Noble House

by James Clavell

  “Nothing, Ian,” he said quietly, noticing his voice sounded strange, “not a goddamn thing. No ladders, nothing. But we can jump, easy, if necessary.”

  “Yes. We’re lucky being on this deck. The others may not be so lucky.” Dunross watched the smoke and fire spurting from the dumbwaiter that was near the exit door. “We’ll have to decide pretty soon which way to go,” he said gently. “That fire could cut us off from the outside. If we go out we may never get back in and we’ll have to jump. If we stay in, we can only use the stairs.”

  “Jesus,” Casey muttered. She was trying to calm her racing heart and the feeling of claustrophobia that was welling up. Her skin felt clammy and her eyes were darting from the exit to the doorway and back again. Bartlett put an arm around her. “It’s no sweat, we can jump anytime.”

  “Yes, sure, Linc.” Casey was holding on grimly.

  “You can swim, Casey?” Dunross asked.

  “Yes. I … was caught in a fire once. Ever since then I’ve been frightened to death of them.” It was a few years before when her little house in the Hollywood Hills of Los Angeles was in the path of one of the sudden summer conflagrations and she had been bottled in, the winding canyon road already burning below. She had turned on all the water sprinklers and begun to hose the roof. The clawing heat of the fire had reached out at her. Then the fire had crested, jumping from the top of one valley to the opposite side, to begin burning down both sides toward the valley floor, whipped by hundred-mile-an-hour gusts self-generated by the fire. The roaring flames obliterated trees and houses, came closer and there was no way out. In terror, she kept the hose on her roof. Cats and dogs from the homes above fled past her and one wild-eyed Alsatian cowered in the lee of her house. The heat and the smoke and the terror surrounded her and it went on and on but this part of the fire stopped fifty feet from her boundary. For no reason. Above, all the houses on her street had gone. Most of the canyon. A swath almost half a mile wide and two long burned for three days in the hills that bisected the city of Los Angeles.

  “I’m all right, Linc,” she said shakily. “I … I think I’d rather be outside than here. Let’s get the hell out of here. A swim’d be great.”

  “I can’t swim!” Orlanda was trembling. Then her control snapped and she got up to rush for the stairs.

  Bartlett grabbed her. “Everything’s going to be all right. Jesus, you’ll never make it that way. Listen to the poor bastards down there, they’re in real trouble. Stay put, huh? The stairs’re no good.” She hung on to him, petrified.

  “You’ll be all right,” Casey said compassionately.

  “Yes,” Dunross said, his eyes on the fire and billowing smoke.

  Marlowe said, “We, er, we’re really in very good shape, tai-pan, aren’t we? Yes. The fire’s got to be from the kitchens. They’ll get it under control. Fleur, pet, there’ll be no need to go over the side.”

  “It’s no sweat,” Bartlett assured him. “There’s plenty of sampans to pick us up!”

  “Oh yes, but she can’t swim either.”

  Fleur put her hand on her husband’s arm. “You always said I should learn, Peter.”

  Dunross wasn’t listening. He was consumed with fear and trying to dominate it. His nostrils were filled with the stench of burning meat that he knew oh so well and he was near vomiting. He was back in his burning Spitfire, shot out of the sky by a Messerschmitt 109 over the Channel, the cliffs of Dover too far away, and he knew the fire would consume him before he could tear the jammed and damaged cockpit canopy free and bail out, the horror-smell of scorching flesh, his own, surrounding him. In terror he smashed his fist impotently against the Perspex, his other beating at the flames around his feet and knees, choking from the acrid smoke in his lungs, half blinded. Then there was a sudden frantic roar as the cowl ripped away, an inferno of flames surged up and surrounded him and somehow he was out and falling away from the flames, not knowing if his face was gone, the skin of his hands and feet, his boots and flying overalls still smoking. Then the shuddering nauseating jerk as his chute opened, then the dark silhouette of the enemy plane hurtled toward him out of the sun and he saw the machine guns sparking and a tracer blew part of his calf away. He remembered none of the rest except the smell of burning flesh that was the same then as now.

  “What do you think, tai-pan?”

  “What?”

  “Shall we stay or leave?” Marlowe repeated.

  “We’ll stay, for the moment,” Dunross said and they all wondered how he could sound so calm and look so calm. “When the stairs clear we can walk out. No reason to get wet if we don’t have to.”

  Casey smiled at him hesitantly. “These fires happen often?”

  “Not here, but they do in Hong Kong, I’m afraid. Our Chinese friends don’t care much about fire regulations …”

  It was still only a few minutes since the first violent gust of fire had swirled up in the kitchen but now the fire had a full hold there and, through the access of the dumbwaiter, a strong hold on the central sections of the three decks above. The fire in the kitchen blocked half the room from the only staircase. Twenty terrified men were trapped on the wrong side. The rest of the staff had fled long since to join the heaving mass of people on the deck above. There were half a dozen portholes but these were small and rusted up. In panic one of the cooks rushed at the flaming barrier, screamed as the flames engulfed him, almost made it through but slipped and kept on screaming for a long while. A petrified moan burst from the others. There was no other escape possibility.

  The head chef was trapped too. He was a portly man and he had been in many kitchen fires so he was not panicked. His mind ranged all the other fires, desperately seeking a clue. Then he remembered.

  “Hurry,” he shouted, “get bags of rice flour … rice … hurry!”

  The others stared at him without moving, their terror numbing them, so he lashed out and smashed some of them into the storeroom, grabbed a fifty-pound sack himself and tore the top off. “Fornicate all fires hurry but wait till I tell you,” he gasped, the smoke choking and almost blinding him. One of the portholes shattered and the sudden draft whooshed the flames at them. Terrified they grabbed a sack each, coughing as the smoke billowed.

  “Now!” the head chef roared and hurled the sack at the flaming corridor between the stoves. The sack burst open and the clouds of flour doused some of the flames. Other sacks followed in the same area and more flames were swallowed. Another barrage of flour went over the flaming benches, snuffing them out. The passage was momentarily clear. At once the head chef led the charge through the remaining flames and they all followed him pell-mell, leaping over the two charred bodies, and gained the stairs at the far side before the flames gushed back and closed the path. The men fought their way up the narrow staircase and into the partial air of the landing, joining the milling mob that pushed and shoved and screamed and coughed their way through the black smoke into the open.

  Tears streamed from most faces. The smoke was very heavy now in the lower levels. Then the wall behind the first landing where the shaft of the dumbwaiter was began to twist and blacken. Abruptly it burst open, scattering gargoyles, and flames gushed out. Those on the stairs below shoved forward in panic and those on the landing reeled back. Then, seeing they were so close to safety, the first ranks darted forward, skirting the inferno, jumping the stairs two at a time. Hugh Guthrie, one of the MPs, saw a woman fall. He held on to the bannister and stopped to help her but those behind toppled him and he fell with others. He picked himself up, cursing, and fought a path clear for just enough time to drag the woman up before he was engulfed again and shoved down the last few stairs to gain the entrance safely.

  Half the landing between the lower deck and the second deck was still free of flames though the fire had an unassailable hold and was fueling itself. The crowds were thinning now though more than a hundred still clogged the upper staircases and doorways. Those above were milling and cursing, not being able to see ahead.

>   “What’s the holdup for chrissake….”

  “Are the stairs still clear …?”

  “For chrissake get on with it….”

  “It’s getting bloody hot up here …”

  “What a sodding carve-up….”

  Grey was one of those trapped on the second-deck staircase. He could see the flames gushing out of the wall ahead and knew the nearby wall would go any moment. He could not decide whether to retreat or to advance. Then he saw a child cowering against the steps under the banister. He managed to pull the little boy into his arms then pressed on, cursing those in front, darted around the fire, the way to safety below still jammed.

  On the top deck Gornt and others were listening to the pandemonium below. There were only thirty or so people still here. He finished his drink, set the glass down and walked over to the group surrounding Dunross—Orlanda was still sitting, twisting her handkerchief in her hands, Fleur and Peter Marlowe still outwardly calm, and Dunross, as always, in control. Good, he thought, blessing his own heritage and training. It was part of British tradition that in danger, however petrified you are, you lose face by showing it. Then, too, he reminded himself, most of us have been bombed most of our lives, shot at, sunk, slammed into POW jails or been in the Services. Gornt’s sister had been in the Women’s Royal Naval Service—his mother an air raid warden, his father in the army, his uncle killed at Monte Cassino, and he himself had served with the Australians in New Guinea after escaping from Shanghai, and had fought his way into and through Burma to Singapore.

  “Ian,” he said, keeping his voice suitably nonchalant, “it sounds as though the fire’s on the first landing now. I suggest a swim.”

  Dunross glanced back at the fire near the exit door. “Some of the ladies don’t swim. Let’s give it a couple of minutes.”

  “Very well. I think those who don’t mind jumping should go on deck. That particular fire’s really very boring.”

  Casey said, “I don’t find it very boring at all.”

  They all laughed. “It’s just an expression,” Peter Marlowe explained.

  An explosion belowdecks rocked the boat slightly. The momentary silence was eerie.

  In the kitchen the fire had spread to the storage rooms and was surrounding the four remaining hundred-gallon drums of oil. The one that had blown up had torn a gaping hole in the floor and buckled the side of the boat. Burning embers and burning oil and some seawater poured into the scuppers. The force of the explosion had ruptured some of the great timbers of the flat-bottomed hull and water was seeping through the seams. Hordes of rats scrambled out of the way seeking an escape route.

  Another of the thick metal drums blew up and ripped a vast hole in the side of the boat just below the waterline, scattering fire in all directions. The people on the wharf gasped and some reeled back though there was no danger. Others laughed nervously. Still another drum exploded and another shaft of flames sprayed everywhere. The ceiling supports and joists were seriously weakened and, oil soaked, began to burn. Above on the first deck, the feet of the frenzied escapees pounded dangerously.

  Just above the first landing Grey still had the child in his arms. He held on to the bannister with one hand, frightened, shoving people behind and in front of him. He waited his turn, then shielding the child as best he could, ducked around the flames on the landing and darted down the stairs, the way mostly clear. The carpet by the threshold was beginning to smoke and one heavyset man stumbled, the whole floor shaky.

  “Come on,” Grey shouted desperately to those behind. He made the threshold, others close behind and in front. Just as he reached the drawbridge the last two drums exploded, the whole floor behind him disappeared and he and the child and others were hurled forward like so much chaff.

  Hugh Guthrie rushed out of the onlookers and pulled them to safety. “You all right, old chap?” he gasped.

  Grey was half stunned, gasping for breath, his clothes smoldering, and Guthrie helped beat them out. “Yes … yes I think so …” he said half out of himself.

  Guthrie gently lifted the unconscious child and peered at him. “Poor little bastard!”

  “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t think so. Here …” Guthrie gave the little Chinese boy to an onlooker and both men charged back to the gateway to help the others who were still numbed by the explosion and helpless. “Christ all bloody mighty,” he gasped as he saw that now the whole entrance was impassable. Above the uproar, they heard the wail of approaching sirens.

  The fire on the top deck near the exit was building nastily. Frightened, coughing people were streaming back into the room, forced back up the stairs by the fire that now owned the lower deck. Pandemonium and the stench of fear were heavy on the air.

  “Ian, we’d better get the hell out of here,” Bartlett said.

  “Yes. Quillan, would you please lead the way and take charge of the deck,” Dunross said. “I’ll hold this end.”

  Gornt turned and roared, “Everyone this way!You’ll be safe on deck … one at a time….” He opened the door and positioned himself by it and tried to bring order to the hasty retreat—a few Chinese, the remainder mostly British. Once in the open everyone was much less frightened and grateful to be away from the smoke.

  Bartlett, waiting in the room, felt excitement but still no fear for he knew he could smash any one of the windows and get Casey and himself out and into the sea. People stumbled past. Flames from the dumbwaiter increased and there was a dull explosion below.

  “How you doing, Casey?”

  “Okay.”

  “Out you go!”

  “When you go.”

  “Sure.” Bartlett grinned at her. The room was thinning. He helped Lady Joanna through the doorway, then Havergill, who was limping, and his wife.

  Casey saw that Orlanda was still frozen to her chair. Poor girl, she thought compassionately, remembering her own absolute terror in her own fire. She went over to her. “Come on,” she said gently and helped her up. The girl’s knees were trembling. Casey kept her arm around her.

  “I … I’ve lost … my purse,” Orlanda muttered.

  “No, here it is.” Casey picked it up from the chair and kept her arm around her as she half-pushed her past the flames into the open. The deck was crowded but once outside Casey felt enormously better.

  “Everything’s fine,” Casey said encouragingly. She guided her to the railing. Orlanda held on tightly. Casey turned back to look for Bartlett and saw both him and Gornt watching her from inside the room. Bartlett waved at her and she waved back, wishing he were outside with her.

  Peter Marlowe herded his wife onto the deck and came up to her. “You all right, Casey?”

  “Sure. How you doing, Fleur?”

  “Fine. Fine. It’s … it’s rather pleasant outside, isn’t it?” Fleur Marlowe said, feeling faint and awful, petrified at the idea of jumping from this great height. “Do you think it’s going to rain?”

  “The sooner the better.” Casey looked over the side. In the murky waters, thirty feet below, sampans were beginning to collect. All boatmen knew that those on the top would have to jump soon. From their vantage they could see that the fire possessed most of the first and second decks. A few people were trapped there, then one man hurled a chair through one of the windows, broke the glass away, scrambled through and fell into the sea. A sampan darted forward and threw him a line. Others who were trapped followed. One woman never came up.

  The night was dark though the flames lit everything nearby, casting eerie shadows. The crowds on the wharf parted as the screaming fire engines pulled up. Immediately Chinese firemen and British officers dragged out the hoses. Another detachment joined up to the nearby fire hydrant and the first jet of water played onto the fire and there was a cheer. In seconds six hoses were in operation and two masked firemen with asbestos clothing and breathing equipment strapped to their backs rushed the entrance and began to drag those who were lying unconscious out of danger. Another huge explosion sprayed
them with burning embers. One of the firemen doused everyone with water then directed the hose back on the entrance again.

  The top deck was empty now except for Bartlett, Dunross and Gornt. They felt the deck sway under them and almost lost their footing. “Jesus Christ,” Bartlett gasped, “we going to sink?”

  “Those explosions could’ve blown her bottom out,” Gornt said urgently. “Come on!” He went through the door quickly, Bartlett followed.

  Now Dunross was alone. The smoke was very bad, the heat and stench revolting him. He made a conscious effort not to flee, dominating his terror. At a sudden thought he ran back across the room to the doorway of the main staircase to make sure there was no one there. Then he saw the inert figure of a man on the staircase. Flames were everywhere. He felt his own fear surging again but once more he held it down, darted forward and began to drag the man back up the stairs. The Chinese was heavy and he did not know if the man was alive or dead. The heat was scorching and again he smelled burning flesh and felt his bile rising. Then Bartlett was beside him and together they half-dragged, half-carried the man across the room out onto the deck.

  “Thanks,” Dunross gasped.

  Quillan Gornt came over to them, bent down and turned the man over. The face was partially burned. “You could have saved yourself the heroics. He’s dead.”

  “Who is he?” Bartlett asked.

  Gornt shrugged. “I don’t know. Do you know him, Ian?”

  Dunross was staring at the body. “Yes. It’s Zep … Zeppelin Tung.”

  “Tightfist’s son?” Gornt was surprised. “My God, he’s put on weight. I’d never have recognized him.” He got to his feet. “We’d better get everyone ready to jump. This boat’s a graveyard.” He saw Casey standing by the railing. “Are you all right?” he asked, going over to her.

  “Yes, thanks. You?”

  “Oh yes.”