Tai-Pan

CHAPTER FIFTY

The sun rose bravely and spread warmth over the shattered town and the safe harbor.

Culum found his father in the havoc of the residence. Struan was crumpled in a corner of the north suite, and in his arms was a small, gaunt Chinese girl. Culum wondered how his father could have loved her, for to him she was not beautiful.

But they were not made obscene by death. Their faces were calm, as if they were asleep.

Culum left the room and went down the broken staircase, and outside into the gentle east breeze.

Tess was waiting. And when she saw him shake his head helplessly, her eyes too filled with tears and she held his hand. They walked out of Happy Valley by Queen’s Road, seeing nothing.

The new township was in ruins, with debris scattered everywhere. But, here and there, buildings were still standing, some mere shells, others damaged only slightly. The foreshore was alive with people hurrying to and fro, or standing still in groups surveying the wreckage of their dwellings or business houses. Many were supervising gangs of coolies, salvaging their sodden possessions or making repairs. Sedan-chair coolies were plying their trade. So were the beggars. Patrols of soldiers had been placed at strategic points against the inevitable looting. But, strangely, there were very few looters.

Sampans and junks were fishing in the calm harbor among the flotsam of broken boats. Others were arriving, bringing new settlers. And the procession of Chinese from the shore up to Tai Ping Shan had begun again.

Smoke hung over the hillside. There were a few fires amid the wreckage of hovels. But beneath the smoke was the hum of industry. Restaurants, tea and food shops and street vendors were doing business again while the inhabitants—hammering, sawing, digging, chattering—patched up their homes or began to rebuild, blessing their joss they were alive.

“Look, Culum luv,” Tess said. They were near the dockyard.

Culum was numb, his brain hardly functioning. He looked where she was pointing. On a slight hillside their almost-finished home was roofless and tilted off the foundations.

“Oh dear,” she said. “What’re we going to do?”

He did not answer. Her fear magnified as she sensed his panic. “Come on, luv. Let’s—let’s go to the hotel, then—then aboard

White Witch. Come on, luv.”

Skinner hurried up to them. His face was grimy, his clothes ripped and filthy.

“Excuse me, Mr. Culum. Where’s the Tai-Pan?”

“What?”

“The Tai-Pan. Do you know where he is? I’ve got to see him immediately.”

Culum did not answer, so Tess said, “He’s—he’s dead.”

“Eh?”

“He’s dead, Mr. Skinner. We—my—Culum saw him. He’s dead. In’t factory.”

“Oh God, no!” Skinner said, his voice thick. Just my cursed joss!

He mumbled condolences and went back to his printing shop and his demolished press. “You’re publisher-owner!” he shouted. “Of what? You’ve no press and no money to buy another, and now the Tai-Pan’s dead, so you can’t borrow from him, so you own nothing and you’re busted! Busted! What the hell’re you going to do?” He kicked the rubble, careless of his coolies who stood to one side, waiting patiently. “Why the hell did he have to die at a time like this?”

He ranted on for a few minutes and then sat on a high stool. “What’re you going to do? Get yourself together! Think!”

Well, he told himself, the first thing is to bring out the paper. Special edition. How? Handpress. “Yes, handpress,” he repeated aloud. “You’ve the labor and you can do that. Then what?”

He noticed the coolies watching him. Then you keep your mouth shut, he cautioned himself. You get out a paper then go to that helpless young idiot Culum and talk him into putting up money for the new press. You can twist him easily. Yes. And you keep your mouth shut.

Blore came in. His face was lifeless.

“Morning,” he said. “What a bloody mess! The stands’ve vanished, and the paddock. Everything. Lost four horses—the gelding too, dammit to hell!”

“The Tai-Pan’s dead.”

“Oh God!” Blore leaned against the shattered doorway. “That tears it. Oh well, thought it was too good to last.”

“Eh?”

“Hong Kong—the Jockey Club—everything. This puts the coffin on everything. Stands to reason. The colony’s a disaster. This new bugger Whalen’ll take one look and laugh himself silly. No hope now, without the Tai-Pan. Dammit, I liked him.”

“He put you up to seeing me, didn’t he? Giving me the dispatch?”

“No,” Blore said. The Tai-Pan had sworn him to secrecy. A secret was a secret. “Poor chap. Glad in a way he didn’t live to see the end of the colony.”

Skinner took him by the arm and pointed to the harbor. “What’s out there?”

“Eh? The harbor, for God’s sake.”

“That’s the trouble with people. They don’t use their heads or their eyes. The fleet’s safe—all the merchantmen! We lost one frigate aground, and she’ll be repaired and floated in a week.

Resting Cloud the same.

Boston Princess gutted on Kowloon. But that’s all. Don’t you understand?

The worst typhoon in history put Hong Kong to the test—and she came out of it with all flags flying, by God. The typhoon was huge joss. You think the admiral won’t understand? You think even that clot-headed Cunnington doesn’t know our might rests with the fleet—whatever that dumb-brained general thinks?

Sea power, by God!”

“Good Lord. You really think so?”

Skinner had already gone back inside and was shoving debris out of his way. He sat down and found a quill and ink and paper and began scribbling.

“You really think so?”

“If I were you, I’d start making plans for the new stands. You want me to print that you’re having a meet as scheduled?”

“Absolutely. Oh, jolly good! Yes.” Blore thought a moment. “We ought to start a custom—I know, we’ll have a special race. Biggest prize money of the year—last race of the season. We’ll call it the Tai-Pan Stakes.”

“Good. You’ll read it tonight!”

Blore watched Skinner writing. “Are you doing his obituary?”

Skinner opened a drawer and pushed a sheaf of papers toward him. “Wrote it a few days ago. Read it. Then you can help me on the handpress.”

Culum and Tess were still standing where Skinner had left them.

“Come on, luv,” Tess said, tugging his arm, anguished.

With an effort Culum concentrated. “Why don’t you go aboard

White Witch? I’m—I’m sure they’re anxious to—to know you’re safe. I’ll come aboard later. Let me alone for a while, will you, dear? I’ve—well, just let me alone.”

“Oh Culum, what’re we going to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

He saw her looking up at him and then she had gone. He walked on toward Glessing’s Point, not hearing and not seeing, time ceasing to exist for him. Oh God in heaven, what do I do?

“Mr. Struan?”

Culum felt a tug on his arm and came out of his daze. He noticed that the sun was high in the sky and that he was leaning against the shattered flagpole at Glessing’s Point. The master-at-arms was looking down at him.

“His Excellency’s compliments, Mr. Struan. Would you kindly step aboard?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Culum said, feeling drained and dull-witted.

He allowed the master-at-arms to guide him to the waiting cutter. He climbed the gangway on the flagship and then went below.

“My dear Culum,” Longstaff said, “terrible news. Terrible. Port?”

“No. No, thank you, Your Excellency.”

“Sit down. Yes, terrible. Shocking. As soon as I heard the news I sent for you to give you my condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m leaving with the tide tomorrow. The new plenipotentiary sent word by Monsey that he’s in Macao.” Damn Whalen! Why the devil didn’t he wait? Damn the typhoon! Damn Dirk! Damn everything! “You’ve met Monsey haven’t you?”

“No—no, sir.”

“No matter. ’Pon me word, damned annoying. Monsey was in the residence and not a scratch. Yes, terrible. No accounting for joss.” He took snuff and sneezed. “Did you hear that Horatio was killed too?”

“No—no, sir. The last—I thought he was at Macao.”

Damned fool, what did he have to get killed for? Complicates everything. “Oh, by the way, your father had some documents for me. Have to have them before I leave.”

Culum searched his memory. The effort exhausted him even more. “He didn’t mention them to me, Your Excellency. I don’t know anything about them.”

“Well, I’m sure he kept them in a safe place,” Longstaff said, delighted that Culum was not privy to them. “A safe, Culum, that’s where they’d be. Where’s his private safe?”

“I—I don’t know, sir. I’ll ask Vargas.”

“Come on, Culum, pull yourself together. Life goes on. The dead must bury their dead and all that sort of thing. Mustn’t give up, what? Where’s his safe? Think! In the residence? Aboard

Resting Cloud?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then I suggest you look, and very quickly.” Longstaff’s voice sharpened. “This is of paramount importance. And keep this entirely to yourself. You understand the punishment for treason?”

“Yes—yes, of course,” Culum answered, frightened by Longstaff.

“Good. And don’t forget you’re still deputy colonial secretary and under a solemn oath to the Crown. I put the papers in your father’s hands for safekeeping. Highly secret diplomatic documents concerning a ‘friendly power.’ Maps, documents in Russian with English translations. Find them. Report back aboard the instant you have them. Report back aboard at sunset in any event. If you can’t do the job, I’ll do it myself. Oh yes, and I’ll be consigning some seeds to you. They’ll be arriving in a few days. You will redirect them to me and treat the matter with equal secrecy. Orderly!” he called out.

The door opened instantly. “Yessir!”

“Show Mr. Culum ashore!”

Culum went back to the longboat in panic. He hurried to

Resting Cloud. She was in the middle of the sampan village, almost upright. Soldiers had been posted against looters. He clambered aboard and went below.

Lim Din was standing guard with a cleaver, outside Struan’s quarters.

“Mass’er dead?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Lim Din made no reply. Nor did his expression change.

“When Tai-Pan hav paper—important paper—where putshee?” Culum asked.

“Heya?”

“Paper—put safe. Safe hav? Safe box?”

Lim Din motioned him inside and showed him the safe in the bulkhead of Struan’s bedroom. “This piece?”

“Key-ah?”

“Key-ah no hav. Tai-Pan hav, never mind.”

Where would he have the key? Culum asked himself in desperation. On him! On him, of course! I’ll have to . . . would Vargas have a duplicate? Oh God in heaven, help me. There’ll be—well, a funeral and coffin. Where do I—and . . . and what about the girl, the Chinese girl? Can she be buried with him? No, that’s not right. Does he have a family by her? Didn’t he say that he had? Where are they? In the ruins? Think, Culum! Wake up, for God’s sake! What about the ships? And money? Did he leave a will?

Forget that, that’s not important now—none of it is. You’ve got to find the secret papers. What did Longstaff say? Maps and a Russian document?

Brock walked, unnoticed, into the cabin. He saw the fear and helplessness in the youth’s face, and the bloodstains on his hands and clothes. “Morning, lad,” he said, kindly. “I comed as soon as I heared. I be sorry, lad, but doan thee fret. I be doing everything for thee.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Brock,” Culum said, his relief apparent. “It’s just that I . . .” He sat down weakly.

“Tess sayed without you, she beed deaded an’ Glessing too. It be bad joss about thy Da’, but doan thee fret. I beed to residence, lad, and I be making all arrangements proper. I ordered Orlov t’put Lion and Dragon at half-mast and I be getting

Resting Cloud afloat in no time. Thee just catch thy breath. I be lookin’ after all.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Brock. Did you see his key? I need to get—” Culum was on the point of explaining about the documents, and then he remembered what Longstaff had said about treason and he stopped himself in time. “I just thought,” he said lamely, “well, I suppose I ought to go through his papers.”

“I baint going through his pockets,” Brock said, his voice cold. “Just laid him out proper and put woman outa sight.” Ah, Dirk, he told himself, I baint never forgetting how thee looked, thee and the heathen. Together. But for thy own sake, and sake of kids, thee be buried Christian alone. “I be making arrangements for her quiet.”

“Yes, of course,” Culum said.

“We be joining, Culum. Brock’s and Struan’s. It be best for all. Noble House be Brock-Struan. I be drawing up papers immediate and all’s done.” Yus, he told himself. I baint rubbing thy joss in thy face, Dirk, but I be

the Tai-Pan now. At long last. Culum be following, if he be good enough, after Morgan and Tom. “All’s forgot twixt thee and Tess’n me, lad. Best thee go aboard

White Witch. Tess be needin’ comfort.”

“Yes. All right, Mr. Brock. Thank you. But—well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to—to go back to the residence first.”

“Be aboard come sundown.” Brock walked out.

Culum wiped his face with his hands. That’s best. Joining. That’s best. You always said you would. Get yourself together, Culum.

Go and get the key!

“Mass’er?” Lim Din beckoned him to follow, and led the way into another cabin. Mauss was lying on the floor. He was ugly in death.

“Joss. Never mind,” Lim Din said, and he laughed nervously.

Culum groped his way off the ship, his heart hurting him, and along the plank alleyways of the sampan village, and then he was near Glessing’s Point. He walked along Queen’s Road, picking his way around rubble and broken possessions, mumbling incoherent thanks to the many who came up to him offering their sympathy. There was only one thought in his shattered mind: You have to go through his pockets.

“Culum!”

Through his daze he saw Cooper, Shevaun beside him, in a group of traders near the hotel. He would have gone on, but they came up to him.

“We’ve just heard, Culum. I’m so sorry,” Cooper said. “Is there anything we can do to help? It’s terrible joss.”

“Yes,” Shevaun said, her face badly bruised and her clothes in tatters. “Terrible. We’ve just got back from Kowloon. I think it’s just awful, so unfair.”

“I—I . . . well—I’m sorry I can’t talk now. I’ve— I’ve. . .”

They watched him hurry away.

“Poor young devil,” Cooper said.

“He looks frightened out of his wits.”

“I don’t wonder. What with the Tai-Pan and Glessing.”

“Is he going to be all right? Glessing?”

“I don’t know. Hope so.” Cooper looked across the harbor. He could see the wreckage of

Boston Princess and he thanked God again for their lives. “If I were him I’d be, too.” That poor lad’s going to need all the help he can get, Cooper told himself. Thank God the Tai-Pan lived to give me the papers. I wonder if he had a premonition. No, surely not. What about Culum? What’s he going to do? He’s as helpless as a babe. Perhaps I could watch over him—I owe that to the Tai-Pan, and more. We’ve the cinchona business together now. We’ll cancel the other two directors, so it’ll just be Culum and me. Why not join forces?

Totally merge the companies? The new Noble House—Cooper-Struan. No! Struan-Cooper. You’ll be fair with Culum. He’ll be next. There are gigantic possibilities in a merger, of course there are. But you’d better move fast or Brock’ll have the poor lad eating out of his hand. Tai-Pan of the Noble House.

The Tai-Pan. Why not?

“What’re you smiling about?” Shevaun asked.

“A passing thought,” he said, and put his arm in hers. You were very wise, Dirk, my friend. Both gambles. Yes. It’ll take me a year to consolidate. “I’m so very glad to be alive. Let’s go to the jetty. We should see if Zergeyev’s all right. Listen, Shevaun, I’ve decided to send you home for a year, by the next ship.”

“What?” Shevaun said, and stopped.

“Yes. At the end of that time, if you decide you love me and want to marry me, I’ll be the happiest man alive. No, don’t say anything,” Cooper added as she began to speak. “Let me finish. If you decide you don’t, then you have your freedom and my blessing with it. Either way I won’t buy out the Tillman interests. Your father will receive, during his lifetime . . .”

Shevaun turned away and they began to walk again, arm in arm, as he continued. But she wasn’t listening now. A year, she exulted, hiding her joy. Free in a year. Free of this cursed place! And Father still has his shares! Oh God, you’ve answered my prayers. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Poor Dirk, my love. Now I’m free and now you’re dead.

She looked at the Russian brigantine. Yes, she thought, the Tai-Pan’s dead. But you’re free, and the archduke would be the perfect choice.

“I’m sorry, Jeff. What did you say?”

“Just that I want you to deliver some private documents to your father.”

“Of course, my dear. And thank you, thank you. The year will pass quickly.”

Gordon Chen bowed before the Buddha in the shattered temple and lit a final joss stick. He had wept for his father and for May-may.

But now is not the time for weeping, he told himself. Joss is joss. Now is the time for thinking.

The Noble House is dead.

Culum hasn’t the strength to carry on. Brock will dominate him and join the companies together. Brock I cannot handle. If Culum joins with Brock, Culum is finished. So either way, he cannot help me. Can I help him? Yes. But I can’t help him with the barbarians, and I can’t help him to be

the Tai-Pan. That is something a man gets for himself alone.

The thread of incense smoke curled delicately in the air and he watched it, the perfume pleasing.

Only my father knew about our arrangement. I have the lac of silver and it will become fifty, a hundred lacs in time. I am richest Chinese on Hong Kong. And the most powerful.

The Tai-Pan of the Chinese.

Let me be honest—I’m not Chinese, not English. No. But I am content with my joss and more Chinese than English. I will marry a Chinese and so will my children and my children’s children, never mind.

Hong Kong? I will help the island grow strong. I stopped the looters today. Labor will be plentiful and obedient in the future.

I believe what my father said: The British Government will fall. It has to fall. Oh gods, I demand that it fall for the future of China! You’re Chinese—think of China. I will endow the largest temple in south China . . . well, at least—a temple fit for the headquarters of the Triads and for Tai Ping Shan: as soon as the government falls and Hong Kong is absolutely British.

He kowtowed and touched his forehead on the floor in front of the statue to confirm the bargain.

Yes, only Father knows how rich we were to become. Even so, half will be Culum’s. Each month I will account to him and we will split equally just so long as he fulfills Father’s side of the bargain: that I control everything, and few, if any, questions asked; and everything private—just between the two of us.

Go and find him now. Pay your respects. Pity Culum married the Brock girl. That’s his downfall. Pity he hasn’t the strength to go alone. I wish he and I could trade places. I’d show the barbarians how to run The Noble House. And the emperor, for that matter. If Culum had even a little strength and was prepared to take counsel, Chen Sheng and I could hold the Brocks and all the other jackals at bay.

Well, never mind. I will give my father and his Tai-tai a funeral which will be legend for a hundred years. I will make him a tablet and his Tai-tai a tablet and mourn a hundred days. Then I’ll burn the tablets for their safe rebirth.

I will fetch Duncan and the babe and bring them up as my own. And I will start a dynasty.

It was near sunset. Culum was sitting on the steps of the derelict church on the knoll in Happy Valley, his head propped in his hands. He was staring into the distance. You’ve got to get the key, he told himself again and again. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’ve got to get the key and then the papers. Come on, Culum.

He was over his panic now. But now he was consumed with self-disgust—and loneliness. He looked at the residence below. Vargas and Orlov were still standing by the doorway. He remembered vaguely coming into the valley, hours ago, and seeing them there and then turning away to avoid them, then shrieking “Leave me alone” when they came after him. He noticed that Gordon Chen was with them now. Gordon wasn’t there before, he reminded himself. What does he want? To sneer? To pity me like all the others? Longstaff . . . Brock . . . Cooper . . . Shevaun . . . Skinner . . . Vargas . . . Orlov. Even Tess. Yes, I even saw it in your face when we stopped on Queen’s Road. Even yours. And you’re right. You’re all right.

What do I do? What can I do? I’m not my father. I told him that I wasn’t. I was honest with him.

Get the key. Get the key and get the papers. You’ve got to deliver the papers. Longstaff ordered you aboard. It’s almost time. Oh God. Oh God.

He watched the shadows lengthen.

Do I tell Brock about Jin-qua’s coins? About the remaining three half coins and the three favors and the holy oath and about

Lotus Cloud? I’ll have to. Oh God, what about Wu Kwok? And the Chinese apprentice-captains and the boys, Father’s wards? Brock won’t honor my oath, I know he won’t. I don’t care. What’s the difference?

“Hello.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Quance.” Culum dully squinted at the shadows. “Please leave me alone. Please.”

Aristotle Quance ached in every limb. Only an hour ago he had been dug out of the wreckage. His hair and face were caked with blood and rubble dust, and his clothes were ripped.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “It was joss. Just joss.”

“I hate that word. Please, please leave me alone.”

Quance saw the helplessness and agony and self-hatred in the face that vaguely resembled the one he knew so well. He remembered the first time he had seen Struan. In a back alley in Macao, lying unconscious in the dirt. Just as helpless, just the same, he told himself. No, not the same, never the same. Dirk was like a god even though he lay in the filth. Ah, Dirk, you always had the face of a god and the power of a god—awake, asleep. Yes, and even in death, I’ll wager.

Face. That’s what you had. So different from your son.

Yes, but not so different. Culum stood up to you over the knoll. And stood by you against Brock. And shook hands with Gordon Chen in front of you. And eloped with the girl, damning the consequences. And saved Glessing’s life. The spark’s there.

Remember what you said when you regained consciousness? “I dinna ken who you are, but thanks for giving me back my face.”

You’d never lost it, Dirk, my friend.

“Aye. But give my son back his.”

Isn’t that what you’d say if you were here? Are you here? I miss you, laddie.

Aristotle Quance put away his own sadness and sat on the step beside Culum. “I know this isn’t the time to bring it up, Tai-Pan, but could you lend me four hundred and fifty guineas?”

“What? What did you say?”

“Could you lend me four hundred and fifty guineas, Tai-Pan? I know it’s a terrible moment, but that old witch Fortheringill’s alive—no typhoon’d dare touch her, by God! She’s threatening to put me in debtor’s prison. I’ve no one to turn to but you.”

“You said Tai-Pan. You called me

Tai-Pan.”

“Well, you are, aren’t you?”

Then Culum remembered what his father had said. About the joy and the hurt of being Tai-Pan; about being a man; about standing alone; about life and the battle thereof.

His loneliness vanished. He looked at the three men below. His anxiety returned. Simple enough for Aristotle to say “Tai-Pan,” he thought. But what about them? You’ve got to win them to your side. How? What was it Father said? “You rule men by your brain and by magic.”

He stood up shakily. “I—I’ll try. By the Lord God, I’ll really try. I’ll never forget you, Aristotle. Never.”

He walked down the hill, his stomach fluttering uneasily. The master-at-arms was approaching from the cutter and they met at the front door.

“His Excellency wants you aboard right smartly.”

“Please tell him I’ll see him as soon as possible,” Culum said with a calmness he did not feel.

“He wants you now.”

“I’m busy. Tell him I’m busy!”

The man reddened, saluted, then stamped away.

What’s in those papers, anyway? Culum asked himself. He gathered his will and faced Orlov, Vargas and Gordon Chen.

“Brock sent

orders aboard my ship,” Orlov said. He saw the bloodstains on Culum’s hands and sleeves and shuddered. “Orders to lower the flag, by Odin! I’d’ve done it anyway as soon as I heard. Do I take orders from him now? Eh?”

“Brock will destroy us, Mr. Culum. What are we going to do?” Vargas said, wringing his hands.

“Vargas, go and make arrangements for the funeral. My father and his lady will be buried together.”

“What?”

“Yes. Together. She’s a Christian and will be buried with him. Gordon, wait for me. I want to talk to you. Orlov, go aboard your ship and raise the flag. Fly it at the masthead. Then go aboard

White Witch and fetch my wife ashore.”

“

Fetch her, did you say?”

“Yes. And here.” He took out the twenty sovereigns. “Give these to Brock with my compliments. Tell him I said to buy himself a coffin.”

The three men looked at Culum strangely.

Then they said, “Yes, Tai-Pan,” and obeyed.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I would like to express my thanks to the people of Hong Kong who gave me so much of their time and knowledge and allowed me into their present and past. Of course, this is not a history but a novel. It is peopled with men and women created out of the author’s imagination, and no reference to anyone, or to any company, that was—or is—part of Hong Kong is intended.