Tai-Pan

CHAPTER EIGHT

Struan was in his private office on the ground floor, writing a dispatch to Robb. It was almost two o’clock. Outside the traders and their clerks and coolies and servants were carrying possessions from their factories to their lorchas. The Hoppo had relaxed the order withdrawing all the servants. Servants and coolies were to be allowed until the Hour of the Monkey—three o’clock—the time by which the Settlement was to be abandoned. Bannermen were still in the square preventing access to the American factory.

Struan finished the letter, affixed his special chop and sealed it with wax and signet ring. He had told Robb not to worry, that he would bring good news to Hong Kong, and that if he was late Robb should go to the land sale and buy all the land they had long ago decided upon. And buy the knoll, whatever the cost. Whatever Brock bid, Robb was to bid one dollar more.

Now Struan sat back and rubbed the fatigue out of his eyes and began to recheck his plan, trying to find the holes in it. Like all plans that involved the reactions of others, there always had to be a measure of joss. But he felt that the weathervane of his joss had backed to the old quarter, where he was always guarded and things happened as he wanted them to happen.

The tall grandfather clock chimed twice. Struan got up from the carved teak desk and joined the servants, who were streaming in and out of the factory under the supervision of the Portuguese clerks.

“We’re almost finished, Mr. Struan,” Manoel de Vargas said. He was an elderly, gray-haired, sallow Portuguese of great dignity. He had been with The Noble House for eleven years and was chief clerk. Before this he had had his own company with its headquarters in Macao, but he had been unable to compete with the British and American traders. He bore them no grudge. It is the will of God, he had said without rancor, and had gathered his wife and his children around him and had gone to Mass and had thanked the Madonna for all their blessings. He was like the vast majority of Portuguese—faithful, calm, content and unhurried. “We can go as soon as you say,” he said tiredly.

“Are you feeling all right, Vargas?”

“A little agued, senhor. But once we get settled, I will be well once more.” Vargas shook his head. “Bad to move and to move and to move.” He spoke sharply in Cantonese to a coolie staggering past under the weight of ledgers and pointed to a lorcha.

“That’s the last of the books, Mr. Struan.”

“Good.”

“This is a sad day, sad. Many bad rumors. Some stupid.”

“What?”

“That we will all be intercepted on our way and killed. That Macao is to be terminated, and we’re to be thrown out of the Orient once and for all. And the usual rumors that we’ll be back in a month and trade will be better than ever. There’s even a rumor that there’s forty lacs of bullion in Canton.”

Struan kept the smile on his face. “There are na that many lacs in Kwangtung Province!”

“Of course. Stupid, but it is amusing to relate. The bullion’s supposed to have been collected by the Co-hong as a gift to placate the emperor.”

“Drivel.”

“Of course, drivel. No one would dare to have so much in one place. All the bandits in China would fall on it.”

“Take this letter and deliver it into Mr. Robb’s hands. As soon as possible,” Struan said. “Then go immediately to Macao. I want you to organize teams of building workmen. I want them on Hong Kong Island two weeks from today. Five hundred men.”

“Yes, senhor.” Vargas sighed and wondered how long he would have to keep up the pretense. We all know The Noble House is finished. Five hundred men? Why do we need men when there is no money to buy land? “It will be difficult, senhor.”

“In two weeks,” Struan repeated.

“It will be difficult to find good workmen,” Vargas said, politely. “All the traders will be competing for their services—and the emperor’s edict has revoked the treaty. Perhaps they will not agree to work on Hong Kong.”

“Good wages will change their minds. I want five hundred men. The best. Pay double wages it necessary.”

“Yes, senhor.”

“If we’ve nae money to pay for them,” Struan added with a grim smile, “Brock will pay you well. There’s nae need to worry.”

“I am not worried about my own labors,” Vargas said with great dignity, “but I am worried about the safety of the house. I would not wish The Noble House to cease.”

“Aye, I know. You’ve served me well, Vargas, and I appreciate it. You take all the clerks with you now. I’ll go with Mauss and my men.”

“Shall I lock up, or will you, senhor?”

“You do that when all your clerks are aboard.”

“Very well. Go with God, senhor.”

“And you, Vargas.”

Struan walked across the square. Around him men were hurrying to make last-minute additions to the cargoes of the heavily laden lorchas that lay the length of the wharf. Farther up the wharf he saw Brock and Gorth profanely exhorting their sailors and clerks. Some of the traders had already left, and he waved cheerily to a lorcha as it headed downstream. Across the river, the boat people were watching the exodus, clamoring to offer their sampans for tows to midstream, since the direction of the wind made departure from the dock awkward.

Struan’s lorcha was two-masted, forty feet long, and commodious. Mauss was already on the poop.

“All squared away, Tai-Pan. There’s a rumor that the Hoppo seized Ti-sen’s house. Fifty lacs of silver bullion was in it.”

“So?”

“Nothing, Tai-Pan. A rumor,

hein?” Mauss looked tired. “All my converts have disappeared.”

“They’ll be back, dinna worry. And there’ll be plenty to convert on Hong Kong,” Struan said, feeling sorry for him.

“Hong Kong is our only hope, isn’t it?”

“Aye.” Struan headed up the wharf. He saw a tall coolie emerge from the American factory and join the throng in the square. He changed direction.

“Heya, wat you Yankee dooa can?” he called out to the coolie.

“Damn you, Tai-Pan,” Cooper said from under the coolie hat. “Is my disguise so bad?”

“It’s your height, laddie.”

“Just wanted to wish you Godspeed. Don’t know when I’ll see you again. You’ve the thirty days, of course.”

“But you dinna think they’re of value?”

“I’ll find that out in thirty-odd days, won’t I?”

“In the meantime, buy eight million pounds of tea for us.”

“With what, Tai-Pan?”

“What do you usually pay for tea with?”

“We’re your agents, certainly. For the next thirty days. But I can’t buy for you without bullion.”

“Did you sell all your cotton?”

“Not yet.”

“You better sell fast, lad.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps the bottom’s out of the market.”

“If it is, there goes

Independence.”

“That’d be a pity, would it na?”

“I hope you settle with Brock somehow. And build your

Independent Cloud. I want the satisfaction of beating you myself.”

“Stand in the line, lad,” Struan said good-naturedly. “Be prepared to buy heavily and fast. I’ll send word.”

“It won’t be the same without you, Tai-Pan. If you go, we’ll all lose a little.”

“Perhaps I won’t go after all.”

“Half of me wants you out. You, more than any, have had a too huge slice of the market, too long. It’s time for free seas.”

“Free for American ships?”

“And others. But not on British terms.”

“We’ll always rule the seas, lad. We have to. You’re an agricultural country. We’re industrialists. We need the seas.”

“One day we’ll take the seas.”

“By that time perhaps we will na need the seas because we’ll rule the skies.”

Cooper chuckled. “Don’t forget about our bet.”

“That reminds me. I got a letter from Aristotle a few days ago. He asked for a loan to tide him over because ‘that delectable commission has to wait till summer because she suffers from goose pimples.’ We’ve plenty of time to run her to earth—or would it be to bed?”

“Can’t be Shevaun. She’s got ice for blood.”

“Did she say nay to you again?”

“Yes. Put in a good word for me, huh?”

“I’ll na get in the middle of that negotiation!”

Over Struan’s shoulder Cooper could see Brock and Gorth approaching. “If the Brocks never reached Hong Kong, you’d get the time you need. Wouldn’t you?”

“Are you suggesting a wee bit o’ murder?”

“That wouldn’t be a little. That would be very much, Tai-Pan. Afternoon, Mr. Brock.”

“I thort it were thee, Mr. Cooper,” Brock said breezily. “Nice of thee to see us’n off.” Then, to Struan, “Thee be off now?”

“Aye. I’ll show Gorth the stern of my ship all the way to Whampoa. Then, in

China Cloud, all the way to Hong Kong. As usual.”

“The only stern you’ll show is yors in four day when you be tossed into debtors’ prison, where you belong,” Gorth said thickly.

“All the way to Hong Kong, Gorth. But there’s nae point in having a race with you. As a seaman you’re na fit to row a boat.”

“I be better’n you, by God.”

“If it were na for your father, you’d be the laughingstock of Asia.”

“By God, you son of—”

“Hold yor tongue!” Brock barked. He knew Struan would be delighted to be called son of a bitch publicly by Gorth, for then he could challenge him to a duel. “Why bait the lad, eh?”

“Na baiting him, Tyler. Just stating a fact. You better teach him some manners as well as seamanship.”

Brock held himself in check. Gorth was no match for Struan yet. Yet. In a year or two, when he be more cunning, that be different. But not now, by God. An’ it baint the English way to kick yor enemy in the gut when he be lying on his back, helpless. Like godrotting Struan. “Friendly wager. A hundred guineas says my boy can beat thee. First to touch the flagpole at Hong Kong.”

“Twenty thousand guineas. His money, not yours,” Struan said, his eyes taunting Gorth.

“How you going to pay, Tai-Pan?” Gorth said contemptuously, and Brock boiled at his son’s stupidity.

“He doan mean that other’n as a joke, Dirk,” Brock said quickly. “Twenty thousand it is.”

“Aye, a joke it is. If you say so, Tyler.” Struan was outwardly cold but inwardly jubilant. They had swallowed the bait! Now Gorth and Brock would hurry to Hong Kong—twenty thousand guineas was a tidy fortune, but nothing against forty lacs safe in

China Cloud. Brock was safely out of the way. A dangerous game though. Gorth nearly went too far and then blood would have been spilled. Too easy to kill Gorth.

He put out his hand to Cooper. “I’m holding you to the thirty days.” They shook. Then Struan glanced at Gorth. “The flagpole at Hong Kong! Good voyage, Tyler!” and he hared for his lorcha, which had already cast off and was being nosed into midstream.

He leaped onto the gunnel and turned back and waved mockingly. Then he disappeared belowdecks.

“Excuse us’n, eh, Mr. Cooper?” Brock said, taking Gorth by the arm. “We be in touch!”

He shoved Gorth toward their lorcha. On the poop deck he pushed him violently against the gunnel. “You cursed halfwit poxwobbled scupper rat! You want yor godrotting troat cut from godrotting ear to ear? You call a man son of a bitch in these waters, you got to fight. You call him that, he’s the right to kill thee!” He backhanded Gorth across the face, and blood trickled from Gorth’s mouth. “I tell thee fifty times to watch that devil. If I watch he, by God, thee better!”

“I can kill him, Da’, I know I can!”

“I tell thee fifty times, act perlite to him. He be waiting to cut thee up, fool. An’ he can. You baint fighting that devil but once! Understand?”

“Yes.” Gorth felt the blood in his mouth, and the taste increased his rage.

“Next time I let thee get deaded, fool. An’ another thing. Never challenge a man like him on a gamblin’ debt. Nor kick him in the groin when he be beat an’ helpless. That not be the code!”

“Pox on the code!”

Brock backhanded him again. “The Brocks live by the code. Open. Man t’man. Go again’ it, and thee be out of Brock and Sons!”

Gorth wiped the blood off his mouth.

“Doan hit me again, Da’!”

Brock felt the violent edge to his son’s voice, and his face tightened.

“Doan do it, Da’. By the Lord Jesus Christ, I’ll hit you back,” Gorth said, his weight on both legs, fists like granite. “You hit me a last time. You hit me again and I won’t stop. By the Lord Jesus, you hit me a last time!”

The veins in Brock’s throat were black and throbbing as he squared up to his son, no longer a son but an enemy. No, not an enemy. Only a son who was no longer a youth. A son who had challenged his father as all sons challenge all fathers. Brock knew and Gorth knew that if they fought, blood would be spilled and there would be a casting out. Neither wanted a casting out, but if it came, both father and son knew they would be blood enemies.

Brock hated Gorth for making him feel his age. And loved him for standing up to him when he knew, beyond doubt, that he was more cunning in the art of death fighting than Gorth would ever be.

“Thee best get to Hong Kong.”

Gorth unclenched his fists with an effort. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “But thee’d best settle with that bastard right smartly, if thee’ve a mind—or next time I do it my own way.” He glared at the bosun. “What the hell’re you scum waiting for? Get under way!”

He wiped the blood off his chin and spat overboard. But his heart was still pumping heavily and he was sorry that there had not been a third blow. I were ready, by God, an’ I could’ve beat him—like I can beat that green-eyed son of a bitch. I know I can.

“Which course should we follow, Da’?” he asked, for there were many different ways to go. The approaches to Canton on the river were a maze of islands large and small, and multitudinous waterways.

“Thee got thyself into this mess. Chart thy own course.” Brock walked to the port gunnel. He felt very old and very tired. He was remembering his own father who was an ironworker, and how as a boy he had had to take the beatings and guidance and watch his temper and do what he was told until the day he was fifteen and the blood filled his eyes. And when his sight had cleared, he saw that he was standing over his father’s inert body.

Lord above, he thought, that were near. I be glad I doan have to fight him proper. I doan want to lose my son.

“Doan thee take after Dirk Struan, Gorth,” he said, his voice not unkind.

Gorth said nothing. Brock rubbed the socket of his eye and replaced the patch. He watched Struan’s lorcha. It was already in midstream, Struan nowhere in sight. The sampan shoved the bow around, then scuttled neatly to the other side. A tangle of Struan’s men leaned on the ropes and chanteyed the sails aloft. The sampan poled back toward Vargas’ lorcha.

Baint like Dirk to leave so fast, Brock reflected. Baint right at all. He glanced back at the wharf and saw that Vargas and all Struan’s clerks were still there, the lorcha still tied up. Now, that baint like Dirk. To leave afore his clerks. Dirk be strange about things like that. Yus.

Struan was hiding in the cabin of the sampan. As the boat nosed around the bow of the Vargas’ lorcha, Struan rammed the coolie hat low on his head and pulled the padded Chinese jacket tighter around him. The sampan owner and his family did not appear to notice him. They had been well paid not to hear or to see.

The plan he had made with Mauss was the safest under the circumstances. He had told Mauss to hurry to

China Cloud, which lay at anchor off Whampoa Island thirteen miles away; to take the shorter northern passage there and then order Captain Orlov to cram on all sail and rush downstream to the end of the island; to change course there and cut around it and head back upstream by the south channel toward Canton again; he had warned that it was of paramount importance that this maneuver not be observed by Brock. Struan, meanwhile, would wait for the bullion lorcha and then take the long route and sneak by devious waterways to the south side of the island where they would rendezvous. By the Marble Pagoda. The pagoda was two hundred feet high and easily seen.

“But why, Tai-Pan?” Mauss had said. “It’s dangerous. Why all the risk,

hein?”

“Just be there, Wolfgang,” he had said.

When the sampan reached the wharf, Struan picked up some panniers that he had had prepared, and hurried through the throng to the garden gate. No one paid any attention to him. Once inside, he tossed the panniers aside, raced to the dining-room window and peered carefully through the curtains.

His lorcha was well away. Brock was in midchannel, gaining way, the sails billowing as the breeze caught them. Gorth stood on the poop and Struan could faintly hear his obscenities. Brock was at the port gunnel, staring downstream. Vargas had just finished checking the clerks and was walking back toward the garden.

Struan ducked out of the dining room and ran quickly upstairs. From the landing he saw Vargas come into the foyer, make a final check and leave. Struan heard the key turn in the door. He relaxed, and climbed a narrow staircase to the loft. He eased his way past old packing cases and walked cautiously toward the front of the building.

“Hello, Tai-Pan,” May-may said. She was dressed in her verminous Hoklo trousers and padded jacket, but she had not dirtied her face. She was kneeling on a cushion behind some packing cases. Ah Gip got up and bowed and then squatted down again near the small bundle of clothes and cooking utensils. May-may indicated another cushion that was opposite her, and the backgammon board that was set up. “We play, same stakes, heya?”

“Just a moment, lassie.”

There was a skylight in the loft and another in the front wall. Struan could scan the whole square clearly and safely. People were still milling and cursing and making last-minute changes. “Did you notice me?”

“Oh, yes, very,” she said. “But we watch from top of you. Down level perhaps no one saw. Wat for did Brock hit his son, heya?”

“I did na know he did.”

“Yes. Two times. Wat for such blows! We laughed till we choke. The son almost hit back. I hope they fight-kill each other—then no money to pay back. I still think you fantastical crazy na just to pay pirate to assassination him.” She sat on the cushion, then knelt again with an oath.

“What’s the matter?”

“My bum, she is still sore.”

“

It is still sore,” he said.

“She. That was joke. Ayee yah, this time I beat you to hell and make back all my dolla.” She added innocently, “How much I owe? Fourteen tousand?”

“You remember very well.”

He sat down and picked up the dice cup. “Four games. Then sleep. We’ve a long night ahead.” He threw the dice and she cursed.

“What joss you have! Double six, double six, a pox on double six!” She threw the dice and equaled him and slammed the cup down and whooped, “Good dear sweet double six!”

“Keep your voice down, or we will na play.”

“We’re safe, Tai-Pan. Throw. My joss is good today!”

“Let’s hope it’s very good,” he said. “And tomorrow.”

“Ayee yah tomorrow, Tai-Pan! Today. Today is what counts.” She threw again. Another double six. “Dear sweet dice, I adore you.” Then she frowned. “What for does ‘adore’ mean?”

“Love.”

“And ‘love’?”

Struan’s eyes crinkled and he shook a finger at her. “I’m na going to get into that argument again.” Once he had tried to explain what love meant. But there was no Chinese word for the European concept of love.

The grandfather clock began to sound eleven. Struan shifted wearily at his post beside the wall skylight. May-may was curled up asleep, Ah Gip slumped against a mildewed packing case. A few hours ago he had dropped off to sleep for a moment, but his dreams were bizarre and mixed with reality. He had been aboard

China Cloud, lying crushed under a weight of bullion. Jin-qua had come into the room and eased the bullion off him, and had taken it all in exchange for a coffin and twenty golden guineas, and then he was no longer on his ship but ashore in the Great House on the knoll. Winifred brought him three eggs and he was eating breakfast and May-may had said, behind him, “God’s blood, how can you eat the unborn children of a hen?” He had turned around and seen that she was wearing no clothes and she was achingly beautiful. Winifred had said, “Was Mother as beautiful without clothes on?” and he had replied, “Yes, but in a different way,” and he had awakened suddenly.

Dreaming of his family had saddened him. I’ll have to go home soon, he had thought. I dinna ken even where they’re buried.

He stretched and watched the movement on the river, and thought about Ronalda and May-may. They’re different, very different—were different. I loved them both equally. Ronalda would have enjoyed London and a fine mansion there and taking the waters in the season at Brighton or Bath. She’d have been a perfect hostess for all the dinners and balls. But now I’m alone.

Will I take May-may home with me? Perhaps. As Tai-tai? Impossible. Because that would cast me out from those I must use.

He stopped musing and concentrated on the square. It was deserted. Just before nightfall the bannermen had left. Now there was only the dull moonlight and blurred shadows, and this emptiness felt eerie and cruel to Struan.

He wanted to sleep. You canna sleep now, he told himself. Aye, but I’m tired.

He stood and stretched, and settled himself once more. The chimes rang the quarter-hour and then the half, and he decided to wake May-may and Ah Gip in a quarter of an hour. There’s nae hurry, he thought. He did not allow himself to speculate about what would happen if the lorcha from Jin-qua did not arrive. His fingers were touching the four half coins in his pocket and he wondered again about Jin-qua. What favors and when?

He partially understood Jin-qua’s motives now. Ti-sen’s disgrace had clarified them. Obviously there would be war. Obviously the British would win it. Obviously trade would begin again. But never under the Eight Regulations. So the Co-hong would lose its monopoly and it would be every man for himself. Hence the thirty-year trade span: Jin-qua simply had been cementing his business relationship for the next three decades. That was the Chinese way, he thought: na to worry about immediate profit, but profit over years and years.

Aye, but what’s really in Jin-qua’s mind? Why buy land in Hong Kong? Why train a son in “barbarian” ways and to what calculated end? And what will the four favors be? And now that you’ve agreed and promised, how are you going to implement them? How can you ensure that Robb and Culum fulfill the bargain?

Struan began to contemplate that. He mulled a dozen possibilities before arriving at an answer. He hated what he knew he had to do. Then, having decided, he turned his thoughts to other problems.

What to do about Brock? And Gorth? For a moment on the wharf he had been ready to go after Gorth. One more word, and he would have had to challenge him openly. Honor would have forced—and allowed—him to humble Gorth. By a knife in the gut. Or by the lash.

And Culum. What’s he been up to? Why hasn’t he written? Aye, and Robb, too. And what mischief’s Longstaff done?

The chimes sounded eleven o’clock. Struan awakened May-may. She yawned and stretched luxuriously, like a cat. Ah Gip had been up the instant Struan had moved, and she was already collecting the bundles.

“The lorcha is come?” May-may asked.

“Nay. But we can move downstairs and be ready.”

May-may whispered to Ah Gip, who unpinned May-may’s hair and brushed it vigorously. May-may closed her eyes and enjoyed it. Then Ah Gip braided the hair as a Hoklo would, and bound it with a piece of red ribbon and let it fall down her back.

May-may rubbed her hands in the dust and dirtied her face. “Wat I do for you, Tai-Pan. This filth dirt will destroy the perfection of beauty skin. I will need much bullion to repair. How much, heya?”

“Get along with you!”

He led the way carefully downstairs into the dining room and, motioning them to sit patiently, went to the window. The square was still deserted. There were oil lights in the massed sampans of the floating villages. Dogs barked from time to time and firecrackers sounded and quarreling voices were raised and hushed, and sometimes there were happy voices—and the ever-present

clack-clack of mahjongg tiles being banged onto a deck or a table and the chattering singsong. Smoke rose from cooking fires. Junks and lorchas and sampans filled the estuary. Everything—the sounds and the smells and sights—seemed normal to Struan. Except the emptiness of the square—he had presumed that the square would be populated. Now they had to cross a deserted expanse, and in the moonlight they could be seen for hundreds of yards.

The clock chimed midnight.

He waited and watched and waited.

The minutes became longer and after an eternity the chimes sounded the quarter-hour. Then the half-hour.

“Maybe the lorcha is south,” May-may said, stifling a yawn.

“Aye. We’ll wait another half an hour, then we’ll look.”

Almost at the hour he saw the two lanterns on a lorcha coming downstream. The boat was too far away for him to see the red-painted eye and he held his breath and waited. The lorcha was sailing gently but was sluggish and slow in the water. This was a favorable sign to him because the bullion would weigh many tons. After the boat passed the north end of the Settlement, it changed course and crept into the wharf. Two of the Chinese crew jumped ashore with hawsers and tied up. To his relief, another Chinese went to the lantern on the prow, blew it out and lit it again according to the prearranged signal.

Struan searched the half-darkness for peril. He sensed none. He checked the priming of his pistols and stuck them in his belt. “Follow me, quickly now!”

Silently he went to the front door and unlocked it and guided them cautiously through the garden. He opened the gate and they hastened across the square. Struan felt as though all Canton was watching them. Reaching the lorcha, he saw the red-painted eye and recognized on the poop the man who had led him to Jin-qua. He helped May-may aboard. Ah Gip leaped aboard easily.

“Wat for two cow chillo, heya? No can!” the man said.

“Your name wat can?” Struan asked.

“Wung, heya!”

“Cow chillo my. Cast off, Wung!”

Wung noticed May-may’s tiny feet and his eyes narrowed. He could not see May-may’s face, for she kept the sampan hat low over her forehead. Struan did not like the way Wung hesitated or the way he looked at May-may. “Cast off!” he said curtly, and bunched a fist. Wung rapped an order. The hawsers were cast off and the lorcha slipped away from the wharf. Struan took May-may and Ah Gip down the gangway to the lower deck. He turned aft where the main cabin would be and opened the door. Inside were five Chinese. He motioned them out. Reluctantly they got up and left, looking May-may up and down. They, too, noticed her feet.

The cabin was tiny with four bunks and a crude table and benches. It smelled of hemp and rotting fish. Wung was standing at the door of the cabin, scrutinizing May-may.

“Wat for cow chillo? No can.”

Struan paid no attention to him. “May-may—you locka dorra, heya? Only open dorra my knock, savvy?”

“Savvy, Mass’er.”

Struan went to the door and beckoned Wung outside. He heard the bolt lock behind them, then he said, “Go hold!”

Wung took him into the hold. The forty crates were stacked in two neat rows against the sides of the ship, with a wide passageway between them.

“Wat in box, heya?” Struan asked.

Wung seemed perplexed. “Wat for you saya, heya? All same Mass’er Jin-qua say.”

“How muchee men knowa?”

“My only! All knowa, ayee, yah!” Wung said, drawing his finger across his throat.

Struan grunted. “Guard dorra.” He selected a crate at random and opened it with a crowbar. He stared down at the bullion, then lifted one of the silver bricks from the top layer. He sensed Wung’s tension and it heightened his own. He replaced the brick and the top of the crate.

“Wat for cow chillo, heya?” Wung said.

“Cow chillo my. Finish.” Struan made sure the lid was tight again.

Wung stuck his thumbs in the belt of his ragged pants. “Chow? Can?”

“Can.”

Struan went on deck and checked the rigging and the sails. A four-pound cannon was in the bow and another in the stern. He made sure that both were loaded and primed, and that the powder keg was full and the powder dry. Grape and shot were ready at hand. He ordered Wung to assemble the crew and picked up a belaying pin. There were eight men aboard.

“You saya,” he said to Wung, “all knives, all boom-boom, on deck plenty quick-quick.”

“Ayee yah, no can,” Wung protested. “Plenty pirate in river. Plenty—”

Struan’s fist caught him in the throat and slammed him against the gunnel. The crew chattered angrily and prepared to rush Struan, but the raised belaying pin discouraged them.

“All knives, all boom-boom on deck, plenty quick,” Struan repeated, his voice steely.

Wung hauled himself up weakly and muttered something in Cantonese. After an ominous silence he threw his knife on the deck, and, grudgingly, the others followed suit. Struan told him to gather up the knives and tie them in a piece of sacking that was on the deck. Next he made the crew turn around and he began to search them. He found a small pistol on the third man, and with the butt end smashed the man across the side of the head. Four more knives clattered to the deck from other men, and out of the corner of his eye Struan saw Wung drop a small fighting hatchet overboard.

After he had searched the men, he ordered them to stay on deck and taking the weapons with him, he carefully searched the rest of the ship. There was no one concealed belowdecks. He found a cache of four muskets, six swords, four bows and arrows and three fighting irons, behind some crates, and carried them into the cabin.

“Heya, May-may, youa hear what topside can?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said, as softly. “You say we can talk English in front of Ah Gip safely. You dinna want to now?”

“I forgot. Habit. Nay, lass, it’s all right.”

“Why hit Wung? He’s Jin-qua’s trusted, no?”

“The cargo’s the lodestone of this voyage.”

“ ‘Lodestone’?”

“Magnet. Compass needle.”

“Oh, I understand.” May-may sat on the bunk, her nostrils quivering from the stench of rotting fish. “I be very sick if I stay here. Can I be on deck?”

“Wait till we’re clear of Canton. You’re safer here. Much safer.”

“How long before we meet

China Cloud?”

“A little after first light—if Wolfgang makes no mistake on the rendezvous.”

“Is that possible?”

“With this cargo, anything’s possible.” Struan picked up one of the muskets. “Do you know how to use this?”

“Wat for should I shoot gunses? Me, I am a civilizationed fright-filled old woman—of great beauty I agree, but na gunses.”

He showed her. “If anyone but me comes into the cabin, kill him.” He went back on deck, carrying another musket. The lorcha was in mid-channel now, under a soaring moon, ponderous and low in the water and making about four knots. They were still passing the suburbs of Canton, and both sides of the river were thickly lined with floating villages. From time to time they passed boats and sampans and junks beating upstream. The river here was half a mile wide, and there were boats of all sizes ahead and astern going downstream.

The sky told Struan that the weather would be fair, but the tang on the wind felt smooth and dry and dewless, without body. He knew that this wind would lessen and further reduce their speed. But he was not worried; he had made the journey so many times that he knew the shoals and the rivers and tributaries and checkpoints intimately.

The approach to Canton was a maze of waterways and islands, large and small, covering an area five miles by twenty miles. There were many different ways to come upstream. And to go downstream.

Struan was happy to be afloat again. And happy that their journey to the Marble Pagoda had begun. He swayed easily to the motion of the lorcha. Wung was near the helmsman, and the crew was scattered around the deck, malevolent and sullen. Struan saw that the prow lookout was in place.

Ahead, half a mile, the river forked around an island. At the approaches to the fork was a shoal to be avoided. Struan said nothing and waited. He heard Wung speak to the helmsman, who put his tiller over and swerved the lorcha safely away from the shoal. Good, Struan thought. At least Wung knew part of the waterways. He was anxious to see what route Wung would take around the island. Both routes were good but the north was better than the south. The lorcha held its course and headed into the north channel. Struan turned and shook his head and pointed to the south channel just in case Wung had arranged an ambush.

The helmsman glanced at Wung for confirmation. Struan made only the slightest movement toward the helmsman. The helm was swung over quickly and the sails flapped momentarily and the lorcha came about onto the new course.

“Wat for go that way, heya? Wat for hit my? Plenty bad. Plenty.” Wung moved over to the gunnel and glared into the night.

The wind freshened slightly, and the lorcha increased speed as they moved into the south channel. At the limit of their tack, Struan motioned the helmsman to put his tiller over. The boat came about slowly, and then, on the new tack, the wind caught the flapping sails. The booms creaked across the deck and the boat lurched slightly and began to gain way once more.

He ordered the sails trimmed and they sailed smoothly for half an hour, part of the river traffic. Then out of the corner of his eye Struan saw a big lorcha bearing down on them swiftly from the windward. Brock was standing in the bow. Struan crouched and scurried over to the tiller and shoved the man aside. Wung and the helmsman were startled and began chattering excitedly, and all the crew watched Struan.

He swung the tiller hard to starboard and prayed that the lorcha would answer the helm quickly. He heard Brock’s voice faintly—“Starboard yor helm, right smartly!”—and he felt the wind scud from his sails. Struan slammed the tiller over to jibe and reverse direction; but the lorcha did not respond, and Brock’s lorcha drew alongside. He saw the grappling hooks catch and hold fast. He leveled a musket.

“Oh, it’s thee, Dirk, by God!” Brock called out, feigning astonishment. He was leaning on the gunnel, a broad smile on his face.

“Grapples are an act of piracy, Brock!” Struan tossed his knife, haft first, to Wung. “Chop grapples quick-quick!”

“Right you are, lad. Beg pardon for the grapples,” Brock said. “I thort you be lorcha in need of a tow. Doan see thy flag aloft. Thee be ashamed of it maybe?”

Struan saw that Brock’s crew was armed and at action stations. Gorth was on the poop deck beside a small swivel gun, and although the gun was not pointing at him, he knew it would be primed and ready to fire. “Next time you grapple a ship of mine, I’ll presume you’re pirates and blow your head off.”

“Permission to come aboard, Dirk?”

“Aye.”

Brock slipped through the rigging of his ship and leaped aboard. Three men jumped up on the gunnel to follow him, but Struan leveled the musket and shouted, “Hold there! Any of you come aboard without permission, I’ll blow you to hell.”

The men stopped in their tracks.

“Quite right,” Brock said sardonically. “That be the law of the sea. A captain invites who he likes and who he doan. Stay where thee be!”

Struan shoved Wung forward. “Chop grapples!” The frightened Chinese rushed forward and began to hack the ropes. Gorth swung the swivel gun and Struan aimed at him.

“Stand off, Gorth!” Brock said sharply. The law of the sea was on Struan’s side: grappling was an act of piracy. And coming aboard armed, without permission, was piracy, and of all the laws of England none were so zealously guarded or enforced as the laws of ships at sea and the powers of a captain afloat. For piracy there was only one punishment: hanging.

Wung cut the last of the lines and the boats began to drift apart. When Brock’s lorcha was thirty feet away, Struan put down the musket and shouted, “You come within fifty feet of me without permission, by God, I’ll charge you with piracy!” Then he leaned against the gunnel. “What’s all this about, Tyler?”

“I could ask thee the same thing, Dirk,” Brock said easily. “I seed thee snuck down in that there sampan yesterday.” His eye glittered in the light of the lantern. “Then I seed thee, dressed right proper curious like a coolie and, glory be to God, thee went back into factory. Strange, says I. Maybe old Dirk’s gone sick in the head. Or maybe old Dirk needin’ a hand to get safe out of Canton. So we sails downstream aways and then snuck back and anchors north o’ the Settlement. Then we seed thee board this stinking craft. Thee an’ two doxies.”

“What I do’s my own affair.”

“Yus, that it be.” Struan’s mind was churning. He knew that Brock’s lorcha was far swifter than his, that the crew was dangerous and well armed, and that he was no match for them alone. He cursed himself for being so confident and for not keeping watch.

But then you could na have seen Brock sneak upstream. How to put Brock to your advantage? Must be some way. He can easily run you down in the night, and even if you survive, there’d be little you could prove. Brock’d claim that it was an accident. Then, too, May-may can na swim.

“This old tub be low in the water. Leaking, maybe? Or be it the weight of cargo?”

“What’s on your mind, Tyler?”

“Rumors, lad. There was rumors all yester’ morning. Afore we left. Rumors about Ti-sen’s bullion. Did thee hear it?”

“There were dozens of rumors.”

“Yus. But they all sayed that there was a king’s ransom o’ bullion in Canton. I baint thinking about it. Till I seed thee go back. An’ I thort that were very interestin’. After the twenty-thousand-guinea bet. Very interestin’. Then thee gets on a heavy lorcha like a thief in the night, an’ head south by the wrong channel.” Brock stretched, then scratched his beard vigorously. “Old Jin-qua baint about, were he?”

“He’s out of Canton, yes.”

“Old Jin-qua’s yor dog. Leastways,” Brock said with a leer, “he be yor man, eh?”

“Come to the point.”

“There be no rush, lad. No, by God!” He glanced at the prow of his lorcha. “She be light in the nose, baint she?” Brock was alluding to the foot-square iron spike that jutted six feet out from the prow, just below the waterline. Struan had invented the ram many years ago as a simple method for gouging and sinking a ship. Brock and many of the China traders had adopted it.

“Aye. And we’re heavy. But we’re armed well enough.”

“So I seed. Aft cannon and bow cannon, but no swivels.” A taut silence. “Five days an’ thy notes be due. Right?”

“Aye.”

“Be thee ameeting them?”

“In five days you’ll find out.”

“Forty or fifty lacs o’ bullion be many tons o’ silver.”

“I imagine they would.”

“I ask’t Gorth, Now, wot would old Dirk do if he’d some bad joss? Gorth sayed, He’d try to change it. Yus, says I, but how? Borrow, says he. Ah, says I, borrow it is. But where? Then, Dirk lad, I thort of Jin-qua and Ti-sen. Ti-sen be finished, so it be Jin-qua.” He ruminated a moment. “There be two women aboard. I be glad to give ’em passage to Whampoa or Macao. Wheresomever thee says.”

“They’ve passage already.”

“Yus. But this old wreck might sink. I doan like the thort of women drowning when it baint necessary.”

“We will na sink, Tyler.”

Brock stretched again and shouted to his lorcha for a longboat. Then he shook his head sadly. “Well, lad, I just wanted to offer the women passage. An’ thee, of course. This tub feel very unseaworthy. Uncommon unseaworthy.”

“Plenty of pirates in these waters. If any ship comes too close, I’ll use my cannon.”

“That be wise, Dirk. But if in the blackness o’ night I suddenly be seein’ a ship ahead and was taking avoiding action, an’ that ship were so impertinent as to fire a cannon at me, well, lad, thee would do wot I would do. Presume they be pirate and blow her out of the water. Right?”

“If you were still alive after the first shot.”

“Yus. ’Tis a cruel world we be livin’ in. Baint wise to fire cannon.”

The longboat pulled alongside.

“Thank’ee kindly, Dirk. Better fly thy flag while thee has one. Then godrotting mistakes be not happening. Beg pardon for the grapples. See thee in Hong Kong.”

Brock slipped over the side of the lorcha and stood in the longboat. He waved derisively and was rowed smartly away.

“Wat for One-Eye Mass’er wantshee?” Wung asked shakily. The crew was horror-struck by Brock’s lorcha.

“What you think, heya? You doo all same I say, not deaded can,” Struan said curtly. “All sail, plenty quick-quick. Kill see-fire, heya!”

Taking heart, they doused the lanterns and fled before the wind.

When Brock swung aboard his own lorcha, he glared into the darkness. He could not pick Struan’s lorcha out of the many that sailed, ghostlike, south downstream.

“You see her?” he asked Gorth.

“Yes, Da’.”

“I be going below. If thee happen to ram a lorcha, that be bad. Terrible bad.”

“The bullion’s aboard?”

“Bullion, Gorth?” Brock said, with mock surprise. “I doan know wot thee mean.” He lowered his voice. “If thee needs help, call me. But no cannons, mind, not less he fires at us’n. We baint going to pirate him. We’ve plenty of enemies who’d be happy to mark us’s pirates.”

“Sleep well, Da’,” Gorth said.

For three hours Struan wove in and out of the river traffic, backing, then changing course, skirting the sandbanks dangerously, always making certain that there were boats between him and Brock’s lorcha, which dogged his heels relentlessly. Now they were coming out of the south channel looping around the small island, into the main river once more. He knew that there would be more room to maneuver, but that would help Brock more than him.

Once in the south channel, Brock could bear off to windward nicely, then assault him when he was on the lee tack. Struan would have no wind to swing with and would be struck amidships. A direct or a glancing blow with the iron probe would gut him and sink him like a stone. Since his cannon were set solid into the prow and stern, he could not shift them amidships to protect himself. If he had his own crew it would be different; he would heave to until light, certain that his men could use their weapons to thwart any attempt to get close. But he was dubious about the Chinese crew, and about the ancient Chinese muskets which were likely to blow up in your face when you pulled the trigger. And Brock was right too. If he fired first in the darkness, Brock had the right to fire back. One deft broadside would blow them sky-high.

He looked up at the sky for the thousandth time. He desperately needed a sudden storm and rain, or clouds that would hide the moon. But there were no signs of storm or rain or cloud.

He peered aft and saw the lorcha gaining on them. It was a hundred yards astern and reaching to windward, tacking nearer to the wind than they, gaining way.

Struan ransacked his brains for a feasible plan. He knew he could escape easily if he lightened the ship by throwing the bullion overboard. Half a mile ahead the river was going to fork again, around Whampoa Island. If he took the north channel he would be safer, for most of the river traffic used that channel and he might be able to avoid a ram. But then he would never be able to escape long enough to sail the length of Whampoa and then around it to rendezvous with

China Cloud far up the south side. He was forced to use the south channel.

He could see no way out of the trap. Dawn would come in two or three hours, and he would be lost. Somehow he had to escape in darkness and hide, and then slip down to his rendezvous. But how?

In the darkness ahead he could see the river fork, glinting silver, around Whampoa Island. Then he noticed Ah Gip at the gangway. She beckoned to him. Astern, Brock’s lorcha was well away, still bearing up to windward, readying to run before the wind if he took the south channel, or still be to windward of him if he took the north channel.

He pointed at a small pagoda on the south bank, giving the helmsman a bearing. “Savvy?”

“Savvy, Mass’er!”

“Savvy plenty good!” Struan drew his finger across his throat. He hastened below.

May-may was very sick. The stench of fish and the closeness of the cabin and the heeling of the boat had made her almost helpless with nausea. But she still held on to the musket. Struan picked her up and began to carry her on deck.

“No,” May-may said weakly. “I ask for you because of Ah Gip.”

“What about her?”

“I send her forward, secret. To listen to crew.” May-may retched and held on. When her spasm had passed she said, “She heard a man talking to another. They talking about the bullion. I think they all know.”

“Aye,” Struan said. “I’m sure they do.” He patted Ah Gip’s shoulder. “You plenty big pay soon can.”

“Ayee yah,” Ah Gip said. “Wat for pay, heya?”

“Brock is still on our heels?” May-may asked.

“Aye.”

“Maybe lightning bolt will strike him.”

“Aye, maybe. Ah Gip, make chow Missee can! Soup. Savvy? Soup.”

Ah Gip nodded. “Doan soop. Tea-ah gooda!”

“Soup!”

“Tea-ah.”

“Oh, never mind,” Struan said irritably, knowing that it would be tea however many times he said soup.

He carried May-may on deck and set her on the keg of powder. Wung and the helmsman and the crew did not look at her. But Struan knew they were acutely conscious of her, and she added to the tension on the deck. Then he remembered what she had said about a lightning bolt and this triggered a plan. His worry left him and he laughed aloud.

“Wat for ha-ha, heya?” May-may said, breathing the sea air deeply, her stomach beginning to settle.

“Think good way to chop One-Eye Mass’er,” Struan said. “Heya, Wung! You come my.” Struan gave May-may one of his pistols. “Man near, kill, savvy?”

“Savvy, Mass’er!”

Struan motioned Wung to follow him, and went forward. As he walked easily along the deck the Chinese crew moved out of his way. He stopped at the fo’c’sle for a last check to make sure that Brock’s lorcha was well clear and he hurried below, Wung close behind him. The crew’s quarters consisted of a single large cabin the width of the boat, with bunks lining each side. There was a crude fireplace made of bricks, under an open hatch grill. A kettle swung over the wood coals that glowed dully. Bunches of herbs and dried mushrooms and dried and fresh fish and fresh vegetables and a sack of rice were nearby, and large and small earthenware jars.

He took the tops off the jars and sniffed the contents.

“Mass’er want chowa? Can.”

Struan shook his head. The first jar was soya. The next, ginger in syrup. Then ginseng root in vinegar and spices. There were cooking oils, one jar each of peanut oil and corn oil. Struan threw a few drops from both jars on the fire. The corn oil burned longer than the peanut oil.

“Wung, you fetch upside,” he said, pointing to the jar of corn oil.

“Wat for, heya?”

Struan hurried back on deck. The lorcha was nearing the point in the fork where they would have to turn for the north or the south channel. Struan pointed south.

“Wat for longa way, heya?” Wung asked, putting down the jar.

Struan looked at him and Wung backed a little. The helmsman had already swung the tiller over. They headed into the south fork. Brock’s lorcha followed swiftly on the same tack. There were still many boats between the two lorchas and Struan was safe for a while.

“You stay,” he said to Wung. “Heya, cow chillo. You stay. Use boom-boom all same.”

“Savvy, Mass’er,” May-may said. She was feeling much better.

Struan went into the main cabin and collected all the weapons and brought them back to the poop. He selected a musket, the two bows and arrows and a fighting iron, and threw the rest of the weapons overboard.

“Pirate can, no hav got boom-boom,” Wung muttered sullenly.

Struan picked up the fighting iron and swung it aimlessly. It was a linked iron whip, a deadly weapon at close range—three foot-long iron shafts linked together, and at the very end a barbed iron ball. The short, iron haft fitted neatly into the hand and a protective leather thong slipped over the wrist.

“Pirate come, plenty dead-dead hav got,” Struan said harshly.

Wung pointed furiously at Brock’s lorcha. “Him no stop can, heya?” He pointed at the nearest shore. “There. We run shore—we safe!”

“Ayee yah!” Struan turned his back contemptuously. He sat on the deck, the thong of the fighting iron attached to his wrist. The frightened crew watched, astonished, as Struan ripped the sleeve off his padded coolie jacket and tore it into strips and soaked the strips in the oil. He took one of the strips and carefully bound it around the head of an iron-tipped arrow. They backed away from him as he fitted the arrow into the bow, sighted along the deck at the mast and let fly. The arrow missed the mast, but buried itself in the fo’c’sle teak door. He pulled the arrow out with difficulty.

He went back and unbound the strip of padding and dunked it into the oil. Next he carefully sprinkled it with gunpowder, rebound it around the arrowhead and wrapped a second strip around the outside.

“Hola!” the stern lookout shouted. Brock’s lorcha was gaining on them ominously.

Struan took the helm and conned the ship for a while. He slipped dangerously behind a ponderous junk and changed direction adroitly, so that when he was clear he was scudding on the opposite tack. Brock’s lorcha turned quickly to intercept, but had to detour to avoid a convoy of junks heading north. Struan gave the helm to one of the crew and finished four arrows. Wung could contain himself no longer. “Heya, Mass’er, wat can?”

“Get see-fire, heya?”

Muttering obscenities, Wung left and came back with a lantern. “See-fire!”

Struan pantomimed dipping the arrow in the lantern flame and shooting the blazing shaft at the mainsail of Brock’s lorcha.

“Plenty fire, heya? They stop, we go, heya?”

Wung’s mouth dropped open. Then he burst into laughter. When he could talk he explained to the crew and they beamed at Struan. “Youa plenty—plenty Tai-Pan. Ayeeeee yah!” Wung said.

“Plenty fantastical youa,” May-may said, joining in the laughter. “Jig-jig One-Eye Mass’er plenty!”

“Hola!” the lookout called.

Brock’s lorcha had negotiated the detour and was gaining on them. Struan took the tiller and began weaving and twisting through the traffic deeper and deeper into the south channel. Brock’s lorcha closed in inexorably, always staying to windward. Struan knew that Brock was waiting for the traffic to clear before making his fatal stab. Struan was slightly more confident now. If the arrow hits the sail, he told himself, and if it does na go through, and if it stays alight while in flight and if the mains’l is dry enough to catch fire, and if they’ll only wait for four miles before they make the first pass, and if my joss is good, then I can lose them. “A pox on Brock!” he said.

The river traffic was thinning appreciably. Struan moved the tiller and beat to windward to get as near to the south side of the river as possible so that, when he turned again, the wind would be abaft the beam and he could run before it.

The south side of the river was shoal-ridden and hazardous. Tacking so far to windward left Struan dangerously open. Brock’s lorcha was waiting to pounce. But Struan wanted him to attack now. It was time. He long ago had learned a basic law of survival: Bring your enemy to battle only on your terms, never on his.

“Heya, May-may, go downside!”

“Watchee my. Can, never mind.”

Struan picked up the second musket and gave it to Ah Gip. “Go downside, now!”

Both women went below.

“Wung-ah, get see-fire two.”

Wung brought a second lantern and Struan lit them both. He put the arrows ready and the two bows. Now we’re committed, he told himself.

Brock’s lorcha was two hundred yards away to windward. Gradually the river traffic disappeared. The two ships were alone. Instantly Brock’s lorcha heeled over and hurled at him. Struan’s crew scattered and ran to the far gunnel. They hung on to the rigging and prepared to jump overboard. Only Wung remained with Struan on the poop.

Struan could see Gorth clearly now, conning the lorcha, his crew at action stations. He searched the deck for Brock but could not see him and wondered what devilment he was up to. When the lorchas were fifty yards apart, Struan swung the tiller over and lumbered before the wind, shoving his stern at Gorth. Gorth was gaining rapidly, staying to windward, and Struan knew that Gorth was much too smart to make the pass at his lee quarter. He motioned to Wung to take the tiller and hold the course. He readied the bow and arrows and ducked under the gunnel. He could see the masts of the lorcha bearing down on him swiftly. He stuck an arrowhead into the lantern’s flame. The oil-soaked padding flared immediately, and he stood up and aimed. The lorcha was thirty yards away. The arrow traveled in a flaming arc amid warning shouts and hit the mainsail squarely. But the force of impact extinguished the flame.

Gorth shouted to his crew and still bore down as a second arrow came at him. This one smashed into the mainsail, and held, showering sparks on the deck. The gunpowder that was inside the padding caught and exploded in flames. Involuntarily Gorth shoved the helm over and the boat peeled away, shuddering under the violence of the turn.

Struan had a third arrow ready, and as the lorcha went scudding past he fired it and saw it smash into the huge foresail. Flames began to lick the canvas. He gleefully swung the tiller over and bore away to windward and saw Brock charge up from belowdecks and shove Gorth aside, grab the tiller, and veer the boat around. Then Brock jerked the helm hard over and flung the boat at Struan’s starboard amidships, cutting off his escape.

Struan had anticipated Brock’s move, but his lorcha did not respond to the rudder and he knew that he was finished. He lit the last arrow and waited, his weight pressed against the tiller, praying for the lorcha to come around. Brock was standing on the poop, shouting at the crew who were desperately trying to douse the fire. A cluster of burning rigging fell near Brock but he paid it no attention, concentrating only on the point amidships starboard that he had selected for impact.

Struan aimed carefully and when the lorcha was fifteen yards away he shot. The arrow tore into the bulkhead beside Brock’s head but Brock’s lorcha held her course. Struan’s boat started to come around, but it was too late. Struan felt a shuddering impact and heard the sickening crunch of splintered timber as the barb on Brock’s lorcha sliced along the larboard side. Struan’s boat reeled over and almost capsized, throwing Struan to the deck.

Showered with sparks of burning rigging and sails, Struan climbed to his feet. There were shrieks from the panic-stricken Chinese and raucous cries from Brock’s men as both crews fought out of the fiery tangle. Amid the uproar Struan heard Brock shout, “Beg thy pardon,” and the two boats separated, Brock’s lorcha moving ahead, its sails aflame. Struan’s boat righted herself, heeled drunkenly to starboard, rolled back and hung upright, listing dangerously to port.

Struan seized the tiller and shoved it over with all his might. The lorcha obeyed sluggishly, and when the wind caught the sails, Struan headed for shore, hoping frantically that he could beach her before she sank.

He could see that both of Brock’s sails were on fire. He knew that they would have to be cut adrift and then replaced. Suddenly he noticed that his deck was angled ten degrees to port—to the

opposite side of impact. He struggled up the sloping deck and stared over the side at the huge gash that had been ripped open. The bottom of the gash was only an inch under the waterline and Struan realized that the shock of impact had shifted the bullion crates across the hold. The weight of the bullion was keeping the boat at this permanent list.

He yelled at Wung to man the tiller and hold it on the same course.

Then he picked up the fighting iron and scrambled forward and, whirling the fighting iron, herded several of the crew below. En route to the hold he glimpsed May-may and Ah Gip, unhurt but shaken, in the wreck of the main cabin.

“Go upside! Hold boom-boom!”

The hold was a shambles. The crates were shattered and silver bricks were strewn everywhere. The unbroken crates were jammed against the port side. Water was pouring in through the gash. The crew turned, at bay, but he drove them deeper into the hold and made them douse the small fires created by the scattered coals.

Swearing and gesturing, he showed them that he wanted the crates shoved and stacked farther to port. Ankle-deep in water, the Chinese were terrified of drowning but more terrified of the slashing iron whip, and they did as Struan ordered. The lorcha heeled perilously, screaming, and the gash inched out of the water. Struan fetched the spare mizzen and began to cram the canvas into the torn side of the vessel, using a few of the silver bricks as wedges.

“God’s blood!” he roared. “Quick-quick!”

The crew leaped to help, and soon the gash was sealed against the water. Struan motioned the crew to pick up the spare mainsail, and drove them back on deck.

May-may and Ah Gip were shaken but unharmed. May-may still grasped the pistol, Ah Gip the musket. Wung, paralyzed with fright, was holding the course. Struan goaded the men forward and with their help passed the canvas mainsail under the prow of the boat, under the hull, then lashed it tightly over the rip. The suction from the water tightened the sail over the gash as the boat wallowed helplessly, near capsizing.

Once more he forced the men below and after wedging the caulking canvas tighter, had them rearrange the rest of the crates to maintain a less dangerous list to port.

He went back on deck and inspected the mainsail lashings. When he ascertained they were firm and tight and holding, he began to breathe freely again.

“You all right, May-may?”

“Wat ah?” she said.

“Hurt youah?”

“Can.” She pointed to her wrist. It was torn and bleeding. He examined it carefully. Though it pained her, it did not seem to be broken. He poured rum over the wounds and then drank deeply and looked aft. Brock’s lorcha was drifting, the mainsail and foresail rigging burning furiously. He watched the crew cut away the rigging and the sails fell overboard. They burned for a moment in the water. Then there was blackness. A few junks and sampans were nearby, but none of them had gone to the assistance of the burning lorcha.

Struan peered ahead. Six Rock Channel—a little-known waterway—was on the lee quarter. He tried the tiller cautiously and the ship eased off a few points. The wind pressed the sails and the boat listed sharply, submerging the gash. There was a warning shout from the crew and Struan corrected the list. Dangerous to sail like this, he thought. I dare na tack to starboard. A slight sea’ll rip the covering off and we’ll sink like a stone. If I go through Six Rock Channel, Brock’ll never find me, but I canna tack to maneuver. So I have to stay in the river. Scud down before the wind, as straight as possible.

He checked his position. The Marble Pagoda was eight or nine miles downstream.

With the protective sail around her keel acting like a storm anchor, the lorcha was making only two or three knots. Having to stay close to the wind to avoid tacking would further cut down her speed. Ahead the river curled and twisted. With joss I will na have to tack to starboard. I’ll down sails and let her drift and raise sail again when I’m in position. He gave the tiller to Wung and went below and rechecked the caulking canvas. It will hold for a time—with joss, he thought. He picked up some teacups and went on deck.

The crew was grouped to one side, holding on grimly. There were only six men.

“Heya! Six bull only. Where two-ah?”

Wung pointed over the side and laughed. “Crash-bang, fall!” Then he waved astern, and shrugged. “Never mind.”

“God’s blood, wat for no save, heya?”

“Wat for save, heya?”

Struan knew that it was pointless to try to explain. According to the Chinese, it was joss that the men had fallen overboard. It was just joss—their joss—to drown, and also it was the will of the gods. Very unwise to interfere with the will of the gods. Save a man from dying, then you yourself are responsible for him for the rest of the man’s life. That’s fair. Because if you interfere with the will of the gods, you must be prepared to assume their responsibility.

Struan poured a cup of rum and gave it to May-may. He offered each of the crew a tot in turn, expecting no thanks and receiving none. Strange, he told himself, but Chinese. Why should they thank me for saving their lives? It was joss that we did not sink.

Thank you, God, for my joss. Thank you.

“Hola!” one of the crew called out anxiously, looking over the side.

The canvas caulking was coming adrift. Struan rushed below. He slipped off the fighting iron and pushed the waterlogged sail deeper into the ship’s wound. Water three feet deep sloshed around in the bilges. He levered a crate tighter against the canvas and wedged more silver bricks into the crevices.

“It’ll hold,” he said aloud. “Aye, maybe.”

He picked up the fighting iron and went into the main cabin. It was a shambles. He looked at the bunk longingly, picked up a grass-filled palliasse and climbed the gangway.

He froze at the top of the steps. Wung was pointing the pistol at him. A second Chinese held the musket, Ah Gip inert at his feet. One of the crew had an armlock on May-may, and was holding a hand over her mouth. Wung pulled the trigger as Struan instinctively lifted up the palliasse and hurtled to one side of the gangway. He felt the ball crease his neck and he lunged up on deck, his face stung by the gunpowder, the palliasse a pathetic shield. The second Chinese fired point-blank, but the musket exploded and blew his hands off, and he stared at the stumps of his arms, astonished, and screamed.

Struan whirled the fighting iron as Wung and the crew attacked. The barbed ball caught Wung flush on the side of the face, tearing off half his mouth, and he reeled away. Struan flailed and another man fell and another jumped on his back and tried to throttle him, using his own queue as a garrote, but Struan shook him off. The man holding May-may leaped forward and Struan shoved the fighting iron’s haft into his face and then, when the man shrieked and fell, Struan trampled him. The two men who were unhurt fled to the bow. Gasping for breath, Struan instantly rushed after them. They jumped overboard. There was a scream from the poop. Wung, grotesque, the blood gushing from half a face, was groping blindly for May-may. She slid out of his grasp and hobbled for cover.

Struan walked back and killed him.

The man with no hands was screaming hideously. Struan killed him quickly and painlessly.

There was silence on the deck.

May-may stared down at a dismembered hand and was violently sick. Struan kicked the hand overboard. When he had regained his strength, he threw all but one of the bodies overboard. He examined Ah Gip. She was breathing through her mouth, the blood trickling from her nose.

“I think she’ll be all right,” he said, and was astonished at the thickness of his voice. He felt his face. The pain was coming in violent waves. He slumped beside May-may. “What happened?”

“I dinna ken,” she said, beyond tears. “One moment I was with pistol, the next, they had hand over my mouth and they fired at you. Why aren’t you deaded?”

“I feel like I am,” he said. The left side of his face was badly scorched. His hair was singed and half an eyebrow was missing. The pain in his chest was lessening.

“What for they—Wung and they—do this? What for? He’s Jin-qua’s trusted,” she said.

“You said yoursel’ that any’d try to steal the bullion. Aye. Any. I dinna blame them. I was a fool to go below.”

He checked the course ahead. They were still limping in the right direction.

May-may saw the sear on his neck. “Another inch, half an inch,” she whispered. “Praise the gods for joss. I will make huge gift.”

Struan was smelling the sweet blood stench, and now that he was safe, his stomach turned over and he groped for the side and retched. Afterward he found a wooden pail and cleaned the deck. Then he cleaned the fighting iron.

“What for do you leave that man?” May-may asked.

“He’s na dead.”

“Throw him overboard.”

“When he’s dead. Or when he wakes, if he does, he can jump.” Struan breathed the air deeply and his nausea left him. His legs aching with fatigue, he went over to Ah Gip and lifted her onto the main housing. “Did you see where she got hit?”

“No.”

Struan undid her padded coat and examined her carefully. Her chest and back were unmarked but there was a trace of blood at the base of her queue. He wrapped her again and settled her as well as he could. Her face looked gray and mottled; her breathing was choked. “She does na look good.”

“How far must we go now?” May-may said.

“Two or three hours.” He took the helm. “I dinna ken. Maybe more.”

May-may lay back and let the wind and chill air clear her head.

Struan saw the broken bottle of rum rolling in the scuppers. “Go below. See if there’s another bottle of rum, will you? I think there were two, eh?”

“Sorry, Tai-Pan. I almost kill us with my own stupid.”

“Nay, lass. It was the bullion. Check the hold.”

She picked her way below. She was gone a long time.

When she returned she was carrying a teapot and two cups.

“I make tea,” she said proudly. “I make fire and I make tea. The rum bottle, she was broke. So we have tea.”

“I didn’t know you could even make tea, let alone light a fire,” he said, teasing her.

“When I’m old and toothless I become amah.” She noticed absently that the last of the Chinese seamen was no longer on deck. She poured the tea and offered him a cup, smiling wanly.

“Thanks.”

Ah Gip regained consciousness. She vomited, then collapsed again. “I didna like the look of her at all,” Struan said.

“She’s a fine slave.”

He drank the tea gratefully. “How much water’s in the hold?”

“The floor is washed with water.” May-may sipped her tea. “I think it would be wise to—to—how you say?—‘buy’ sea god on our side.”

“Petition? Aye, petition.”

She nodded. “Aye. Wise if I petition sea god.”

“How do you do that?”

“There is much bullion downstairs. One bar would be very good.”

“It would be very bad. A big waste of silver. We’ve been through this a thousand times. There are nae gods but God.”

“True. But please. Please, Tai-Pan. Please.” Her eyes were begging him. “We need fantastical plenty help. I counsel asking immediate for sea god’s particular blessings.”

Struan had given up trying to make her understand that there was only one God, that Jesus was the Son of God, that Christianity was the only true religion. Two years ago he had tried to explain Christianity to her.

“You want me to be Christian? Then I’m Christian,” she had said cheerfully.

“But it’s na so easy as that, May-may. You have to believe.”

“Of course. I believe wat you want me to believe. There is one God. The Christian barbarian God. The new God.”

“It’s na a barbarian God, and na a new God. It’s—”

“Your Lord Jesus was na Chinese, heya? Then he is a barbarian. And wat for you tell me this Jesus God is na new, when only he was na even born two thousand years ago, heya? That is plenty werry new. Ayee yah, our gods are five, ten thousand years old.”

Struan had been out of his depth, for though he was a Christian and would go to kirk and sometimes pray and knew the Bible as well as most men, ordinary men, he had not the learning or the skill to teach her. So he had had Wolfgang Mauss explain the Gospel to her in Mandarin. But after Mauss had taught her and had baptized her, Struan had discovered that she still went to the Chinese temple.

“But why go there? That’s being a heathen again. You’re bowing down before idols.”

“But wat for is the wood carving of the Lord Jesus on the Cross in the church but idol? Or Cross itself? Is that na all same an idol?”

“It’s na the same.”

“The Buddha is only symbol of Buddha. I dinna worship idol, laddie. I’m Chinese. Chinese dinna worship idols, only the idea of statue. We Chinese are na stupid. We’re terriflcal clever about these god things. And how for do I know the Lord Jesus, who was barbarian, likes Chinese, heya?”

“Will you na say such things? That’s blasphemy. Wolfgang’s explained the whole Gospel to you these last months. Of course Jesus loves all people the same way.”

“Then why for do the Christian men priests who wear long skirts and dinna have womens say other Christian priests who dress like men and spawn many children are for crazy, heya? Mass’er Mauss says previously there were many wars and many killings. Ayee yah, the longskirt devils burn men and women on fires.” She shook her head firmly. “Better we change right now, Tai-Pan. Let’s be the long-skirt Christian; then if we lose to them we’ll na be burned. Your kind Christians dinna burn people, do they, heya?”

“You dinna just change like that, for that reason. Catholics are wrong. They’ve—”

“I tell you, Tai-Pan. I think we should be longskirt Christians. And I think also, you look after your new Jesus God very careful, and I look after the Jesus God as best I can, and at the same time I watch our proper Chinese gods for us too, very careful.” She had nodded very firmly, then smiled marvelously. “Then whosoever is the strongest god will look after us.”

“You canna do such a thing. There is only one God. One!”

“Prove it,” she had said.

“I canna do that.”

“There, you see. How can mortal man prove God, any god? But I am a Christian like you. But, fortunate, also Chinese, and in these god things better think a little Chinese. Werry wise to keep a werry open mind. Werry. It’s joss for you that I’m Chinese; then also on our behalf I can petition Chinese gods.” She had added hastily, “Who, of course, dinna exist.” She had smiled. “Isn’t that fine?”

“No.”

“Of course, if I had choice—which I dinna, because there is only one God—I’d prefer Chinese god. They dinna want their devoters to slaughter other gods or dead all people who dinna kowtow.” Again she had run on hastily, “But the Christian barbarian God, who is alone and only God, seems to me, as a poor, simple woman, werry blood-thirst and difficult to get along with, but of course I believe in Him. There,” she had finished emphatically.

“There’ nothing.”

“I think your heaven is one hell of strange place, Tai-Pan. Everyone flying around like birds and everyone with beards. Do you make love in heaven?”

“I dinna ken.”

“If we canna make love, I’m na going to your heaven. Oh no, absolutely. True God or no true God. That’d be a werry bad place. I must find out before go there. Yes, indeed. And another thing, Tai-Pan. Wat for should the only true God, who is therefore fantastical clever, say only one wife, heya, which is terrifical stupid? And if you are Christian, wat for are we as husband and wife, when you already got wife? Adulteratiousness, eh? Werry bad. Wat for you break so many of the Ten Commands, heya, yet still werry all right call yourself Christian?”

“Well, May-may, some of us are sinners and weak. The Lord Jesus will forgive us, some of us. He promised to forgive us if we repent.”

“I would na,” she had said, very firmly. “Na if I was the Most One God. No, indeed. And another thing, Tai-Pan. How can God be Trinity yet have number-one Son who is also God who was born of real woman, without help of real man, who then becomes Mother of God? That’s wat I dinna understand. But dinna mistake me, Tai-Pan, I’m Christian as any, by God. Heya?”

They had had many such talks, and each time he had found himself locked into an argument that had no end and no beginning, except that he knew there was only one God, the true God, and knew also that May-may would never understand. He had hoped that perhaps in His time He would make Himself clear to her . . .

“Please, Tai-Pan,” May-may said again. “One little pretend will na harm anything. I said a prayer already to the One God. Dinna forget that we’re in China and it is a Chinese river.”

“But it does nae good at all.”

“I know. Oh yes, Tai-Pan, I know absolutely. But I’m only a two-year Christian, so you and God must be patient with me. He will forgive me,” she ended triumphantly.

“All right,” Struan said.

She went below. When she came back she had washed her face and her hands, and her hair was braided. In her hands was a silver brick wrapped in paper. The paper was covered with Chinese characters.

“Did you write the characters?”

“Yes. I found writing pen and ink. I wrote a prayer to the sea god.”

“What does it say?”

“ ‘Oh Great Wise and Powerful Sea God, in return for this enormous gift which is almost hundred taels of silver, please bring us safe to a barbarian ship called

China Cloud belonging to my barbarian, and thence to the island Hong Kong wat the barbarians have stolen from us.’ ”

“I dinna think much of that prayer,” he said. “After all, lass, it’s my silver, and I dinna like being called a barbarian.”

“It’s a polite prayer, and it tells the truth. It’s a Chinese sea god. To a Chinese you’re barbarian. It’s most important to tell the truth in prayer.” She walked gingerly down the listing side of the ship, and with great difficulty held the heavy, paper-covered silver brick at arm’s length, and closed her eyes and intoned the prayer that she had written. Then, her eyes still closed, she neatly unwrapped the silver brick and let the paper fall into the water and tucked the brick quickly into the folds of her jacket. She opened her eyes and watched the paper being sucked down into the river by the wash of the boat.

She clambered back joyfully, the silver safe in her arms. “There. Now we can rest.”

“That’s a cheat, by God,” Struan said, exploding.

“Wat?”

“You did na drop the silver overboard.”

“Shusssssssssh! Na so loud! You spoil everything!” Then she whispered, “Of course na. Do you think I’m a fool?”

“I thought you wanted to make an offering.”

“I’ve just make it,” she whispered, perplexed. “You dinna think I’d really throw all that silver in the river, do you? God’s blood, am I a lump of dog meat? Am I mad?”

“Then why go through—”

“Shussssssh!” May-may said urgently. “Na so loud! The sea god may hear you.”

“Why pretend to drop the silver overboard? That’s no offering.”

“I swear to God, Tai-Pan, I dinna understand you at all. Wat for do gods need real silver, heya? Wat for should they use real silver? To buy real clothes and real food? Gods are gods and Chinese are Chinese. I’ve made the offering and saved your silver. I swear to God, barbarians are strange people.”

And she went below, muttering to herself in Soochow dialect, “As if I’d destroy so much silver! Am I an empress that I can throw silver away? Ayeee yah,” she said, negotiating the corridor into the hold. “Even the devil empress would not be so foolish!” She put the silver in the bilge where she had found it and went back on deck.

Struan heard her returning, still mumbling irritably in Chinese.

“What’re you saying?” he demanded.

“Am I so mad as to waste so much hard-earned cash? Am I a barbarian? Am I a waster—”

“All right. But I still dinna understand why you think the sea god’ll answer your prayers when he’s been so obviously duped. The whole matter is fantastical stupid.”

“Will you na say such things so loudly,” she said. “He’s got offering. Now he’ll protect us. It’s na real silver a god want, merely idea. That’s what he got.” She tossed her head. “Gods are like people. They believe anything if you tell them right way.” Then she added, “Maybe the god is out and will na help us anyway and we’ll sink, never mind.”

“Another thing,” Struan said dourly. “Why should we whisper, eh? It’s a Chinese sea god. How the hell can he understand English, heya?”

This confounded May-may. She frowned, thinking hard. Then she shrugged. “A god is a god. Perhaps they speak the barbarian tongue. Would you like more tea?”

“Thanks.”

She poured it into his cup and hers. Then she clasped her hands around her knees and settled herself on a hatchway and hummed a little song.

The lorcha wallowed in the river current. Dawn was breaking.

“You’re quite a woman, May-may,” Struan said.

“I like you, too.” She nestled against him. “How many men are there like you, in your country?”

“About twenty million, men, women and children.”

“There are, they say, three hundreds of millions of Chinese.”

“That would mean that every fourth person on earth is Chinese.”

“I worry for my people if all barbarians are like you. You kill so many, so easily.”

“I killed them because they were trying to kill me. And we’re na barbarians.”

“I am glad I saw you at your killing,” she said weirdly, her eyes luminous, her head framed by the growing light of dawn. “And I’m werry glad you were na deaded.”

“One day I’ll be dead.”

“Of course. But I’m glad I saw you at your killing. Our son Duncan will be worthy of you.”

“By the time he’s grown it will na be necessary to kill.”

“By the time his children’s children’s children are grown there will still be killing. Man is killer beast. Most all men. We Chinese know. But barbarians are worse than us. Worse.”

“You think that because you’re Chinese. You’ve many more barbaric customs than we have. People change, May-may.”

Then she said simply, “Learn from us, from the lessons of China, Dirk Struan. People never change.”

“Learn from us, from the lessons of England, lass. The world can grow into an ordered place where all are equal before the law. And the law is just. Honest. Without graft.”

“Is that so important if you are starving?”

He thought about that a long time.

The lorcha plodded downstream. Other craft passed, upstream and downstream, and the crews stared at the lorcha curiously but said nothing. Ahead the river curled and Struan eased the lorcha into the channel. The canvas patch seemed to be holding.

“I think so,” he finally answered. “Aye. I think that’s very important. Oh yes, I wanted to ask you something. You said you went to see Jin-qua’s Supreme Lady. Where did you meet her?”

“I was slave in her house,” May-may said calmly. “Just before Jin-qua sold me to you.” She looked into his eyes. “You bought me, didn’t you?”

“I acquired you according to your custom, aye. But you’re no slave. You can leave or stay, freely. I told you that the first day.”

“I did na believe you. I believe you now, Tai-Pan.” She watched the shore and the boats passing. “I’ve never seen a killing before. I dinna like killing. Is that because I am woman?”

“Aye. And nay. I dinna ken.”

“Do you like killing?”

“Nay.”

“It is a pity your arrow miss Brock.”

“I did na aim at him. I was na trying to kill him, just to make him swerve.”

She was astonished. “I swear to God, Tai-Pan, you’re peculiar fantastical.”

“I swear to God, May-may,” he said, his eyes crinkled into a smile, “you’re peculiar fantastical.”

She lay on her side, watching him, cherishing him. Then she slept.

When she awoke the sun was up. The land beside the river was low and ran back to misted horizons. An abundant land, patterned with numberless paddy fields, green and waving with winter rice. Clouded hills afar off.

The Marble Pagoda was just ahead. Beneath it was

China Cloud.