathoms. And the crew shinned aloft and

China Cloud’s press of canvas was eased off.

Late that afternoon she was safe in the neck of the west channel. Hong Kong Island was to port, the mainland to starboard. It had been a perfect voyage with no mishap.

“Perhaps we’re just getting old,” Struan said with a short laugh.

“The older you get, the more the sea wants to suck you down,” Orlov said without rancor, looking at the ocean aft. “Weren’t for my beautiful ship I’d sign off today.”

Struan walked to the wheel. “I’ll spell you a turn, helmsman. Go for’ard.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The seaman left them alone on the quarterdeck.

“Why?” Struan asked Orlov.

“I can feel the sea watching me. She’s always watching a seaman, testing him. But there comes a time when she watches differently—jealous, aye, jealous like the woman she is. And as dangerous.” Orlov spat the tobacco quid overboard and rinsed his mouth with the cold tea that was in the canvas bag near the binnacle. “I’ve never acted a priest and married anyone before. That was mortal strange—strange, Green Eyes, looking at those two, so young and eager and confident. And listening to the echo of you, puffed like a peacock, ‘By God, Orlov, you’ll marry us, by God. I’m master of

China Cloud, by God. You know the Tai-Pan’s law, by God.’ And there’s me, aranting and araving and terrible reluctant so as to give him

face, knowing all the time old Green Eyes is the puppeteer.” Orlov chuckled and peered up at Struan. “But I acted very well and let him command me—as you wanted me to be commanded. It was like, well, like my marriage present to the lad. Did he tell you our deal?”

“Nay.”

“ ‘Marry us and you’ll keep your ship, by God. Don’t, and I’ll hound you out of seas, by God.’ ” Orlov grinned. “I’d’ve married them anyway.”

“I was thinking of taking away your ship mysel’.”

Orlov’s grin vanished. “Eh?”

“I’m thinking of reorganizing the company—putting the fleet under one man. Would you like the job?”

“Ashore?”

“Of course ashore. Can you run a fleet from the quarterdeck of one clipper?”

Orlov bunched his fist and shook it toward Struan’s face.

“You’re a devil from hell! You tempt me with power beyond my dreams, to take the only thing I love on earth. On a quarterdeck I forget what I am—by God, you know that. Ashore what am I, eh? Stride Orlov the hunchback!”

“You could be Stride Orlov, tai-pan of the noblest fleet on earth. I’d say that’s a man’s job.” Struan’s eyes did not waver from the dwarf’s face.

Orlov spun around and went to the windward gunnel and began a paroxysm of Norwegian and Russian obscenities that went on for minutes.

He stamped back. “When would this be?”

“The end of this year. Maybe later.”

“And my trip north? For furs? Have you forgotten that?”

“You’d want to cancel it, eh?”

“What gives you the right to puppetize the world? Eh?”

“Helmsman! Come aft!” Struan gave the wheel back to the seaman as

China Cloud broke out of the channel into the calm waters of the harbor. Ahead a mile was the jutting Kowloon Peninsula. The land on either side of the ship was barren and parched and fell away rapidly. To port, a mile or so ahead, was the rocky island promontory that had been called North Point. Beyond North Point, unseen from this position, were Happy Valley and Glessing’s Point and the small part of the harbor that was being used.

“Nor’ by nor’west,” Struan ordered.

“Nor’ by nor’west, sorr,” the helmsman echoed.

“Steady as she goes.” He looked over his shoulder at Orlov. “Well?”

“I’ve no option. I know when your mind’s set. You’d beach me without a second thought. But there’re are conditions.”

“Well?”

“First I want

China Cloud. For six months. I want to go home. A last time.” Either your wife and sons will come back with you or they’ll stay, Orlov told himself. They’ll stay, and they’ll spit in your face and damn you to hell and you waste six months of a ship’s life.

“Agreed. As soon as I’ve another clipper here,

China Cloud’s yours. You’ll bring back a cargo of furs. Next?”

“Next, Green Eyes, your law: that when you’re aboard, you’re captain. That for me.”

“Agreed. Next?”

“There’s no ‘next.’ ”

“We have na discussed money.”

“The pox on money! I’ll be tai-pan of the fleet of The Noble House. What more could a man desire?”

Struan knew the answer.

May-may. But he said nothing. They shook hands on the deal, and when the ship was a quarter mile off Kowloon, Struan ordered

China Cloud on to a southwest-by-south tack and headed into the harbor proper.

“All hands on deck! Lay for’ard! Take over, Captain. Lie alongside

Resting Cloud. Our passengers’ll transship first. Then the storm anchorage.”

“Thank you,

Captain,” Orlov grunted. “It’s good to be in harbor, by God!”

Struan surveyed the shore with the binoculars. Now he could see into the depths of Happy Valley: buildings abandoned, no movement. He moved the glasses slightly and adjusted the focus, and the building sites of the new Queen’s Town around Glessing’s Point sharpened. The scaffolding of his new, huge factory was already up, and he could see coolies swarming like ants: carrying, building, digging. Scaffoldings were up, too, on the knoll where he had ordered the Great House to be built. And he could see the thin, lean cut of the road that now snaked up the hill.

Tai Ping Shan had grown appreciably. Where there had been a few hundred sampans plying back and forth to the mainland, now there were a thousand.

More warships and transports were swinging at anchor, and a few more merchantmen. Houses and hovels and temporary shelters were sprawling the ribbon of Queen’s Road that skirted the shore. And the whole foreshore was pulsating with activity.

China Cloud saluted the flagship as she rounded the headland, and there was an answering cannon.

“Signal from the flagship, sorr!” the lookout called.

Struan and Orlov swung their binoculars on the flags, which read: “Captain requested to report aboard immediately.”

“Shall I lay alongside her?” Orlov asked.

“Nay. Put the cutter over the side when we’re within two chains. You’re responsible for seeing my passengers aboard

Resting Cloud safely. Wi’out any alien eyes sniffing around.”

“Leave it to me.”

Struan went below and told May-may that he would see her soon and got her and Ah Sam and Yin-hsi ready to transship.

Orlov’s eyes darted around the ship. A shore job, eh? Well, we’ll see. There’s many a league to travel yet, he told himself. Devil take him. Yes, but I’d go against the Devil himself for Green Eyes—Odin’s whelp. He needs a man like me. But he’s right again. That would be a

man’s job.

His thought warmed him very much.

“Look lively!” he roared at the crew, knowing that many glasses would be trained on them, and he kept full sail and ripped carelessly toward the flagship. His heart sang with the rigging, and then at the last second he shouted, “Helm alee!” and the ship spun around and pointed as breathlessly as a hound at a covey of partridges.

The cutter was lowered over the side and Struan shinned down the boarding ropes. The cutter cast off and

China Cloud fell off a few points and eased perfectly alongside

Resting Cloud.

“All hands below!” Orlov ordered. “Clear decks, Mr. Cudahy. Ours and theirs. We’re transshipping a cargo that’s not about to be counted, by God!”

Struan opened the door to the flagship’s main cabin.

“By God, Dirk! We’re all ruined!” Longstaff said agitatedly, coming over to him and waving a copy of the

Oriental Times in his face. “Have you seen this? Ruined! Ruined!”

Struan took the paper. The headlines on the inside editorial page were glaring:

FOREIGN SECRETARY REPUDIATES CHINA TRADERS.

“Nay, Will,” he said.

“By all that’s holy, how dare he do such a stupid thing, what? Damned fool! What are we going to do?”

“Let me read it, Will. Then I’ll see what it’s all about.”

“Idiot Cunnington’s repudiated our treaty. That’s what it’s about. And I’m sacked! Replaced! Me! How dare he?”

Struan raised his eyebrows and whistled. “Have you na been informed by dispatch yet?”

“Of course not! Who the devil informs the plenipotentiary, what?”

“Perhaps it’s false?”

“That Skinner fellow swears it’s true. It better be or I’ll have him for libel, by God!”

“When did it come out, Will?”

“Yesterday. How the devil did that obese stinking popinjay Skinner lay his fat, filthy hands on a secret dispatch that I haven’t even received yet? He ought to be horsewhipped!” He poured a glass of port, drained it and poured another. “Didn’t sleep a wink last night, worried to death over our future in Asia. Read it. God damn Cunnington!”

As Struan read, he found himself beginning to smolder. Although the article ostensibly presented the broad facts and documented the dispatch word for word, as Cross had written to him, Skinner’s editorial implied that Cunnington, well known for his imperious handling of foreign affairs, had totally repudiated not merely the treaty itself but the whole experience of the trading community, the Royal Navy and Army as well: “Lord Cunnington, who has never been east of Suez, is setting himself up as an expert on the value of Hong Kong. More than likely, he does not know whether Hong Kong is north or south of Macao, east or west of Peking. How dare he imply that the Admiral of our glorious Fleet is a bag of wind and knows nothing about seamanship and the historic value of the greatest harbor in Asia? Where would we be without the Royal Navy? Or the Army, who are equally discounted—nay, insulted—by the stupid mishandling of our affairs? Without Hong Kong where will our soldiers find a haven, or our ships sanctuary? How dare this man who has been in office far too long say that the experience of all the traders, who have rightly invested their future and their wealth in Hong Kong, are fools? How dare he imply that those who have spent their life in China for the glory of England know nothing about affairs Chinese, the huge value of a free port, a trade emporium, and island fortress . . .” And the article evaluated the island and described how, at great risk to themselves, the traders had developed Happy Valley and, when it had to be abandoned, had dauntlessly begun the new town, for the glory of Britain. It was a masterly piece of news slanting.

Struan hid his delight. He knew that if he—who had planted the story—could be aroused by the editorial, others would be violent.

“I’m shocked! That he would dare! Cunnington should be impeached!”

“My thought entirely!” Longstaff drained his glass again and slammed it down. “Well, now I’m sacked. All the work and sweating and talking and warring—all down the spout because of that imperious, jumped-up maniac who thinks that he’s master of the earth.”

“Damned if he’ll get away with it, Will! We have to do something about him! He’ll no get awa’ with it!”

“He has, by God!” Longstaff got up and paced the cabin, and Struan felt a tinge of pity for him. “What’s going to happen? My career’s ruined—we’re all ruined!”

“What have you done about this, Will?”

“Nothing.” Longstaff glared out of the cabin windows. “That cursed island’s at the root of all my troubles. That hell-spawned rock’s destroyed me. Destroyed all of us!” He sat down morosely. “There was damn nearly a riot yesterday. A deputation of traders came here and demanded I refuse to leave. Another under Brock demanded I leave Asia immediately with the fleet and present myself to London to demand Cunnington’s impeachment, and if necessary blockade the Port of London.” He pillowed his chin with his hands. “Well, it’s my own fault. I should have followed my instructions to the letter. But that wouldn’t have been right. I’m not a power-hungry, land-grabbing conqueror. The pox on everything!” He looked up, his face twisted with humiliation. “The admiral and general are delighted, of course. Have a drink?”

“Thanks.” Struan poured a brandy. “All’s not lost, Will. On the contrary. Once at home, you can put your power to work.”

“Eh?”

“What you did here is right. You’ll be able to convince Cunnington

if he’s still in office. Face to face you’re in a very strong position. You have right on your side. Definitely.”

“Have you ever met Cunnington?” Longstaff asked bitterly. “You don’t argue with that monster.”

“True. But I have a few friends. Say you had a key to prove you were right and he was wrong?”

Longstaff’s eyes gleamed. If Struan was not worried by the terrible news, all was not lost. “What key, my dear fellow?” he asked.

Struan sipped his brandy, relishing it. “Diplomats are permanent; governments change. Before you get home, Peel’ll be Prime Minister.”

“Impossible!”

“Probable. Say you brought with you news of the highest importance, that proved Cunnington an idiot. How would Peel and the Conservatives view you?”

“Admirably. ’Pon me word! What news, Dirk, my friend?”

There was a commotion outside the door, and Brock crashed in, a hapless sentry trying futilely to restrain him. Struan was up in a split second, ready to go for his knife.

Brock’s face was swollen with malice. “Be they wed?”

“Aye.”

“Be Gorth murdered?”

“Aye.”

“When be

White Witch due?”

“Before nightfall, I’d say. She was scheduled to leave midmorning.”

“First I be talking with Liza. Then they two. Then, by the Lord God, I be talking with thee.” He stormed out.

“Ill-mannered sod!” Longstaff huffed. “He might have at least knocked!”

Struan relaxed as a cat will relax after a danger has passed—the muscles unlocking fluidly, ready to tighten again at the next threat, but the eyes not changing, still watching where the danger was.

“You’ve nothing to fear from Cunnington, Will. He’s finished.”

“Yes, of course, Dirk. And damn good riddance!” He looked at the door and remembered the prizefight, and knew that the fight between Dirk and Brock would be equally vicious. “What’s in Brock’s mind, eh? Is he going to challenge you? Of course we heard about your fracas with Gorth. Bad news has a habit of traveling fast, hasn’t it? Terrible business! Damned good luck he was killed by others.”

“Aye,” Struan said. Now that the danger had passed, he felt slightly sick and weak.

“What possessed those two young idiots to elope? Stands to reason Brock would go berserk. Stupid!”

“Na stupid, Will. Best thing for them to do.”

“Of course. If you say so.” And Longstaff wondered if the rumors were true: that the Tai-Pan had deliberately precipitated the marriage and the duel. The Tai-Pan was much too smart not to plan that, he told himself. So—Tai-Pan versus Brock. “What about Peel, Dirk?”

“You’re a diplomat, Will. Diplomats should na have specific party associations. At least they should be well thought of by all parties.”

“My views entirely.” Longstaff’s eyes widened. “You mean become a Conservative—support Peel?”

“Support Whig and Conservative equally. Hong Kong’s correct for England. You’re Hong Kong, Wilt. Perhaps this”—Struan waved the paper—“is a huge stroke of luck for you. It proves Cunnington’s na only a fool but also a blabbermouth. It’s shocking to read a private dispatch in the paper.” Then he told him about the briefcase, but only enough to set Longstaff’s head reeling.

“Good God!” If, as the Tai-Pan indicated, there was a copy of the actual secret report with maps of the Russia-China border areas and hinterland, bless my soul, they’d be a passport to an ambassadorship and a peerage. “Where’d you get it?”

“From a source of undoubted trust.” Struan got up. “I’ll put it into your hands before you go. Use it how you like. It’ll certainly prove that you’re right and Cunnington wrong, apart from anything else.”

“Will you dine with me, Dirk?” Longstaff felt better than he had in years. “We can chat about old times.”

“Na tonight, if you’ll excuse me. Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Fine. Thank you. And I’m so glad our judgment’s vindicated.”

“Last—there’s something else that needs immediate attention. The Triads.”

“Eh?”

“Gorth Brock was murdered by Triads from Hong Kong. From Tai Ping Shan.”

“ ’Pon me word! Why?”

“I dinna ken.” Struan related what the Portuguese officer had told him about the Triads. And about Gordon Chen. He knew that he had to give Longstaff this information, else it would seem as if he were trying to protect his son when it came out officially. If Gordon was involved with them, this would flush him out. If he was not, then nae harm done.

“Bless my breeches,” Longstaff said with a laugh. “A ridiculous story.”

“Aye, spread by my enemies, nae doubt about it. But issue a proclamation about Triads and order Major Trent to crush them. Else we’ll have the cursed mandarins on our necks.”

“Good idea. Excellent, by Jove. I’ll get Horatio—damn it, I gave him Macao leave for two weeks. Can I borrow Mauss?”

“Certainly. I’ll send him to you.”

When Struan had gone, Longstaff sat down elatedly at his desk. “My dear Sir William,” he said to his glass. “I feel wonderful. If the truth be known, I’m damned glad to be leaving this malodorous island. I couldn’t care a tinker’s cuss what happens to it—to the traders, the Chinese or the poxy Triads.” He went to the window and began to chuckle. “We’ll see what the briefcase contains. And when we get back to England we’ll decide. If Cunnington’s out, we can safely back Hong Kong to advantage. If Cunnington’s still in, I can agree he’s right and dump the island as one of those things. Because I’ll have the papers, a key to any Foreign Secretary’s bedchamber, and also lots of tea.” He roared with laughter. A few days ago a private emissary had come from Ching-so to tell him the seeds that Horatio had requested would be shipped within two weeks. “I’d say you’ve done a fine day’s work, Your Excellency!”

Aboard

Resting Cloud, Struan found May-may already in bed in her own quarters, looking very well and even stronger.

“I’m very gracious happy to be home, Tai-Pan. There, you see! Your old mother obeys like seaman. I’ve had two cups of cinchona and am prepared for three more.”

“Eh?” he said, his suspicions rising.

“Why, absolute yes. And dinna look like that. I am truth speaking! Am I a Hoklo whore? A dogmeat beggar? Do I lie in my face? A promise is a promise, and dinna forget it. Of course,” she added sweetly, “now I take dungtasting poison magic with mango juice, which any normal womans would think of immediate but nae mans, oh dear no— that’s much too simple.” She tossed her head with her old imperiousness. “Mans!”

Struan hid his smile, and his pleasure that she was more her own self. “I’ll be back later. And you stay in bed.”

“Huh! Do I break promises? Am I a good-for-nothing turtle dropping?” She held out her hand like an empress. “Tai-Pan!”

He kissed her hand gallantly and she burst into laughter and hugged him. “Run along, my son, and no dirty whorehouses!”

Struan left her and went to his own cabin. He unlocked his safe and took out one of two copies of the briefcase papers and maps that he had meticulously made. He put them in his pocket, with the small sack which contained the remains of the cinchona bark.

He boarded his cutter again.

“Boston Princess,” he ordered, naming the Cooper-Tillman hulk.

The sun was teetering on the horizon, but it glowed dully as though a veil had been drawn across the heavens.

“What do you make of that, Bosun?”

“Doan know, sorr. I seed it like that in the South Seas, afore good weather an’ bad. If moon be ringed tonight, then mayhaps we be getting a spell of rain.”

Or worse, Struan added to himself. He stood up and looked to the west channel. There was no sign of the

White Witch. Well, he thought, maybe they’ll stand off and come in at dawn. I will na think about you yet, Tyler.

The cutter swung alongside the

Boston Princess. She was a huge three-decked, converted merchantman, permanently at anchor.

Struan ran up the gangplank. “Permission to come aboard,” he said to the American officer on deck. “Perhaps Mr. Cooper would see me. It’s urgent.”

“Just a minute, Mr. Struan.” The officer went below.

Struan lit a cheroot and threw the match overboard.

China Cloud was bearing off toward her moorings that lay in deep water abreast of Happy Valley.

“Hello, Tai-Pan,” Jeff Cooper said, briskly coming on deck. “I suppose you heard what that stupid son-of-a-bitch Cunnington’s done? We were terribly sorry to hear about the duel and everything. Did those two young fools elope?”

“Aye. How’s Wilf?”

“He’s dead.”

“Damnation! When did he die?”

“Three days ago.”

“Let’s below, eh?”

“All right. What about Longstaff being sacked and the treaty repudiated?”

“Means nothing. Just a stupid political blunder. I’m sure it’ll be corrected.”

Cooper led the way below. The main cabin was luxurious. “Brandy?”

“Thanks.” Struan accepted the drink. “Health!”

“Health.”

Struan opened the small bag and took out some of the cinchona. “See this, Jeff? It’s a bark. Cinchona bark. Sometimes called Jesuits’ bark. Make a tea out of it and it’ll cure malaria.”

“Are you sure?”

“Aye. It cured my mistress. That part’s private—but it cures for certain.”

Cooper picked up a piece of the bark, his fingers trembling. “Oh my God, Tai-Pan, do you realize what you’ve done? Do you realize what you’re saying?”

“Aye. Malaria’s worldwide—you’ve got it in the States all over Florida and the Louisiana Purchase. I know a cure and how to get the bark. What does that lead you to?”

“A service to mankind—and a fortune to whoever gets in first.”

“Aye, laddie. I’m proposing a partnership.” Struan put the bark back in the bag, suddenly sad. “Ironic, is it na? A few weeks ago this could have saved Robb and little Karen. All the others—and even Wilf, though I despised him.”

“He died badly,” Cooper said.

“I’m sorry for that.” Struan tasted the brandy and dismissed what was past. “My proposal is simple. We form a new company to specialize in the bark. We put up equal money. Four directors—you and your appointee, mysel’ and Culum. You run the company. I supply the where and the how and the what immediately and you start planning tomorrow.”

Cooper put out his hand. “You’ve a deal.”

Struan told him how he had got the bark and from whom, and about the ship that he had chartered that was leaving Macao tomorrow for Peru. “The bishop sent word Father Sebastian will go with her. I propose we double up and na take chances. The company’ll be debited the costs of this vessel, and we send another ship—but direct from America. We hire two doctors and two businessmen to go with the ship and find out everything they can about cinchona. The day the U.S. ship leaves, we release the news in the States through your connections. We’ll be one step ahead of our competitors and we’ll cover my bet with the bishop. We release the news instantly here to take the curse off Happy Valley. And as soon as we can in Europe. By the time our ships are back, doctors throughout the world will be screaming for cinchona. My ships will freight to the British Empire—you take care of the American continent—and we split the rest of the world. We could sell it by the ton in southern Italy alone.”

“Who else knows about it?”

“Only you. Today. I’m giving Skinner a story tonight if I can find him. So, business’s over. Now, how’s Shevaun?”

“Good and bad. She’s accepted the fact that she’s betrothed. But I have to admit, however much I love her, she doesn’t love me.”

“Will you buy out Tillman’s interests?”

“Not if Shevaun marries me. If she hadn’t agreed—well, it would be bad business not to. Now that Wilf’s dead, I’ll have to find another partner. That will mean giving a stock interest—you know very well the problems.”

“Aye. What’s Zergeyev up to?”

“Oh, he’s still here. His hip doesn’t trouble him very much. We see quite a lot of him. Dine with him two or three times a week.” Cooper smiled wanly. “He’s very much attached to Shevaun and she seems to like him. She’s visiting on his ship now.”

Struan rubbed his chin speculatively. “Then I’ve another gamble for you. More dangerous than cinchona.”

“What?”

“Send Shevaun home for a year. Give her her head—she’s a thoroughbred. If she wants to come back at the end of a year, you’ll marry her happily. If she decides against you, you give her her freedom. In any event tell her you’ll continue to pay her father his ‘share’ for his lifetime. Her brothers can rot. Dinna forget, we can make good use of Senator Tillman’s connections on our cinchona venture. The money you give him will more than repay itself.”

Cooper walked over to his desk to fetch the cigars and to give himself time. Why was the Tai-Pan suggesting this? Did he plan to go after Shevaun himself? No, there was no need for him to be so devious: if he beckoned, Shevaun would go running.

“I’d have to think about that, Tai-Pan,” he said. “Cigar?”

“Nay, thanks. And while you’re considering it, add a further gamble. Ask Zergeyev to offer her passage home on his ship—chaperoned, of course.”

“You’re out of your head!”

“Nay, laddie.” Struan produced the copy of the papers, neatly bound with green ribbon. “Read these.”

Cooper picked it up. “What is it?”

“Read. Take your time.”

Cooper sat at his desk and undid the ribbon.

Well, Struan was telling himself, cinchona’s launched. Now what about Culum? Perhaps the lad’s right, he does need a partner. Jeff’s the answer. Struan-Cooper-Tillman. At least, Struan-Cooper; we can forget Tillman now. Why na? It’s a huge advantage to Jeff. We gain an advantage with the Americas. Jeff’s canny and straight. Think about it very carefully. It’s a good solution. Longstaff? Longstaff’s taken care of as much as he can ever be. Once out of your sight, he’ll only do what the next strong man tells him to do. How about Skinner? Thus far he’s done well. Blore? Must check on him. Mauss too. What next? Home and May-may. Perhaps Orlov was right. Perhaps all you felt was the sea watching you—you’ve had a fair run for your money. Dinna put aside such feelings lightly.

Inexorably his mind bore down on Brock: Aye. There’s a killing to be done. And Liza was right. Once it starts, perhaps it’ll never end. Or it will end with both of you.

“How true is this?” Cooper had finished with the dossier.

“The source would be called ‘beyond question.’ What’s your feeling about it?”

“It’s diabolical. Zergeyev’s obviously the man—certainly one of them—sent to investigate the ‘British sphere of influence’ in Asia, and to study the means of emigration into Russian Alaska.” Cooper collected his thoughts a moment. Then he said, “What to do about it? Well, following your thought: Shevaun. Zergeyev would be delighted to escort her to America. She beguiles him either deliberately or unknowingly and takes him to Washington. Her father, who is the obvious one to give all this to, tells Zergeyev privately that the United States is distressed with Russia and wants them out. Monroe Doctrine and all that. Is this what you had in mind?”

“You’re a smart man, Jeff.”

“This information makes Lord Cunnington look like a fool.”

“It does that.”

“And absolutely makes the need—and vital importance—of Hong Kong obvious.”

“Aye.”

“Now what we have to decide is how to get this information immediately and safely into the senator’s hands. This will raise his stock in political circles enormously, so he’ll play it for all he’s worth. Should we risk letting Shevaun in on all this, or just give her a copy of the dossier to take to her father?”

“I’d na let her read the dossier or even tell her what’s in it. After all, she’s a woman. Women are likely to do the unpredictable. She might fall in love with Zergeyev. Then she’d dump the United States of America, because female logic says that she must protect the mate, irrespective of heritage or whatever. It’d be disastrous if Zergeyev knew we were aware of all that’s in the dossier.”

“I’d like to think about all this,” Cooper said. He tied up the folder and handed it back. “It sounds pompous, Tai-Pan, but my country’ll learn to thank you.”

“I want nae thanks, Jeff. It might help, perhaps, if Senator Tillman and other diplomats began to ridicule Lord Cunnington’s stupid mishandling of our area.”

“Yes. Take it as done. By the way, you owe me twenty guineas.”

“For what?”

“Don’t you remember our bet? Over who was the nude? The first day, Dirk. Aristotle’s painting of the ceding of the island was part of the bet, don’t you remember?”

“Aye. Who was she?” Struan asked. Twenty guineas is na much against a lady’s honor, he thought. Aye, but dammit, I liked that painting.

“Shevaun. She told me two days ago—said she was going to have the painting done of herself. Like the Duchess of Alba.”

“Are you going to let her?”

“I don’t know.” Cooper’s face crinkled with a wan smile and lost, momentarily, its usual anguish. “The sea voyage would stop that, wouldn’t it?”

“Na with that lassie. I’ll send the purse aboard tomorrow. As I remember, the loser was to have Aristotle paint the winner in to boot. Take it as done.”

“Perhaps you’d accept the painting. As a gift. I’ll have Aristotle paint both of us in, eh?”

“Well, thank you. I’ve always fancied that painting.”

Cooper motioned at the papers. “Let’s talk some more about these tomorrow. I’ll decide overnight about sending Shevaun.”

Struan thought about tomorrow. He handed the papers back to Cooper. “Put this in your safe. For safety.”

“Thanks. Thanks for trusting me, Tai-Pan.”

Struan went ashore to the temporary office he had had erected on their new marine site. Vargas was waiting for him.

“Let’s have all the bad news first, Vargas.”

“There’s a report from our agents, senhor, in Calcutta. It seems that

Gray Witch was three days ahead of

Blue Cloud, according to last reports.”

“Next?”

“Building costs are huge, senhor. With yesterday’s editorial, well, I’ve held up all work. Perhaps we should cut our losses.”

“Continue work immediately and double our labor force tomorrow.”

“Yes, senhor. The stock-market news from England is bad. The market is very jittery. The budget has not balanced again and financial troubles are expected.”

“That’s normal. Have you na some special disaster to relate?”

“None, senhor. Of course robberies are incredibly frequent. There have been three piracies since you left and a dozen were attempted. Two pirate junks were captured and all the crew were publicly hanged. Forty to fifty thieves, robbers, cutthroats are whipped every Wednesday. Hardly a night goes by without a home being burglarized. Distressing. Oh, by the way, Major Trent has ordered a curfew for all Chinese at sunset. That seems to be the only way to control them.”

“Where’s Mrs. Quance?”

“Still on the small hulk, senhor. She canceled her passage for England. Apparently there’s a rumor that Senhor Quance is still on Hong Kong.”

“Is he?”

“I would not like to feel we’ve lost the immortal Quance, senhor.”

“What’s Mr. Blore been up to?”

“He’s spending money as if the rocks of Hong Kong were made of gold. Of course, it’s not our money,” Vargas said, trying not to show his disapproval, “but ‘Jockey Club funds.’ I understand the Club is to be nonprofit-making, any profits going to benefit the racecourse, horses, and so on.” He dried his hands on a handkerchief. The day was very humid. “I hear Senhor Blore has arranged a cockfight. Under Jockey Club auspices.”

Struan brightened. “Good. When’s it to be?”

“I don’t know, senhor.”

“What’s Glessing doing?”

“Everything a harbor master should. But I hear he’s furious with Longstaff for not allowing him to go to Macao. There’s a rumor he’s going to be sent home.”

“Mauss?”

“Ah, the Reverend Mauss. He’s returned from Canton and has rooms in the hotel.”

“Why the ‘ah,’ Vargas?”

“Nothing, senhor. Just another rumor,” Vargas replied, annoyed that he had been loose-tongued. “Well, it seems—of course we Catholics disapprove of him and are sad that all Protestants do not believe as we do, for the salvation of their own souls. In any event, he has a cherished follower, a baptized Hakka called Hung Hsiu-ch’uan.”

“Would Hung Hsiu-ch’uan have anything to do with Hung Mun—the Triads?”

“Oh no, senhor. The name is a common one.”

“Aye, I remember him. A tall curious-looking man. Go on.”

“Well, there’s not much to tell. It’s just that he’s begun preaching among the Chinese at Canton. Unbeknownst to the Reverend Mauss, calling himself the brother of Jesus Christ, saying that he talks to his father—God—nightly. That he’s the new Messiah, that he’s going to clean out the temples like his brother did, and a lot of garbled idolatrous nonsense. Obviously he’s mad. If it weren’t so sacrilegious, it would be very amusing.”

Struan thought about Mauss. He liked him as a man and pitied him. Then he remembered Sarah’s words again. Aye, he told himself, you’ve used Wolfgang in many ways. But in return you gave him what

he wanted—the chance to convert the heathen. Without you he’d have been dead long ago. Without you . . . let it rest. Mauss has his own salvation to find. The ways of God are passing strange.

“Who knows, Vargas? Perhaps Hung Hsiu-ch’uan is what he claims. In any event,” he added, seeing Vargas bridle, “I agree. It is na amusing. I’ll talk to Wolfgang. Thank you for telling me.”

Vargas cleared his throat. “Do you think I could have next week off? This heat and—well, it would be nice to see my family.”

“Aye. Take two weeks, Vargas. And I think it would be good for the Portuguese community to have its own club. I’m starting a subscription. You’re appointed temporary treasurer and secretary.” He scribbled on a pad and tore off the sheet. “You can cash this at once.” It was a sight draft for a thousand guineas.

Vargas was overwhelmed. “Thank you, senhor.”

“Nae thanks,” Struan said. “Wi’out the support of the Portuguese community we’d na have any community.”

“But surely, senhor, this news—this editorial! Hong Kong is finished. The Crown has repudiated the treaty. Double the labor force? A thousand guineas? I don’t understand.”

“Hong Kong’s alive as long as one trader stands on it, and one naval vessel is in the harbor. Dinna worry. Any messages for me?”

“Mr. Skinner left word. He’d like to see you at your convenience. Mr. Gordon Chen too.”

“Send word to Skinner that I’ll stop by the newspaper this evening. And to Gordon that I’ll meet him aboard

Resting Cloud at eight o’clock.”

“Yes, senhor. Oh, by the way, one other thing. You remember Ramsey? The sailor who deserted? Well he’s been living in the hills all this time in a cave, like a hermit. On the Peak. He survived by stealing food from the fishing village at Aberdeen. It seems he raped several women there and the Chinese tied him up and gave him to the authorities. Yesterday he was tried. A hundred lashes and two years penal servitude.”

“They might as well have hanged him,” Struan said. “He’ll never last two years.” Jails were death traps, indescribably brutal.

“Yes. Terrible. Thank you again, senhor. Our community will be most appreciative,” Vargas said.

He left, but returned almost instantly. “Excuse me, Tai-Pan. One of your seamen’s here. The Chinese, Fong.”

“Send him in.”

Fong bowed himself in silently.

Struan studied the thickset, pockmarked Chinese. In the three months that he had been aboard he had changed in many ways. Now he wore European seaman’s clothes easily, his queue coiled neatly under a knitted cap. His English was passable. An excellent sailor. Obedient, soft-spoken, quick to learn.

“What are you doing off ship?”

“Captain say can go shore, Tai-Pan. My watch go shore.”

“What do you want, Fong?”

Fong offered a crumpled piece of paper. The writing on it was childlike. “Aberdeen. Same place, matey. Eight bells, midwatch. Come alone.” It was signed “Bert and Fred’s Dad.”

“Where’d you get this?”

“Coolie stop me. Give me.”

“Do you know what it says?”

“I read, yes. Not read easy. Very hard, never mind.”

Struan considered the scrap of paper. “The sky. Have you seen it?”

“Yes, Tai-Pan.”

“What did it tell you?”

Fong knew that he was being tested. “Tai-fung,” he said.

“How long?”

“Doan knowah. Three day, four day, more, less. Tai-fung, never mind.”

The sun was already below the horizon, the light dying fast. Lanterns were dotting the foreshore and the building sites.

The veil over the sky had thickened. A gigantic bloody moon sat ten degrees above the clear horizon.

“I think you’ve a good nose, Fong.”

“Thank you, Tai-Pan.”

Struan held up the paper. “What does your nose say about this?”

“Not go alone,” Fong said.