Tai-Pan

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“For God’s sake, Culum, I dinna ken any more than you do. There’s a killer fever down in Queen’s Town. No one knows what causes it and now little Karen’s got it.” Struan was miserable. He had not heard from May-may for a week. He had been gone from Hong Kong for almost two months, except for a hurried visit of two days, some weeks ago, when his need to see May-may overpowered him. She was blossoming, her pregnancy was without sickness, and they were more content with each other than they had ever been. “Thank the Lord our last ship’s gone and we’re leaving the Settlement tomorrow!”

“Uncle Robb says it’s malaria,” Culum said heatedly, brandishing Robb’s letter that had just arrived. He was frantic with worry over Tess. Only yesterday he had received a letter from her saying that she and her sister and mother had moved off the ship into Brock’s partially completed factory. But no mention had been made of malaria. “What’s the cure for malaria?”

“There is na one that I know. I’m no doctor. And Robb says only a few of the doctors think it’s malaria.” Struan waved the fly whisk irritably. “ ‘Malaria’ is Latin for ‘bad air.’ That’s all I know—anyone knows. Mother of God, if the air of Happy Valley’s bad, we’re ruined!”

“I told you not to build there,” Culum raged. “I hated that valley the first time I saw it!”

“By the blood of Christ, are you saying you knew in advance the air was rotten?”

“No. I didn’t mean that. I mean—well, I hated the place, that’s all.”

Struan slammed the window shut against the stench from the Settlement square and fanned more flies away. He prayed that the fever wasn’t malaria. If it was, the plague could touch anyone who slept in Happy Valley. It was common knowledge that the earth in certain areas in the world were malaria-poisoned and for some reason gave off lethal gases by night.

According to Robb, the fever had begun mysteriously four weeks ago. First it had struck the Chinese laborers.

Then it had afflicted others—a European trader here, a child there. But only in Happy Valley. Nowhere else on Hong Kong. Now four or five hundred Chinese were infected, and twenty or thirty Europeans. The Chinese were superstitiously afraid, certain that the gods were punishing them for working on Hong Kong against the emperor’s decree. Only increased wages had persuaded them to return.

And now little Karen was smitten. Robb had ended the letter: “Sarah and I are desperate. The course of the sickness is insidious. First a ghastly fever for half a day, then a recovery, then a more severe recurrence of the fever in two or three days. The cycle is repeated again and again, each attack worse than before. The doctors have given Karen as strong a calomel purgative as they dare. They’ve bled the poor child but we don’t hope for much. The coolies have been dying after the third or fourth attack. And Karen is so weak after the purgative and leeching, so very weak. God help us, I think Karen’s lost.”

Struan strode for the door. Good God, first the baby, now Karen! Sarah had given birth to a son, Lochlin Ross, the day after the ball, but the child had been born sickly, his left arm damaged. Her labor had been very hard and she had almost died. But she had escaped the dreaded childbirth sickness, and though her milk had turned sour and her hair had grayed, her strength had gradually returned. When Struan had gone back to see May-may, he had visited Sarah. The lines of anguish and bitterness had etched themselves deep into her face, and she looked like an old woman. Struan had been further saddened when he had seen the babe: useless left arm, sickly, crying piteously, not expected to live. I wonder if babe’s dead, Struan thought as he jerked the door open; Robb does na mention him.

“Vargas!”

“Yes, senhor?”

“Have you ever had malaria in Macao?”

“No, senhor.” Vargas whitened. His son and nephew worked for The Noble House and now they lived on Hong Kong. “Are they sure it’s malaria?”

“No. Only some of the doctors think so. Na all of them. Find Mauss. Tell him I want to see Jin-qua right smartly. With him.”

“Yes, senhor. His Excellency wants you to dine with him and the archduke tonight at nine o’clock.”

“Accept for me.”

“Yes, senhor.”

Struan closed the door and grimly sat down. He wore a light shirt without cravat, and light trousers and light boots. The other Europeans thought him mad to risk the devilish chills that all knew were borne by the summer winds.

“It canna be malaria,” he said. “Na malaria. Something else.”

“The island’s accursed.”

“Now you’re talking like a woman,” Struan said.

“The fever wasn’t there before the coolies. Get rid of the coolies and you’ll be rid of the plague. They’re carrying it with them.

They’re doing it.”

“How do we know that, Culum? I’ll admit it started in the coolie lines. And I’ll agree they live in the low-lying parts. And I’ll agree that as far as we know you can only get malaria by breathing the poisoned night air. But why is there fever only in the valley? Is it only Happy Valley that’s got bad air? Air’s air, for the love of Christ, and there’s a fine breeze blowing there most of the day and night. It does na make sense.”

“It makes very good sense. It’s the will of God.”

“The pox on that for an answer!”

Culum was on his feet. “I’ll thank you not to blaspheme.”

“And I’ll thank you to remember that not so many years ago men were burned at the stake just for saying the earth went round the sun! It’s na the will of God!”

“Whatever

you think, God has a vital and continuing say in our lives. The fact that the fever’s in the one place we choose in Asia to live in is, I think, the will of God. You can’t deny it because you can’t prove otherwise, any more than I can prove it’s true. But I believe it is—most do—and I believe we should abandon Happy Valley.”

“If we do that, we abandon Hong Kong.”

“We could build on the ground near Glessing’s Point.”

“Do you know how much money we and all the traders’ve invested in Happy Valley?”

“Do you know how much money you can enjoy when you’re six feet underground?”

Struan coldly appraised his son. For weeks now he had come to know that Culum’s hostility was increasingly real. But he did not mind that. He knew that the more Culum learned, the more he would seek to put his own ideas into effect and the more he would crave power. That’s fair, he thought, and was greatly satisfied with Culum’s development. At the same time he was worried for Culum’s safety. Culum was spending too much time in Gorth’s company, his mind dangerously open.

Ten days ago there had been a cruel, inconclusive row. Culum had been spouting some theories about steamships—obviously Gorth’s opinions—and Struan had disagreed. Then Culum had brought up the feud between Brock and Struan, and he had said that the younger generation would not make the mistakes of the older. That Gorth knew it wasn’t necessary for the younger generation to be trapped by the older. That Gorth and he had agreed to bury any enmity, and that both would try to bring peace between their fathers. And when Struan had begun to argue, Culum had refused to listen and had stormed off.

Then, too, there was the problem of Tess Brock.

Culum had never mentioned her to Struan. Nor had he to him. But he knew that Culum was desperate with longing for her and this fogged his thinking. Struan recalled his own youth and how he had yearned for Ronalda. Everything had seemed so clear and so important and so clean at that age.

“Ah, Culum lad, dinna fash yoursel’,” he said, not wishing to argue with Culum. “It’s a hot day and all tempers are short. Sit down and rest your head. Little Karen’s sick and many of our friends. I heard Tillman’s got the fever, who knows how many more?”

“Miss Tillman?”

“I dinna think so.”

“Gorth said that they’re closing their factory tomorrow. He’s going to summer in Macao. All the Brocks are.”

“We’ll be going to Hong Kong. The factory here stays open.”

“Gorth said it would be better to summer in Macao. He has a house there. We still have property there, haven’t we?”

Struan stirred in his chair. “Aye. Take a week or so, if you wish. Spend it in Macao, but I want you in Queen’s Town. And I’ll tell you again, watch your back. Gorth’s na your friend.”

“And I must tell you again, I think he is.”

“He’s trying to get you off balance, and one day he’ll cut you to pieces.”

“You’re wrong. I understand him. I like him. We get on very well. I find I can talk to him and I enjoy his company. We both know it’s difficult for you—and for his father— to understand, but, well, it’s hard to explain.”

“I understand Gorth too well, by God!”

“Let’s not discuss it,” Culum said.

“I think we should. You’re under Gorth’s spell. That’s deadly for a Struan.”

“You see Gorth through other eyes. He’s my friend.”

Struan opened a box and selected a Havana cheroot and decided that the time had come. “Do you think Brock’ll approve your marrying Tess?”

Culum flushed and he said impulsively, “I don’t see why not. Gorth’s in favor.”

“You’ve discussed it with Gorth?”

“I haven’t discussed it with you. Or with anyone. So why should I talk about it to Gorth?”

“Then how do you know he approves?”

“I don’t. It’s just that he’s always saying how well Miss Brock and I seemed to be getting on together, how she enjoyed my company, encouraging me to write to her, that sort of thing.”

“You think I’ve no right to ask your intentions toward Tess Brock?”

“You’ve the right, certainly. It’s just—well yes, I have thought about marrying her. But I’ve never said so to Gorth.” Culum stopped uncomfortably and mopped his brow. He had been shaken by the suddenness with which the Tai-Pan had touched on what was foremost in his own mind, and though he had wanted to talk about it he did not want his love defiled. Damn it, I should have been prepared, he thought, and he heard himself rush on, unable to stop. “But I don’t think my—my affection for Miss Brock is anyone’s concern at the moment. Nothing’s been said, and there’s nothing—well, what I feel for Miss Brock’s my own affair.”

“I realize that’s your opinion,” Struan said, “but that does na mean you’re correct. Have you considered that you might be being used?”

“By Miss Brock?”

“By Gorth. And by Brock.”

“Have you considered that your hatred of them tinges all your judgments?” Culum was furious.

“Aye. I’ve considered that. But you, Culum? Have you thought they might be using you?”

“Let’s say you’re correct. Let’s say I did marry Miss Brock. Isn’t that to your business advantage?”

Struan was glad that the problem was out in the open. “Nay. Because Gorth will eat you up when you’re Tai-Pan. He’ll take all we have and destroy you—to become The Noble House.”

“Why should he destroy his sister’s husband? Why shouldn’t we join our companies—Brock and Struan? I run the business, he runs the ships.”

“And who’s Tai-Pan?”

“We could share that—Gorth and I.”

“There can only be one Tai-Pan. That’s what it means. That’s the law.”

“But your law is not necessarily my law. Or Gorth’s. We can learn by others’ mistakes. Merging our companies would give us immense advantages.”

“That’s what Gorth has in mind?” Struan wondered if he had made a mistake about Culum. His son’s fascination for Tess and his trust in Gorth would be the key to destroy The Noble House and give Brock and Gorth all that they wanted. Only three months left and then I leave for England. Good sweet Christ! “Is it?” he asked.

“We’ve never discussed it. We’ve talked about trading and shipping and companies, that sort of thing. And how to bring peace between you two. But a merger would be advantageous, wouldn’t it?”

“Na with those two. You’re na in the same class. Yet.”

“But one day I will be?”

“Maybe.” Struan lit the cheroot. “You really think you could control Gorth?”

“Perhaps I wouldn’t need to control him. Any more than he’d need to control me. Say I do marry Miss Brock. Gorth has his company, we have ours. Separate. We can still compete. But amiably. Without hate.” Culum’s tone hardened. “Let’s think like a Tai-Pan for a moment. Brock has a beloved daughter. I ingratiate myself with her and with Gorth. By marrying her I’ll merely be softening Brock’s animosity to me while I gain experience. Always holding out the bait of a merger of the companies. Then I can savage them when

I’m ready. A safe and beautiful ploy. The pox on the girl. Just use her—to the greater glory of The Noble House.”

Struan said nothing.

“Haven’t you considered these possibilities dispassionately?” Culum went on. “I’d forgotten you’re much too clever not to have noticed that I’m in love with her.”

“Aye,” Struan said. He carefully knocked the ash off his cheroot into a silver ashtray. “I’ve considered you—and Tess—‘dispassionately.’ ”

“And what was your conclusion?”

“That the dangers, for you, outweigh the advantages.”

“Then you totally disapprove of my marrying her?”

“I disapprove of your loving her. But the fact is you do love her, or think you do. And another fact is that you’ll marry her, if you can.” Struan took a long draw on the cheroot. “Do you think Brock will approve?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he will, God help me!”

“I think he will, God help you.”

“But you won’t?”

“I told you once before: I’m the only man on this earth you can completely trust. Provided you dinna, with calculation, go against the house.”

“But you think such a marriage is against the interests of the company?”

“I did na say that. I said you dinna understand the dangers.” Struan put out the cheroot and stood up. “She’s under age. Will you wait five years for her?”

“Yes,” he said, appalled by the length of time. “Yes, by God. You don’t know what she means to me. She’s—well, she’s the only girl I could ever really love. I won’t change and you don’t understand, you can’t. Yes, I’ll wait five years. I’m in love with her.”

“Is she in love with you?”

“I don’t know. I—she seems to like me. I pray she will. Oh God in heaven, what am I going to do?”

Thank God, I’m na that young again, Struan thought with compassion. Now I know that love is like the sea, sometimes calm and sometimes stormy; it’s dangerous, beautiful, death-dealing, life-giving. But never permanent, everchanging. And unique only for a short span in the eyes of time.

“You’ll do nothing, lad. But I’ll talk to Brock tonight.”

“No,” Culum said anxiously. “This is my life. I don’t want you to—”

“What you want to do crosses my life and Brock’s,” Struan interrupted. “I’ll talk to Brock.”

“Then you’ll help me?”

Struan fanned a fly away from his face. “What about the twenty guineas, Culum?”

“What?”

“My coffin money. The twenty golden coins Brock gave me, and you kept. Had you forgotten?”

Culum opened his mouth to say no but changed his mind. “Yes, I’d forgotten them. At least they’d slipped my mind.” His anguish showed in the depths of his eyes. “Why should I want to lie to you? I almost lied. That’s terrible.”

“Aye,” Struan said, pleased that Culum had passed another test and learned another lesson.

“What about the coins?”

“Nothing. Except you should remember them. That’s Brock. Gorth’s worse because he’s na even got his father’s generosity.”

It was almost midnight.

“Sit thee down, Dirk,” Brock said, rubbing his beard. “Grog, beer or brandy?”

“Brandy.”

“Brandy-ah,” Brock ordered the servant, then motioned to the food on the table in the glittering candlelight. “Help thyself to vittles, Dirk.” He scratched his armpits which were thick with the sores called “prickly heat.” “God-rotting weather! Why the devil baint thee suffering along with the rest of us’n?”

“I live right,” Struan said, and stuck his legs out comfortably. “I’ve told you a million times. If you bathe four times a day you will na get prickly heat. Lice’ll vanish and—”

“That be having nothing to do with it,” Brock said. “That be foolishness. Against nature, by God.” He laughed.

“Them wot says thee’s shipmate o’ the devil mayhaps’ve put the finger on why thee’s as thee are. Eh?” He shoved his empty half-gallon silver tankard at the servant, who immediately filled it from the small barrel of beer that was set against a wall. Muskets and cutlasses were on racks nearby. “But thee’ll get thy reward soon enough, eh, Dirk?” Brock pointed a blunt thumb downward.

Struan took the large balloon-shaped crystal glass and sniffed the brandy. “We all get our rewards, Tyler.” Struan kept the brandy close to his nose to counteract the stench of the room. He wondered if Tess stank like her father and mother, and if Brock knew the reason for his visit. The windows were tight shut against the night and the monstrous hum from the square below.

Brock grunted and lifted the full tankard and drank thirstily. He was wearing his usual woolen frock coat and heavy underwear and high cravat and waistcoat. He studied Struan bleakly. Struan appeared cool and strong in his light shirt and white trousers and half boots, the red-gold hairs on his vast chest catching the candlelight. “Thee looks right proper naked, lad. Proper disgusting.”

“It’s the coming fashion, Tyler. Health!” Struan raised his glass and they drank.

“Talking of devil, I beared Maureen Quance be bending poor old Aristotle more’n maybe. Rumor sayed they be going home on next tide.”

“He’ll escape, or cut his throat before he does that.”

Brock guffawed. “When she come up sudden-like at ball, I baint laughing so much since Ma catched tits in’t mangle.” He waved a hand in dismissal and the servant left. “I heared all thy ships be off.”

“Aye. A great season eh?”

“Yus. And it be better when

Blue Witch berth first in London Town. I heard she be a day ahead.” Brock drank deeply of the beer and sweated copiously. “Jeff Cooper sayed his last boat be gone so Whampoa be clear.”

“Are you staying in Canton?”

Brock shook his head. “We be going tomorrer. To Queen’s Town, then Macao. But we be keeping this place open, not like afore.”

“Longstaff’s staying. Negotiations’ll be going on, I suppose.” Struan felt tension in the air and his disquiet increased.

“Thee knowed there be no concluding here.” Brock was fiddling with the patch over his eye. He half lifted it and rubbed the jagged, scarred socket. The string that had held the patch over the years had worn a neat red channel in his forehead. “Gorth sayed that Robb’s youngest beed with fever.”

“Aye. I suppose Culum told him?”

“Yus.” Brock marked the sharpness of Struan’s voice. He drank heavily of the beer and wiped the froth off his whiskers with the back of his hand. “I be sorry to hear that. Bad joss.” He drank again. “Yor boy’n mine be just like old shipmates.”

“I’ll be glad to be afloat again.” Struan ignored the taunt. “I had a long talk with Jin-qua this afternoon. About the fever. They’ve never had it in Kwangtung, so far as he knows.”

“If it be truly malaria, then we’s a passel of troubles on our’n hand.” Brock reached over and took a breast of chicken. “Help thyself. I heard price on coolies be up. Costs is soaring terrible in Hong Kong.”

“Na enough to hurt. The fever’ll pass.”

Brock moved his girth painfully and drained the tankard. “Thee wanted to see me, private? To talk about fever?”

“No,” Struan said, feeling tainted by the stench and the perfume Brock wore and the smell of stale beer. “It was about a long-standing promise I made to come after thee with a cat-o’-nine-tails.”

Brock picked up the handbell on the table and rang it vehemently. The sound splintered off the walls. When the door didn’t open immediately, he rang it again.

“That cursed monkey,” he said. “He be needin’ a right proper kick in the arse.” He went over to the barrel, of beer and, after refilling his tankard, sat down again and watched Struan. And waited.

“Wot about it?” Brock said at length.

“Tess Brock.”

“Eh?” Brock was astonished that Struan wanted to precipitate the decision over which he himself—and undoubtedly Struan, too—had fretted for so many nights.

“My son’s in love with her.”

Brock gulped some more beer and wiped his mouth again. “They’s met but once. At the ball. Then there were afternoon walks with Liza and Lillibet. Three.”

“Aye. But he’s in love with her. He’s sure he’s in love with her.”

“Are thee sure?”

“Aye.”

“Wot’s thy feeling?”

‘That we’d better talk this out. In the open.”

“Why now?” Brock said suspiciously, his mind trying to find the real answer. “She be very young, as thee knowed.”

“Aye. But old enough to wed.”

Brock thoughtfully toyed with the tankard, looking at his reflection in the polished silver. He wondered if he had guessed Struan correctly. “Is thee asking, formal, Tess’s hand for thy son?”

“That’s his duty, na mine—to ask formal. But we’ve to talk informal. First.”

“Wot’s thy feeling?” Brock asked again. “About the match?”

“You know it already. I’m against it. I dinna trust you. I dinna trust Gorth. But Culum’s got a mind of his own and he’s forced my hand, and a father canna always get a son to do what he wants.”

Brock thought about Gorth. His voice was brittle when he spoke. “If thee’s so strong against him, beat some sense into him or send him home, pack him off. Easy to rid of that young spark.”

“You know I’m trapped,” Struan said bitterly. “You’ve three sons—Gorth, Morgan, Tom. I’ve only Culum now. So whatever I want, he’s the one that’s got to follow me.”

“There’s Robb and his sons,” Brock said, happy that he had read Struan’s mind correctly, playing him now like a fish.

“You know the answer to that. I made The Noble House, na Robb. What’s your feeling, eh?”

Brock drained the tankard thoughtfully. Again he rang the bell. Again no answer. “I’ll have that monkey’s guts for garters!” He got up and began to refill his tankard. “I’m equal against the match,” Brock said roughly. He saw a flash of surprise on Struan’s face. “Even so,” Brock added, “I be accepting yor son when he be asking me.”

“I thought you would, by God!” Struan got up, his fists clenched.

“Her dowry’ll be the richest in Asia. They be married next year.”

“I’ll see you in hell first.”

The two men squared up to each other ominously.

Brock saw the same chiseled face he had seen thirty years ago, the same vitality permeating it. The same indefinable quality that caused his whole being to react so violently. By Lord God, he swore, I baint understanding why Thee put this devil in my path. I only knowed Thee put him there to be broken, regilar, not with knife in’t back and more’s the pity.

“That be later, Dirk,” he said. “First they be marrying, fair and square. Thee’s trapped right enough. Not o’ my doing and more’s the pity, and I baint driving thy bad joss in thy face. But I Seed thinking muchly—like thee—about they two and us’n, and I thinks it be best for they and best for us’n.”

“I know what’s in your mind. And Gorth’s.”

“Who knowed wot’s to be, Dirk? Mayhaps there be a joining in the future.”

“Na while I’m alive.”

“On the other hand, mayhaps there baint a joining and thee keeps thine an’ we our’n.”

“You’ll na take and break The Noble House through a girl’s skirts!”

“Now you be alistening to me, by God! Thee brung this’n up! Thee sayed to talk open and I baint finished. So thee’ll listen, by God! ’Less thee’s lost thy guts like thee’s lost thy manners an’ lost thy brains.”

“All right, Tyler.” Struan poured another brandy. “Say your mind.”

Brock relaxed slightly and sat down again and quaffed Jus beer. “I hate thy guts and I always will. I doan trust thee either. I be mortal tired of killing, but I swear by Jesus Christ I be killing thee the day I see thee again’ me with a cat in thy hand. But I baint starting that fight. No. I doan want to kill thee, just crush thee regilar. But I beed athinking that mayhaps the young’uns be puttin’ at rights wot we—wot baint possible for us’n. So I says, let wot’s to be, be. If there be a joining, then there be a joining. That be up to they—not t’ thee and me. If there baint a joining—likewise that be up to they. Wotever they do be up to they. Not us’n. So I says the match be good.”

Struan drained his glass and shoved it on the table. “I never thought you’d be so gutless as to use Tess when you’re as opposed as I am.”

Brock stared back at him without anger now. “I baint using Tess, Dirk. That be God’s truth. She be loving Culum and that be mortal truth. That be only reason I be talking like this’n. We both be trapped. Let’s be talking obvious. She be like Juliet to his Romeo, yus, by God, and that’s wot I be afeared of. An’ you too if truth be knowed. I baint wanting my Tess to end on marble slab ‘cause I hate thy guts. She love him. I be thinking of her!”

“I dinna believe it.”

“Nor I, by God! But Liza’s rit half a dozen time about Tess. She sayed Tess be mooning and sighing and talking about ball but only about Culum. An’ Tess’s ritted sixteen time or more about wot Culum sayed and wot Culum baint saying and wot she sayed to Culum and how Culum be looking and wot Culum be asaying back till I be fit to bust. Oh yus, she love him right enough.”

“It’s puppy love. It means nothing.”

“By the Lord God, you be a terrible hard man to talk sense to. Yo’re wrong, Dirk.” Brock suddenly felt very tired and very old. He wanted to be done with this. “Weren’t for ball it baint never happening. Thee picked her to lead dance. Thee picked her to win prize. Thee—”

“I did na! That was Zergeyev’s choice, na mine!”

“That be truth, by God?”

“Aye.”

Brock looked at Struan deeply. “Then mayhaps there be hand o’ God in this’n. Tess baint best-dressed in’t ball. I knowed it, all knowed it, ’cepting Culum and Tess.” He finished his tankard and set it down. “I makes thee offer: Thee doan love thy Culum like I be loving Tess, but give they two a fair wind and an open sea and a safe harbor and I be doing likewise. The boy deserve it—he saved thy neck over the knoll ’cause I swear by Christ I’d’ve strangled thee with it. If it’s a fight thee wants, thee’s got it. If I gets a lever to break thee, regilar, I swear by Christ I still be adoing it. But not to they two. Give ’em fair wind, open sea and safe harbor afore God, eh?”

Brock stuck out his hand.

Struan’s voice grated. “I’ll shake on Culum and Tess. But na on Gorth.”

The way Struan said “Gorth” chilled Brock. But he did not withdraw his hand even though he knew the agreement was fraught with danger.

They shook hands firmly.

“We be having one more drink to fix it proper,” Brock said, “then thee can get t’hell out of my house.” He picked up the bell and rang it a third time and when no one appeared he hurled it against the wall. “Lee Tang!” he roared.

His voice echoed strangely.

There was the sound of footsteps scurrying up the huge staircase, and the frightened face of a Portuguese clerk appeared.

“The servants have all disappeared, senhor. I can’t find them anywhere.”

Struan raced to the window. The hawkers and stall sellers and bystanders and beggars were streaming silently from the square. Groups of traders in the English garden were standing stock-still, listening and watching.

Struan turned and ran for the muskets, and he and Brock were at the rack in the same instant. “Get everyone below!” Brock shouted to the clerk.

“My factory, Tyler. Sound the alarm,” Struan said, and then he was gone.

Within the hour all the traders and their clerks were crammed into the Struan factory, and into the English Garden which was its forecourt. The detachment of fifty soldiers was armed, in battle order, beside the gate. Their officer, Captain Oxford, was barely twenty, a lithe, smart man with a wisp of fair mustache.

Struan and Brock and Longstaff were in the center of the garden. Jeff Cooper and Zergeyev were nearby. The night was wet and hot and brooding.

“You’d better order an immediate evacuation, Your Excellency,” Struan said.

“Yus,” Brock agreed.

“No need to be precipitous, gentlemen,” Longstaff said. “This has happened before, what?”

“Aye. But we’ve always had some sort of warning from the Co-hong or from the mandarins. It’s never been this sudden.” Struan was listening intently to the night, but his eyes were counting the lorchas moored alongside the wharves. Enough for everyone, he thought. “I dinna like the feel of the night.”

“Nor I, by God.” Brock spat furiously. “Afloat it be, says I.”

“Surely you don’t think there’s any danger?” Longstaff said.

“I dinna ken, Your Excellency. But something tells me to get out of here,” Struan said. “Or at least get afloat. Trade’s finished for the season, so we can go or stay at our pleasure.”

“But they wouldn’t dare attack us,” Longstaff scoffed. “Why should they? What do they gain? The negotiations are going so well. Ridiculous.”

“I’m just suggesting we put into effect what you’re always saying, Your Excellency: that it’s better to be prepared for any eventuality.”

Longstaff motioned queasily to the officer. “Split your men into three parties. Guard the east and west entrances, and Hog Street. Deny access to the square until further orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

Struan saw Culum and Horatio and Gorth together near a lantern. Gorth was explaining the loading of a musket to Culum, who was listening attentively. Gorth seemed strong and vital and powerful alongside Culum. Struan looked away and glimpsed Mauss in the shadows talking to a tall Chinese whom Struan had never seen before. Curious, Struan walked over to them. “Have you heard anything, Wolfgang?”

“No, Tai-Pan. No rumors, nothing. Nor has Horatio.

Gott im Himmel, I don’t understand it.”

Struan was studying the Chinese. The man was wearing filthy peasant clothes and appeared to be in his early thirties. His eyes were heavy-lidded, and piercing, and he was studying Struan with equal curiosity. “Who’s he?”

“Hung Hsu Ch’un,” Wolfgang said, very proudly. “He’s a Hakka. He’s baptized, Tai-Pan. I baptized him. He’s the best I’ve ever had, Tai-Pan. Brilliant mind, studious, and yet a peasant. At long last I’ve a convert who will spread God’s word—and help me in His work.”

“You’d better tell him to leave. If there’s trouble and the mandarins catch him with us, you’ll have one convert less.”

“I’ve already told him, but he said, ‘The ways of the Lord are strange and men of God don’t turn their backs on the heathen.’ Don’t worry. God will guard him and I’ll watch him with my own life.”

Struan nodded briefly to the man and went back to Longstaff and to Brock.

“I be going aboard,” Brock said, “and that be that!”

“Tyler, send Gorth and his men to reinforce the soldiers there.” Struan pointed to the maw of Hog Street. “I’ll take the east and cover you if there’s trouble. You can fall back here.”

“You look after yor’n,” Brock said. “I be looking after mine. You baint commander-in-chief, by God.” He beckoned to Gorth. “You come along with me. Almeida, you and the rest of the clerks get books and aboard.” He and his party marched out of the garden and headed across the square.

“Culum!”

“Yes, Tai-Pan?”

“Clean out the safe and get aboard the lorcha.”

“Very well.” Culum lowered his voice. “Did you talk to Brock?”

“Aye. Na now, lad. Hurry. We’ll talk later.”

“Was it yes or no?”

Struan felt others watching him, and although he wanted very much to tell Culum what had been said, the garden was not the place to do it. “God’s death, will you na do as you’re told!”

“I want to know,” Culum said, eyes blazing.

“And I’m na prepared to discuss your problems now!

Do as you’re told!” Struan stamped off toward the front door.

Jeff Cooper stopped him. “Why evacuate? What’s all the hurry, Tai-Pan?” he asked.

“Just cautious, Jeff. Have you a lorcha?”

“Yes.”

“I’d be glad to give any of your people space who dinna have berths.” Struan glanced at Zergeyev. “The view from the river’s quite pleasant, Your Highness, if you’d care to join us.”

“Do you always run away when the square empties and the servants disappear?”

“Only when it pleases me.” Struan shoved back through the press of men. “Vargas, get the books aboard and all the clerks. Armed.”

“Yes, senhor.”

When the other traders saw that Struan and Brock were in truth preparing for a quick withdrawal, they hastily returned to their own factories and collected their books and bills of lading and everything that represented proof of their season’s trading—and thus their future—and began to pack them in their boats. There was little treasure to worry about, since most of the trading was done with bills of exchange—and Brock and Struan had already sent their bullion back to Hong Kong.

Longstaff cleared out his private desk and put his cipher book and secret papers into his dispatch box and joined Zergeyev in the garden. “Are you all packed, Your Highness?”

“There is nothing of importance. I find all this extraordinary. Either there is danger or there isn’t. If there’s danger, why aren’t your troops here? If there’s none, why run away?”

Longstaff laughed. “The heathen mind, my dear sir, is very different from a civilized one. Her Majesty’s Government has been dealing directly with it for more than a century. So we’ve come to learn how to cope with Chinese affairs. Of course,” he added dryly, “we’re not concerned with conquest, only with peaceful trade. Though we do consider this area a totally British sphere of influence.”

Struan was going through his safe, ascertaining that all their vital papers were aboard.

“I’ve already done that,” Culum said as he barged into the room and slammed the door. “Now, what was the answer, by God?”

“You’re engaged to be married,” Struan said mildly, “by God.”

Culum was too stupefied to speak.

“Brock’s delighted to have you as a son-in-law. You can get married next year.”

“Brock said yes?”

“Aye. Congratulations.” Struan calmly checked his desk drawer, and locked it, pleased that his talk with Brock had gone as planned.

“You mean he says yes? And you say yes?”

“Aye. You have to ask him formally, but he said he’d accept you. We have to discuss dowry and details, but he said you can be married next year.”

Culum threw his arms around Struan’s shoulders. “Oh Father, thank you, thank you.” He did not hear himself say “Father.” But Struan did.

A burst of firing shattered the night. Struan and Culum ran to the window in time to see the front ranks of a mob at the western entrance to the square reeling under the fusillade. The hundreds in the rear shoved those in front forward, and the soldiers were pathetically engulfed as the screaming torrent of Chinese poured into the far end of the square.

The mob carried torches and axes and spears—and Triad banners. They swarmed over the westernmost factory, which belonged to the Americans. A torch was thrown through a window and the doors were rushed. The mob began to loot and fire and rape the building.

Struan grabbed his musket. “Nae word of Tess—keep it very private till you’ve seen Brock.” They charged out into the hall. “To hell with those, Vargas,” he shouted as he saw him staggering under an armload of duplicate invoices. “Get aboard!”

Vargas took to his heels.

The square in front of Struan’s factory and the garden was filled with traders in full flight to the lorchas. Some of the soldiers were stationed on the garden wall ready for a last-ditch stand, and Struan joined them to help cover the retreat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Culum run back into the factory, but he was distracted when the van of the second mob surged down Hog Street. The soldiers protecting this entrance fired a volley and retreated in good order toward the English garden, where they took up their positions with the other soldiers to defend the last of the traders who were running for the boats. Those already on the ships had muskets ready, but the mob concentrated solely on the factories on the far side of the square and, astonishingly, paid little attention to the traders.

Struan was relieved to see Cooper and the Americans aboard one of the lorchas. He had thought that they were still in their factory.

“ ’Pon me word, look at those scalawags,” Longstaff said to no one in particular as he stood outside the garden and watched the mob, walking stick in hand. He knew that this meant the end of negotiations, that war was inevitable. “Her Majesty’s forces will soon put a stop to this nonsense.” He stamped back into the garden and found Zergeyev observing the havoc, his two liveried servants armed and nervous beside him.

“Perhaps you’d care to join me aboard, Your Highness,” he said above the noise. Longstaff knew that if Zergeyev were injured there would be an international incident, which would give the tsar a perfect opening to send reprisal warships and armies into Chinese waters. And that’s not going to happen, Goddamme, he told himself.

“There’s only one way to deal with those carrion. You think your democracy will work with them?”

“Of course. Have to give them time, what?” Longstaff replied easily. “Let’s board now. We’re fortunate it’s a pleasant evening.”

One of the Russian servants said something to Zergeyev, who simply looked at him. The servant blanched and was silent.

“If you wish, Your Excellency,” Zergeyev said, not to be outdone by Longstaff’s obvious contempt for the mob. “But I think I’d rather wait for the Tai-Pan.” He took out his snuff box and offered it, and was pleased to see his fingers were not shaking.

“Thank you.” Longstaff took some snuff. “Damnable business, what!” He strolled over to Struan. “What the devil started them off, Dirk?”

“The mandarins, that’s certain. There’s never been a mob like this before. Never. Best get aboard.”

Struan was watching the square. The last of the traders boarded the ships. Only Brock was not accounted for. Gorth and his men were still guarding the door to their factory on the east side, and Struan was infuriated to see Gorth fire into the looting mob, which was not threatening them directly.

He was tempted to order an immediate retreat; then, in the confusion, to raise his musket and kill Gorth. He knew that no one would notice in the melee. It would save him a killing in the future. But Struan did not fire. He wanted the pleasure of seeing the terror in Gorth’s eyes when he did kill him.

Those on the lorchas cast off hastily, and many of the boats eased into midstream. Queerly the mob still ignored them.

Smoke was billowing from the Cooper-Tillman factory. The whole building caught as a squall of tinder wind hit it, and flames licked the night.

Struan saw Brock storm out of his factory, a musket in one hand, a cutlass in the other, his pockets bulging with papers. His chief clerk Almeida ran ahead toward the boat under the weight of the books, Brock, Gorth and his men guarding, and then another mob hit the east entrance, swamping the soldiers, and Struan knew it was time to run.

“Get aboard!” he roared, turning for the garden gate. He stopped in his tracks. Zergeyev was leaning on the garden wall, a pistol in one hand, his rapier in the other. Longstaff was beside him.

“Time to run!” he yelled above the tumult.

Zergeyev laughed. “Which way?”

There was a violent explosion as the flames reached the American arsenal, and the building shattered, spilling burning debris into the mob, killing some, mutilating others. The Triad banners crossed Hog Street, and the berserk pillaging mob followed, systematically tearing into the eastern factories. Struan was through the gate when he remembered Culum. He shouted to his men to cover and rushed back.

“Culum! Culum!”

Culum came charging down the stairs. “I forgot something,” he said, and tore for the lorcha.

Zergeyev and Longstaff were still waiting with the men beside the gate. Their escape was blocked by a third mob which gushed across the square and fell on the factory next to theirs. Struan pointed to the wall and they shinned over it. Culum fell, but Struan grabbed him up and together they ran for the boats, Zergeyev and Longstaff close alongside.

The mob let them pass, but once they had started across the square, leaving the path to the factory clear, the leaders charged into the garden. Many had torches. And they fell on The Noble House.

Now flames poured from most of the factories, and a roof fell with a vast sigh and more flames showered the thousands in the square.

Brock was on the main deck of his lorcha, profanely exhorting the crew. They all were armed and their guns pointed landward.

Standing on the poop, Gorth saw the fore and aft hawsers cast off. As the lorcha began to fall away from the wharf, Gorth seized a musket, aimed at the Chinese who were jammed into the doorway of their factory, and pulled the trigger. He saw a man fall and grinned devilishly. He picked up another musket; then noticed Struan and the others charging for their lorcha—milling Chinese ahead of and behind them. He made certain no one was watching him and aimed carefully. Struan was between Culum and Zergeyev, Longstaff alongside. Gorth pulled the trigger.

Zergeyev spun around and smashed into the ground.

Gorth took another musket but Brock rushed up to the poop. “Get for’ard and man the fore cannon!” he shouted. “No firing till I says!” He shoved Gorth along, roaring at his men, “Get thy helm over, by God! Let go the reefs an’ all sail ho!” He glanced shoreward and saw Struan and Longstaff bending over Zergeyev, Culum beside him, the mob surging toward them. He grabbed the musket that Gorth had dropped, aimed and fired. A leader fell and the mob hesitated.

Struan hoisted Zergeyev onto his shoulder. “Fire over their heads!” he ordered. His men spun out protectively and fired a volley at point-blank range. The Chinese in front shrank back and those behind pressed forward. The hysterical melee which ensued gave Struan and his men enough time to make their boat.

Mauss was waiting on the dock beside the lorcha, the strange Chinese convert nearby. Both were armed. Mauss had a Bible in one hand and a cutlass in the other and he was shouting, “Blessed be the Lord, forgive these poor sinners.” He hacked at the air with the blade and the mob avoided him.

When they were all aboard and the lorcha in midstream, they looked back.

The whole Settlement was ablaze. Dancing flames and billowing smoke and fiendish screaming all blended into an inferno.

Longstaff was on his knees beside Zergeyev, who lay on the quarterdeck. Struan hurried toward them.

“Get for’ard!” he roared at Mauss. “Be lookout!”

Zergeyev was white with shock and was holding the right side of his groin. Blood was oozing from under his hand. The servant guards were moaning with terror. Struan pushed them out of the way and ripped open the front flap of Zergeyev’s trousers. He cut away the trouser leg. The musket ball had scored the stomach deeply, low and obliquely, a fraction of an inch above his sex, and then had entered the right thigh. Blood seeped heavily but it was not spurting. Struan thanked God that the ball had not entered the stomach as he had expected. He turned Zergeyev over and the Russian choked back a groan. The back of his thigh was torn and bloody where the ball had* come out. Struan gingerly probed the wound and took out a small piece of shattered bone.

“Get the blankets and brandy and a brazier,” Struan snapped at a seaman. “Your Highness, can you move your right leg?”

Zergeyev shifted it slightly and winced with pain, but his leg moved.

“Your hip’s all right, I think, laddie. Stay still, now.”

When the blankets were brought, he wrapped Zergeyev in them and propped him more comfortably on the seat behind the helmsman, and gave him brandy.

When the brazier came, Struan opened the wound to the air and doused it heavily with the brandy. He heated his knife in the coals of the brazier.

“Hold him, Will! Culum, give us a hand.” They knelt down, Longstaff at his feet, Culum at his head.

Struan put the red-hot knife into the fore wound and the brandy caught and Zergeyev passed out. Struan cauterized the wound in front and probed deeply and quickly, wanting to do it fast now that Zergeyev was unconscious. He turned him over, and probed again. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. Longstaff turned aside and vomited, but Culum held on and helped, and Longstaff turned back once more.

Struan reheated the knife and poured more brandy over the back wound and cauterized it deeply and thoroughly. His head ached from the stench, and sweat was dripping off his chin, but his hands were steady and he knew that if he did not do the burning carefully, the wound would rot and Zergeyev would certainly die.

With such a wound nine men in ten would die.

Then he was finished.

He bandaged Zergeyev, and he rinsed his own mouth with brandy; its fumes cleared away the smell of blood and burning flesh. Then he gulped heavily and studied Zergeyev. The face was gray and bloodless.

“Now he’s in the hands of his own joss,” he said. “You all right, Culum?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

“Get below. Organize hot rum for all hands. Check stores. You’re Number Two aboard now. Get everyone sorted out.”

Culum left the poop.

The two Russian servants were kneeling beside Zergeyev. One of them touched Struan and spoke brokenly, obviously thanking him. Struan motioned them to stay beside their master.

He stretched wearily and put his hand on Longstaff’s shoulder and drew him aside and .bent low to Longstaff’s ear. “Did you see muskets among the Chinese?”

Longstaff shook his head. “None.”

“Nor did I,” Struan said.

“There were guns going off all over the place.” Longstaff was white-faced and greatly concerned. “One of those unlucky accidents.”

Struan said nothing for a moment. “If he dies, there’ll be very large trouble, eh?”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t, Dirk.” Longstaff bit his lip. “I’ll have to advise the Foreign Secretary of the accident at once. I’ll have to hold an inquiry.”

“Aye.”

Longstaff looked across at the gray, corpselike face. Zergeyev’s breathing was shallow. “Damned annoying, what?”

“From the position of the wound, and from where he was standing when he was felled, there’s nae doubt that it was one of our bullets.”

“It was one of those unfortunate accidents.”

“Aye. But the bullet could have been aimed.”

“Impossible. Who’d want to kill him?”

“Who’d want to kill you? Or Culum? Or perhaps me? We were all very close together.”

“Who?”

“I’ve a dozen enemies.”

“Brock wouldn’t murder you in cold blood.”

“I never said he would. Offer a reward for information. Someone may have seen something.”

Together they watched the Settlement. It was far astern now: only flames and smoke over the rooftops of Canton. “Madness to loot like that. Hasn’t happened ever before. Why would they do that? Why?” Longstaff said.

“I dinna ken.”

“As soon as we get to Hong Kong, we go north—this time to the gates of Peking, by God. The emperor’s going to be very sorry he ordered this.”

“Aye. But first mount an immediate attack against Canton.”

“But that’s a waste of time, what?”

“Mount an attack within the week. You’ll na have to press it home. Ransom Canton again. Six millions of taels.”

“Why?”

“You need a month or more to get the fleet ready to stab north. The weather’s na right yet. You’ll have to wait till the reinforcements arrive. They’re due when?”

“Month, six weeks.”

“Good.” Struan’s face hardened. “In the meantime the Co-hong’ll have to find six million taels. That’ll teach them na to warn us, by God. You have to show the flag here, before you go north, or we’ll lose face. If they get away with burning the Settlement, we’ll never be safe in the future. Order

Nemesis to stand off the city. A twelve-hour ultimatum or you’ll lay waste Canton.”

Zergeyev moaned, and Struan went over to him. The Russian was still in shock and almost unconscious.

Then Struan noticed Mauss’s Chinese convert watching him. The man was standing on the main deck beside the starboard gunnel. He made the sign of the cross over Struan and closed his eyes and, silently, began to pray.