Noble House

by James Clavell

  “Not yet. What a dirty motherless whore to hit Number One Son Noble House Chen with a shovel and then lie about it to us, heya? And to cut off Chen’s ear and blame his father and brothers and lie about that too! And then taking the ransom even though they couldn’t deliver the goods! Terrible!”

  “Disgusting!” The old man guffawed. “Even more terrible to get caught. But then you showed the fornicator the error of his rotten ways, Goodweather Poon.”

  They both laughed, happy together.

  “Shall I cut off his other ear, Four Fingers?”

  “Not yet. Soon, yes, very soon.”

  Again Poon scratched his head. “One thing I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you told me to put their sign on Number One Son and leave him as they planned to leave him.” He frowned at Four Fingers. “When this fornicator’s dead that’s all the Werewolves dead, heya? So what good is the sign?”

  Four Fingers cackled. “All comes clear to he who waits. Patience,” he said, very pleased with himself. The sign implied the Werewolves were very much alive. If only he and Poon knew that they were all dead, he could at any time resurrect them, or the threat of them. At his whim. Yes, he thought happily, kill one to terrify ten thousand! The “Werewolves” can easily become a continuous source of extra revenue at very little cost. A few phone calls, a judicious kidnapping or two, perhaps another ear. “Patience, Goodweather Poon. Soon you’ll un—” He stopped. Both men had centered their eyes on the same spot in the darkness. A small, dimly lit freighter was just nosing into sight. In a moment two lights flashed at her masthead. At once Wu went to the conn and flashed an answering signal. The freighter flashed the confirm. “Good,” Wu said happily, flashing his reconfirm. The deck crew had also seen the lights. One hurried below to fetch the rest of the seamen and the others went to their action stations. Wu’s eyes fell on Smallpox Kin. “First him,” he said malevolently. “Fetch my son here.”

  Weakly Paul Choy groped his way on deck. He gulped the fresh air gratefully, the stench from belowdecks overpowering. He climbed the gangway to the poop. When he saw the red mess on the deck and the partial person on the deck, his stomach revolted and once more he threw up over the side.

  Four Finger Wu said, “Give Goodweather Poon a hand.”

  “What?”

  “Are your ears filled with vomit?” the old man shouted. “Give him a hand.”

  Frightened, Paul Choy reeled over to the old seaman, the helmsman watching interestedly. “What do you … you want me to do?”

  “Take his legs!”

  Paul Choy tried to dominate his nausea. He closed his eyes. His nostrils were filled with the smell of vomit and blood. He reached down, took the legs and part of the heavy chain and staggered, half falling, to the side. Goodweather Poon was carrying most of the weight and he could easily have carried it all and Paul Choy too if need be. Effortlessly he balanced Smallpox Kin on the gunnel.

  “Hold him there!” By prearrangement with Four Fingers, the old seaman backed away, leaving Paul Choy on his own, the unconscious, mutilated face and body slumped precariously against him.

  “Put him overboard!” Wu ordered.

  “But Father … please … he’s … he’s not de … not dead yet. Pl—”

  “Put him over the side!”

  Beside himself with fear and loathing, Paul Choy tried to pull the body back aboard but the wind squalled and heeled the junk and the last of the Werewolves toppled into the sea and sank without a trace. Helplessly Paul Choy stared at the waves slopping against the teak. He saw that there was blood on his shirt and on his hands. Another wave of nausea racked him, tormenting him.

  “Here!” Gruffly Wu handed his son a flask. It contained whiskey, good whiskey. Paul Choy choked a little but his stomach held the whiskey. Wu turned back to the conn, waved the helmsman toward the freighter, the throttle opened to full ahead. Paul Choy almost fell but managed to grab the gunnel and stay on his feet, unprepared for the suddenness of the deep-throated roar and burst of speed. When he had his sea legs he looked at his father. Now the old man was near the tiller, Goodweather Poon nearby, and both were peering into the darkness. He could see the small ship and his stomach reeled, and he hated his father afresh, hated being on board and being involved in what obviously was smuggling—on top of the horror of the Werewolf.

  Whatever that poor son of a bitch did, he thought, enraged, it doesn’t merit taking the law into your own hands. He should’ve been handed over to the police to be hanged or imprisoned or whatever.

  Wu felt the eyes on him and he glanced back. His face did not change. “Come here,” he ordered, his thumbless hand stabbing the gunnel in front of him. “Stand here.”

  Numbly Paul Choy obeyed. He was much taller than his father and Goodweather Poon but he was a piece of chaff against either of them.

  The junk sped through the darkness on an intercept course, the sea black and the night black with just a little moonlight sifting through the overcast. Soon they were just aft of the vessel and a little to starboard, closing fast. She was small, slow and quite old and she dipped uneasily in the gathering swell. “She’s a coastal freighter,” Goodweather Poon volunteered, “a Thai trawler we call them. There’s dozens of the fornicators in all Asian waters. They’re the lice of the seas, Profitable Choy, crewed by scum, captained by scum, and they leak like lobster pots. Most ply the Bangkok, Singapore, Manila, Hong Kong route, and wherever else they’ve a cargo for. This one’s out of Bangkok.” He hawked and spat, revolting the young man again. “I wouldn’t want to voyage on one of those stinking whores. Th—”

  He stopped. There was another brief flashing signal. Wu answered it. Then all on deck saw the splash on her starboard side as something heavy went overboard. At once Four Fingers rang up “all engines stop.” The sudden quiet was deafening. Bow lookouts peered into the darkness, the junk wallowing and swerving as she slowed.

  Then one of the bow lookouts signaled with a flag. At once Wu gave a little engine and made the correction. Another silent signal and another change of direction and then a sharper, more excited movement of the flag.

  Immediately Wu reversed engines. The props bit the sea heavily. Then he killed the thrust, the junk swerving closer to the line of bobbing buoys. The gnarled old man seemed to be part of the ship as Paul Choy watched him with his eyes fixed into the sea ahead. Nimbly Wu maneuvered the ponderous junk into the course of the buoys. In a few moments a seaman with a long, hooked boarding pole leaned out from the main deck and hooked the line. The rough cork buoys were brought aboard deftly, other seamen helping, and the line attached securely to a stanchion. With practiced skill the chief deckhand cut away the buoys and cast them overboard while more seamen made sure that the bales attached to the other end of the line below the surface were safe and secure. Paul Choy could see the bales clearly now. There were two of them, perhaps six foot by three foot by three foot, roped together heavily underwater, their sinking weight keeping the thick line taut. As soon as all was tight and safe, the cargo secure alongside though still five or six feet beneath the surface of the sea, the chief deckhand signaled. At once Four Fingers brought the junk to cruising speed and they sped away on a different tack.

  The whole operation had been done in silence, effortlessly and in seconds. In moments the weak riding lights of the Thai trawler had vanished into the darkness and they were alone on the sea once more.

  Wu and Goodweather Poon lit cigarettes. “Very good,” Goodweather Poon said. Four Fingers did not reply, his ears listening to the pleasing note of the engines. No trouble there, he thought. His senses tested the wind. No trouble there. His eyes ranged the darkness. Nothing there either, he told himself. Then why are you uneasy? Is it Seventh Son?

  He glanced at Paul Choy who was at the port side, his back toward him. No. No danger there either.

  Paul Choy was watching the bales. They kicked up a small wake. His curiosity peaked and he was feeling a little better, the whiskey warming and the salt smelling g
ood now, that and the excitement of the rendezvous and being away and safe. “Why don’t you bring them aboard, Father? You could lose them.”

  Wu motioned Poon to answer.

  “Better to leave the harvest of the sea to the sea, Profitable Choy, until it’s quite safe to bring it ashore. Heya?”

  “My name’s Paul, not Profitable.” The young man looked back at his father and shivered. “There was no need to murder that fornicator!”

  “The captain didn’t,” Goodweather Poon said with a grin, answering for the old man. “You did, Profitable Choy. You did, you threw him overboard. I saw it clearly. I was within half a pace of you.”

  “Lies! I tried to pull him back! And anyway he ordered me to. He threatened me.”

  The old seaman shrugged. “Tell that to a fine, foreign devil judge, Profitable Choy, and that won’t be fornicating profitable at all!”

  “My name’s not Pro—”

  “The Captain of the Fleets has called you Profitable so by all the gods Profitable you are forever. Heya?” he added, grinning at Four Fingers.

  The old man said nothing, just smiled and showed his few broken teeth and that made his grimace even more frightening. His bald head and weathered face nodded his agreement. Then he put his eyes on his son. Paul Choy shivered in spite of his resolve.

  “Your secret’s safe with me, my son. Never fear. No one aboard this boat saw anything. Did they, Goodweather Poon?”

  “No, nothing. By all gods great and small! No one saw anything!”

  Paul Choy stared back sullenly. “You can’t wrap paper in fire!”

  Goodweather Poon guffawed. “On this boat you can!”

  “Yes,” Wu said, his voice a rasp. “On this boat you can keep a secret forever.” He lit another cigarette, hawked and spat. “Don’t you want to know what’s in those bales?”

  “No.”

  “It’s opium. Delivered on shore this night’s work will bring a 200,000 profit, just to me, with plenty in bonuses for my crew.”

  “That profit’s not worth the risk, not to me. I made you th—” Paul Choy stopped.

  Four Finger Wu looked at him. He spat on the deck and passed the conn to Goodweather Poon and went to the great cushioned seats aft that ringed the poop. “Come here, Profitable Choy,” he commanded.

  Frightened, Paul Choy sat at the point indicated. Now they were more alone.

  “Profit is profit,” Wu said, very angry. “10,000 is your profit. That’s enough to buy an air ticket to Honolulu and back to Hong Kong and have ten days of holiday together.” He saw the momentary flash of joy wash across his son’s face and he smiled inside.

  “I’ll never come back,” Paul Choy said bravely. “Never.”

  “Oh yes you will. You will now. You’ve fished in fornicating dangerous waters.”

  “I’ll never come back. I’ve a U.S. passport and a—”

  “And a Jap whore, heya?”

  Paul Choy stared at his father, aghast that his father knew, then rage possessed him and he sprang up and bunched his fists. “She’s not a whore by all gods! She’s great, she’s a lady and her folks’re th—”

  “Quiet!” Wu bit back the expletive carefully. “Very well, she’s not a whore, even though to me all women are whores. She’s not a whore but an empress. But she’s still a fornicating devil from the Eastern Sea, one of those who raped China.”

  “She’s American, she’s American like me,” Paul Choy flared, his fists clenched tighter, ready to spring. The helmsman and Goodweather Poon readied to interfere without seeming to. A knife slid into Poon’s fist. “I’m American, she’s American nisei and her father was with the 442 in Italy an—”

  “You’re Haklo, you’re one of the Seaborne Wu, the ship people, and you’ll obey me! You will, Profitable Choy, oh yes you will obey! Heya?”

  Paul Choy stood in front of him shaking with equal fury, trying to keep up his courage, for, in rage, the old man was formidable and he could feel Goodweather Poon and the other men behind his back. “Don’t call her names! Don’t!”

  “You dare bunch your fists at me? Me who’s given you life, given you everything? Every chance, even the chance of meeting this … this Eastern Sea Empress? Heya?”

  Paul Choy felt himself spun around as though by a great wind. Goodweather Poon was peering up at him. “This is the Captain of the Fleets. You will respect him!” The seaman’s iron hand shoved him back to the seats. “The captain said sit. Sit!”

  After a moment, Paul Choy said sullenly, “How did you know about her?”

  Exasperated, the old man sputtered, “All gods bear witness to this country person I sired, this monkey with the brains and manners of a country person. Do you think I didn’t have you watched? Guarded? Do I send a mole among snakes or a civilized whelp among foreign devils unprotected? You’re the son of Wu Sang Fang, Head of the Seaborne Wu, and I protect my own against all enemies. You think we don’t have enemies enough who would slit your Secret Sack and send me the contents just to spite me? Heya?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well know it very well now, my son!” Four Finger Wu was aware this was a clash to the death and he had to be wise as a father must be when his son finally calls him. He was not afraid. He had done this with many sons and only lost one. But he was grateful to the tai-pan who had given him the information about the girl and about her parentage. That’s the key, he thought, the key to this impudent child from a Third Wife whose Golden Gulley was as sweet and as tender as fresh bonefish as long as she lived. Perhaps I’ll let him bring the whore here. The poor fool needs a whore whatever he calls her. Lady? Ha! I’ve heard the Eastern Sea Devils have no pubics! Disgusting! Next month he can bring the strumpet here. If her parents let her come alone that proves she’s a whore. If they don’t, then that’s the end of her. Meanwhile I’ll find him a wife. Yes. Who? One of Tightfist’s granddaughters? Or Lando Mata’s or … Ah, wasn’t that half-caste’s youngest brat trained in the Golden Mountain too, at a school for girls, a famous school for girls? What’s the difference to this fool, pure blood or not?

  I have many sons, he thought, feeling nothing for him. I gave them life. Their duty is to me and when I’m dead, to the clan. Perhaps a good broad-hipped, hard-footed Haklo boat-girl’d be the right one for him, he thought grimly. Yes, but eeeee, there’s no need to cut your Stalk to spite a weakness in your bladder, however rude and ill-mannered the fornicating dumblehead is! “In a month Black Beard will grant you a holiday,” he said with finality. “I will see to it. With your 10,000 profit you can take a passage on a flying machine … No! Better to bring her here,” he added as though it were a fresh thought. “You will bring her here. You should see Manila and Singapore and Bangkok and visit our captains there. Yes, bring her here in a month, your 10,000 will pay for the ticket and pay for everyth—”

  “No. I won’t. I won’t do it. And I don’t want drug money! I’ll never take drug money and I counsel you to get out of the drug trade immed—”

  The whole junk was suddenly floodlit. Everyone was momentarily blinded. The searchlight was to starboard.

  “Haul to!” came the order in English over the loud-hailer, then repeated in Haklo, then in Cantonese.

  Wu and Goodweather Poon were the first to react and in a split second they were in motion. Wu swung the tiller hard to port away from the Marine Police patrol boat and gunned both the engines to full ahead. Poon had leapt down the gangway to the main deck and now he sliced the cargo line and the wake of bales vanished as the bales sank into the deep.

  “Haul to for boarding!” The metallic words ripped through Paul Choy who stood paralyzed with fright. He watched his father reach into a nearby sea locker and bring out some crumpled PRC peaked soldiers’ hats and shove one on. “Quick,” he ordered, throwing one to him. Petrified, he obeyed and crammed it onto his head. Miraculously all the crew were now wearing the same kind of hat and a few were struggling into equally drab and crumpled army tunics.

  His heart stop
ped. Others were reaching into sea lockers and bringing out PRC army rifles and submachine guns as still others went to the side nearest the police boat and began shouting obscenities. The boat was sleek and battle gray with a deck gun, two searchlights now and her riding lights on. She lay a hundred yards to starboard, her engines growling, keeping pace with them easily. They could see the neat, white-clad sailors and, on the bridge, the peaked British officers’ caps.

  Four Fingers had a loud-hailer horn now and he went to the side, his hat pulled well down, and he roared, “Go fornicate yourselves, barbarians! Look at our colors!” His hand stabbed toward his masthead. The PRC marine flag fluttered there. Aft on the stern was a fake Canton PRC registration number. “Leave a peaceful patrol alone … you’re in our waters!”

  Poon’s face was split into a malevolent grin. A PRC automatic pistol was in his hands and he stood at the gunnel silhouetted in the light, the cap pulled well down to preclude identification by the binoculars he knew were raking the ship. His heart was racing too and there was a sick-sweet-sour bile in his mouth. They were in international waters. Safety and PRC waters were fifteen minutes away. He cocked the gun. Orders were quite clear. No one was boarding tonight.

  “Haul to! We’re coming aboard!”

  They all saw the patrol boat slow and the cutter splash into the sea and many aboard lost their initial confidence. Four Fingers squeezed the throttle forward to get the last fraction of power. He cursed himself for not seeing the police boat or sensing their presence earlier but he knew that they had electronic devices to see in the dark whereas he had to rely on eyes and nose and the sixth sense that so far had kept him and most of his people alive.

  It was rare to find a patrol boat so close to Chinese waters. Even so, the boat was there and though his cargo was gone, there were guns aboard and so was Paul Choy. Joss! All gods defecate on that patrol boat! Goodweather Poon was partially right, he told himself. The gods will decide if it was wise or not to bring the youth aboard.