by Gai-Jin(Lit)
"secrets": you'll be his son-in-law within a year. Of course, ridiculous, you are far too young for marriage, and I could not conceive of a worse connection. Singly or together they are out to snare you, my son. Be circumspect and beware of feminine guile.
For the first time in his life he was furious with his mother. Shakily, he shoved the paper into the flame, held it while it burned then pulverized the ash to nothingness, smashed the flame out and sent the candle skittering and lay back nauseated, heart pounding, all the time his mind shouting; how dare she investigate Angelique and her family without asking me! How dare she be so wrong! Whatever sins they committed Angelique is not to blame.
Mother of all people should know the sins of the fathers are not to be blamed on the children! Wasn't my beloved grandfather much worse, wasn't he a killer and not much more than a pirate, as her father still is? She's a bloody hypocrite! It's none of her business who I marry. It's my life and if
I want to marry Angelique next year I will. Mother knows nothing about Angelique--and when she knows the truth she'll love her as I do--or else by God! She...
"Oh Christ," he gasped as pain ripped him apart.
McFay looked up from the piles of letters, documents and journals littering his desk. "How is he?" he asked anxiously as Dr.
Babcott came in and closed the door. The office was spacious, facing the High Street and the sea.
"It was a stomach seizure of some kind,
Jamie. To be expected, I'm afraid, poor chap. I dressed his wound-- he'd torn a few stitches. I gave him a draft of laudanum." Babcott rubbed his eyes, red-rimmed with fatigue, his frock coat heavy and frayed at the sleeves and stained, here and there, with chemicals and dried blood. "Not much more
I can do for him at the moment. What's the latest from the fleet?"
"Status quo: the fleet's at action stations,
Legation's still surrounded, the Bakufu are supposed to appear soon."
"What happens if they don't?"
McFay shrugged. "I've had orders to get
Malcolm back to Hong Kong as soon as possible--very important for him. I can get him on the mail sh--"
"I absolutely forbid it," Babcott said with more anger than he intended. "That would be stupid and highly dangerous, highly dangerous. If they got into a storm which is likely this time of the year
... well, severe and prolonged vomiting would tear the repairs apart--which would kill him. No!"
"Then when will it be safe?"
The doctor glanced out of the windows.
Whitecaps out past the headland, none in the bay.
Sky overcast. He weighed his helplessness against his knowledge. "At least a week, perhaps a month. God knows, Jamie, I don't."
"If you were to go on the mail ship, would that help?"
"For Christ's sake, no! Didn't you hear me clearly? No. No! He's not to move.
Nine days on a ship would kill him."
McFay's face closed. "What are
Malcolm's chances? Really. It's very important I know."
"Still good. His temperature's more or less normal and there's no sign of any festering."
Babcott rubbed his eyes again and yawned.
"Sorry, didn't mean to snap at you. Been up since midnight patching the results of a sailor versus soldier Drunk Town brawl, and a dawn emergency in the Yoshiwara, had to sew up a young woman who tried to cut herself into the next world." He sighed. "It would help to keep him as calm as possible. I'd say his bad news probably brought on the attack."
The knowledge and implications of Culum Struan's death and therefore Malcolm's new status as tai-pan--of vital and immediate concern to all their rivals--had rushed through the
Settlement. In Brock's, Norbert
Greyforth had interrupted a meeting to open the first bottle of champagne from the case he had had kept chilled against this day for many weeks--chilled in their new, and highly profitable Ice House next door to their godown. "Best news we've had in years," he chortled to Dmitri, "and
I've another twenty cases for the party I'm throwing tonight. A toast, Dmitri!" He raised his cut glass, the best Venetian that money could buy. "Here's to the tai-pan of the Noble House: out with the Old, out with the New by God, and may they be bankrupt within the year!"
"I'll drink with you, Norbert, to the success of the new tai-pan, none of the rest," Dmitri said.
"Open your eyes to reality. They're the old, we're the new--once they had guts when Dirk
Struan was alive but now they're weak,
McFay's weak--why with his enthusiastic help and a little persuasion on the night of Canterbury's murder we could have roused the whole Settlement, the fleet, the Army, we'd have captured this bugger
Satsuma king, hanged him, and be living happily ever after."
"I agree. John Canterbury's going to be revenged, one way or another. Poor bastard," Dmitri said. "You know he left me his business?"' Canterbury's was one of the smaller trading houses, specializing in the export of silk cloth, and particularly cocoons and silkworm eggs, a highly lucrative trade to France where the silk industry, once the best in the world, had been decimated by disease. "John always said he would but
I never believed him. I'm his Executor too
--Wee Willie gave me the deed before he left."
"Samurai are all bastards, no reason to murder him like that. What about his musume? Old
John was beset by her. She's carrying, isn't she?"'
"No, that was a rumor. In his will he asked me to take care of her, give her money to buy her own shack. I went to see her but her mama-san, Raiko, that old bat, she told me the girl had gone back to her village but she'd send on any money. I paid over what
John had said so that was that."
Thoughtfully Norbert finished his wine and poured more and felt better. "You should take care of yourself too," he said keeping his voice down, judging the time ripe. "You've the future to think of, not a few rolls of cloth and worm eggs. Consider the Great Game, the American game. With our contacts we can buy any amount of British,
French or Prussian armaments--we've just signed an exclusive deal to represent
Krupp's in the Far East--at better prices than Struan's can give you, have them delivered in
Hawaii for transshipment to... to wherever, no questions asked."
"I'll drink to that."
"Whatever you want, we can get cheaper and faster." Norbert refilled their glasses.
"I like Dom P@erignon, it's better than
Tatt--that old monk knew about color and sugar, and the lack of it. Like Hawaiian sugar," he added delicately, "I hear it's going to be so pricey this year to be almost a national treasure, for North or South."
Dmitri's glass stopped in midair.
"Meaning?"'
"Meaning, just between us, Brock and Sons have the lock on this year's crop, meaning that Struan's won't have so much as a hundred-pound sack so your deal with them won't happen."
"When's this going to be common knowledge?"'
Dmitri's eyes slitted.
"Would you like to be part of it? Our deal? We could use a trustworthy agent for the States,
North and South."
Dmitri poured for both of them, enjoying the touch of the chilled glass. "In return for what?"'
"A toast: to the demise of the Noble
House!"
Throughout Yokohama other toasts were being quaffed at the rare tidings of Culum's death and the succession of a new tai-pan, and in boardrooms throughout the Far East, and elsewhere, that traded with
Asia. Some toasts were celebratory, some vindictive, some toasted the succession, some blessed all Struan bones to the devil, some prayed for their success but all men of business considered how the news would affect them for, like it or not,
Struan's was the Noble House.
In the French Legation Angelique clinked glasses, sipped the champagne warily, her glass cheap and barely adequate, like the wine. "Yes, I agree, Monsieur
> Vervene."
Pierre Vervene was the Charg`e d'Affairs, a tired, balding man in his forties. "The first toast requires a second,
Mademoiselle," he said, raising his glass again, towering over her, "not only prosperity and long life to the new tai-pan, but to the tai-pan
--your future husband."
"La, Monsieur!" She put down her glass, pretending to be cross, "I told you that in confidence because I'm so happy, so proud, but it must not be mentioned out loud, until he,
Monsieur Struan makes it public. You must promise me."
"Of course, of course." Vervene's tone was reassuring but he had already mentally drafted the dispatch he would rush to Seratard aboard their flagship at Yedo the moment she left.
Clearly there were innumerable political ramifications and opportunities that such a liaison would create for France and French interests. My God, he was thinking, if we're clever and we are, we can control the Noble House through this young strumpet with nothing to recommend her except a fairly pretty face, delectable breasts, an overripe maidenhead and buttocks that promise her husband a wanton vigor for a month or two. How the devil did she snare him--if what she says is really true. If it is...
Merde, the poor man must be insane to settle for this baggage, with no dowry and disreputable lineage, to be the mother of his children! What incredible luck for that odious swine, Richaud, now he'll be able to redeem his paper. "My sincerest congratulations, Mademoiselle."
His door swung open and the Legation Number
One Boy, an elderly, rotund Chinese dressed in linen coat, black trousers and black skullcap and ladened with mail barged in.
"Heya, Mass'r, all same mail-ah, never mind!" He plonked the letters and packages on the ornate desk, gawked at the girl, and belched as he left.
"My God, these foul-mannered people are enough to drive one mad! A thousand times I've told that cretin to knock first! Excuse me a moment."
Quickly Vervene leafed through the letters.
Two from his wife, one from his mistress, all postmarked two and a half months ago: Both asking for money, I'll wager, he thought sourly.
"Ah, four letters for you, More'selle." Many nationals sent their mail in care of their nearest
Legation. "Three from Paris and one from Hong
Kong."
"Oh, oh thank you!" She brightened seeing that two were from Colette, one from her aunt, the last from her father. "We're such a long way from home, no?"
"Paris is the world, yes yes it is. Well,
I expect you'll want some privacy, you can use the room across the hall. If you'll excuse me..." Vervene motioned at his heaped desk, his smile self-deprecating, "affairs of
State."
"Of course, thank you. And thank you for your good wishes, but please, not a word...." She swept out graciously knowing that within hours her marvelous secret would be common knowledge, whispered from ear to ear. Is that wise? I think so, Malcolm did ask me, didn't he?
Vervene opened his letters, scanned them, quickly saw they both asked for money but no other bad news, at once put them aside to read and enjoy later and began the dispatch for Seratard--with a secret copy for Andr`e Poncin--delighted to be the bearer of good tidings. "Wait a moment," he muttered, "perhaps it's like-father-like-daughter and just the usual exaggeration! Safer to report it as a few minutes ago Mademoiselle
Angelique whispered in confidence that... then the
Minister can make up his own mind."
Across the hall, in a pleasant antechamber that faced the small garden off the High Street she had settled herself expectantly. Colette's first letter gave her happy news of Paris and fashion and affairs and their mutual friends so delightfully that she raced through it knowing she would reread them many times, particularly tonight in the comfort of her bed when she could savor everything. She had known and loved Colette most of her life--at the convent they had been inseparable, sharing hopes and dreams and intimacies.
The second letter gave more exuberant news, ending about her marriage--Colette was her own age, eighteen, already married a year with one son:
I am pregnant again, dearest Angelique, my husband is delighted but I am a little fretful. As you know the first was not easy though the
Doctor assures me I will be strong enough.
When will you return, I cannot wait...
Angelique took a deep breath and looked out of the window and waited until the twinge had passed. You must not leave yourself open, she repeated to herself, near tears. Even with Colette. Be strong, Angelique. Be careful. Your life has changed, everything changed--yes but only for a little while. Do not be caught unawares.
Again a deep breath. The next letter shocked her. Aunt Emma wrote the awful news of her husband's fall and: now we are destitute and my poor poor Michel languishes in
Debtor's Prison with no help in sight!
We've nowhere to turn, no money. It's terrible, my child, a nightmare...
Poor darling Uncle Michel, she thought, weeping silently, a shame he was such a bad manager. "Never mind, dear darling
Aunt-Mama," she said aloud, filled with a sudden joy. "Now I can repay all your kindnesses, I'll ask Malcolm to help, he'll certainly..."
Wait! Would that be wise?
While she pondered that she opened her father's letter. To her surprise the envelope contained only a letter, without the expected sight draft she had asked for, on money brought with her from Paris and deposited in the Victoria Bank, money that her uncle had generously advanced to her--on the solemn promise that she must not tell his wife and that her father would instantly repay the loan the moment she reached Hong Kong, which he told her he had done.
Hong Kong, September 10. Hello my little cabbage, I hope that all is well and your Malcolm idolizes you as I do, as the whole of Hong Kong does. It's rumored his father is at death's door. I will keep you advised. Meanwhile I write in haste as I leave for Macao on the tide. There's a wonderful business opportunity there, so good that
I have temporarily pledged the money instruments you left in safekeeping and will invest for you as an equal partner. By the next post I will be able to send you ten times what you wanted and tell you the wonderful profit we have made--after all, we have to think of your dowry, without which... eh?
Her eyes could not read on, her brain in turmoil. Oh my God! What business opportunity? Is he gambling all that I have in the world?
It was nearly two o'clock and McFay was weary, his stomach empty, his mind filled with gloom.
He had written a dozen letters, signed half a hundred chits, paid dozens of bills, checked the previous day's books which showed trading was down, found that all goods ordered from America were either cancelled, held up or offered at increased prices, all business with Canada and Europe equally affected in some degree by the American civil war. No good news either in any dispatches from Hong Kong--a lot of bad from their branch in
Shanghai, though Albert MacStruan, the power there, was doing a sterling job. My God, he thought, it'd be a catastrophe if we have to evacuate Shanghai, with all our investments there.
The city was again in turmoil and the three foreign concessions under British, French and American control beset with rumors that armies of rebel irregulars of the immense Tai'ping
Rebellion, based in and around Nanking--a major city southwards they had captured nine years ago and used as a capital--were again on the move. The clipping from the Shanghai
Observer read:
Two years ago when our valiant force of
British and French troops, ably assisted by the local mercenary army, organized and paid for by our merchant princes, both European and Chinese, under the command of the gallant American soldier of fortune, Frederick Townsend Ward, drove off the rebels for a thirty-mile radius, we all presumed the threat was put away forever.
Now eyewitnesses report an irresistible army of half a million rebels, with some
European officers, have massed to come against us, and an
other half million will again stab north for
Peking. Their opposing Manchu armies are unreliable and helpless, their Chinese levies mutinous, so this time we will not survive. It is hoped that Her Majesty's Government will prevail on the Manchu authorities to appoint Captain Charles Gordon to command of