“The poor bastard’s really gone.” Norbert chuckled. “First thing we do is to cancel the duel, got to keep him alive. Now this is wh—” His smile vanished. “Wait a minute, what am I talking about? It’s all a storm in a pisspot, he’s no more tai-pan of Struan’s than I am. You’re the fool, whatever he says means nothing and much as his Bible-thumping mother would like to do the same, she’d never agree, couldn’t, it’d ruin them.”
Gornt smiled. “I disagree.”
Norbert glanced at him sharply. “Eh?”
“She’ll agree.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Secret.”
“What sort of secret?” Norbert glanced at the door as it opened. Lee, an elderly Cantonese with a long, thick queue, wearing neat livery—white jacket, black trousers—waddled in with glasses, champagne in an ice bucket, a neat towel over his arm. In moments two glasses were served. When the door had closed, Norbert raised his glass. “Health, and death to all Struans. What secret?”
“You told me to try to befriend him. I have. Now he confides in me. First—”
“He does?”
“Up to a point but it’s better every day. First, about tonight. The reason he wrote the letter and made the announcement was to curry favor with the Admiral, secretly.”
“Eh?”
“May I?” Gornt motioned at the champagne.
“Of course. Sit down and explain yourself.”
“He needs the Admiral’s approval to get aboard Pearl tomorrow, that’s the re—”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I happened to overhear them, talking privately—they went outside after dinner. I was looking at some of his paintings nearby—I’d noticed a couple of Aristotle Quances—and, well, their voices carried.” Gornt related, almost word for word, their conversation. “Ketterer ended by saying, ‘Let’s see what you can do in ten or fifteen minutes.’”
“That was all? Nothing about what’s aboard or what’s so important about Pearl?”
“No, suh.”
“Weird, that’s weird. What could it be?”
“I don’t know. The whole evening was strange. All during dinner I’d catch Struan glancing at the Admiral from time to time, but never once did he catch his eye. It was as though the Admiral deliberately avoided him without being too obvious. That’s what prompted my curiosity, suh.”
“Where was he sitting—the Admiral?”
“Next to Angelique, place of honor on her right, Sir William the other side, should have been the other way around—another curiosity. I was next to Marlowe, he was star-gazing at Angelique and talking boring naval talk, nothing about any trip tomorrow though I got the impression from what Struan had said, it had been planned for some time, pending the Admiral’s okay. After the Admiral left I brought the conversation with Marlowe back to tomorrow but he just said, ‘Might be doing some trials, old boy, if the Old Man approves, why?’ I told him I enjoyed ships and asked if I could come along, he laughed and said he’d certainly arrange a future trip, then he left too.”
“Nothing about Struan and the girl?”
“No, suh. He’s all eyes for her though.”
“It’s her tits.” Norbert grunted. “When Struan made the announcement what happened?”
“First there was a silence, then pandemonium, questions, some laughter, a few catcalls, Marlowe and the other naval officers cheered, and there was a lot of anger. McFay went white, Dmitri almost spat, Sir William stared at Struan, shaking his head as though the poor fellow was an object of pity. I’d concentrated on Ketterer. He made no sign one way or another, said nothing to Struan other than ‘Interesting,’ got up at once, thanked him for dinner and left. Struan tried to stop him, started to ask him about tomorrow but the Admiral either didn’t hear him or pretended not to, and stalked out, leaving Struan shaking. At the same time, suh, everyone talking and no one listening, like in a Chinese market, not a few furious and shouting at Struan that he was insane, and how in the hell could we carry on trade—you know, the obvious and the truth.”
Norbert finished his glass. Gornt began to pour for him but he shook his head. “Don’t like bubbly too much at night, makes me fart. Pour me a Scotch—the bottle’s over there.” It was on a sideboard, oak, weatherbeaten, an old sea clock on it. “What’s aboard Pearl he’d want so much?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did Struan do after Ketterer left?”
“He just sat down and took a large drink, stared into space, absently said good night as people began to drift off, paying no attention to Angelique, which again was unlike him. As to her, she just watched wide-eyed, not the center of attention for once, clearly not understanding what was going on so I guess not in Struan’s confidence either. I thought I’d better give you the news so didn’t stay.”
“You said something about a secret? What’s the secret, eh? Why that old bitch, Tess Struan, will agree to commit business suicide?”
“Because of Sir Morgan’s plan, suh.”
“What?”
“Sir Morgan.” Gornt smiled broadly. “Before we left Shanghai he told me, privately, he and Mr. Brock had planned and were in the middle of executing some scheme to ruin Struan’s and finish them for good. He told me it revolves around Hawaiian sugar, the Victoria Bank an—”
“Eh?” Norbert stared at him, remembering Sir Morgan had been specific that he had not given Gornt details of the coup, and did not want him to have them: “Even though the lad’s t’be trusted. Yes, an’ there be no harm in letting him mix in the poxy Struan circle to see what he can spy out.” “Morgan told you the details? About the deal?”
“No, suh, at least he only told me what I was to pass on to Struan as secretly as I could.”
“Jesus Christ,” Norbert said, exasperated, “you’d better start from the beginning.”
“He said I wasn’t to tell you about my part until I’d accomplished it, until I’d done what he told me to do. I have, I’m in Malcolm Struan’s confidence, so now I can tell you.” Gornt sipped his champagne. “Very good wine, suh.”
“Get on with it!”
“Sir Morgan told me to tell Struan a series of stories—he said it was near enough to the truth to hook Struan and through him the real tai-pan, Tess Struan. Suh, I can almost guarantee, the last of the Struan tai-pans is firmly hooked.” Quickly Gornt gave him the substance of exactly what he had told Malcolm Struan. Ending it, he laughed. “I’m to give him ‘the secret details’ after the duel, en route to his ship.”
“What’re you to tell him?”
The older man listened carefully. Knowing the real details, he was fascinated to hear more of Morgan’s craftiness. If Tess Struan acted on this false information, it would certainly buy Sir Morgan the extra few weeks he wanted. “But Sir Morgan,” Norbert had said in Shanghai when the plan had been laid out, “it’s foolproof now, you don’t need extra time, I can do my part in Yokohama before Christmas.”
“Yes, thee can, and will. But me an’ Dad, we likes to be safer than safe, lad, and extra time will make sure our necks be away from any ropes and our arses out of prison.”
Norbert suppressed a shudder at the thought of being caught. No rope, but prison for fraud probably and Debtors’ Prison a certainty. Sir Morgan’s a crafty bugger all right, just like him to tell me one thing and Gornt another. He’s saved me one risk, killing Struan. So it’s England for me and five thousand a year but I lose the cream, the manor house and being rich. Better safe than sorry.
Norbert sighed. I was looking forward to putting a bullet into Malcolm and reaping the cream, he thought, Old Man Brock’s words etched in his memory: “Norbert, there be cream in thy retirement. Thy bonus be upped by five thousand guineas a year if thee kills him, a thousand bonus for a bad wounding, thee’s beached if thee’s humbled.”
“Morgan’s clever, the plan’s foolproof,” he said with a smile. To make sure, testing him, added casually, “Isn’t it?”
“Suh?”
<
br /> “The small changes make all the difference, don’t they?” He was watching him carefully.
“Sorry, suh, I don’t know any details—other than what I’ve told you and he said to pass on to Struan.”
“I’ll have another Scotch—help yourself to wine,” Norbert said, satisfied, then drank in silence until he had thought everything through. “You continue as if you haven’t told me. Tomorrow I’ll cancel the duel. Can’t afford to kill or put the bugger out of action.”
“Yes, suh, that was my immediate thought too.” Gornt handed him Malcolm Struan’s letter, the equivalent of the one Norbert had signed. “He gave me this for you, but I suggest you don’t cancel tomorrow, that might make him suspicious—and we might find out what’s so important about Pearl, if he goes or if he doesn’t.”
“All right, Edward, good idea.” Norbert guffawed. “So Wednesday, young nipper Struan’s on his way to disaster, eh?”
Gornt grinned. “On his merry way, suh. Their Noble House is finished and ours begins.”
“Yes.” The warmth of the Scotch mixed with the warmth of the future. “Then you’ve decided to join us?”
“Yes, suh, if you approve. Sir Morgan said you’d have to approve.”
“You keep this up and you’re approved. Tonight was a good night’s work, tip-top. ’Night.”
He bolted the door after him. Before he climbed back into the high bed he used the chamber pot and felt even better. His glass was on his side table, perched on a pile of books and magazines, still a quarter full. He settled himself against the high pillows he favored and picked up the half-opened book, City of the Saints, Burton’s account of a stay among the mysterious, polygamous Mormons in Salt Lake City, Utah, another first for this, the most famous adventurer and explorer in the world, who spoke thirty or more languages, and whose exploits and idiosyncrasies were avidly followed in minutest detail.
He read a few paragraphs, then, distracted, tossed it aside. It’s not as good as Pilgrimage to El-Medina and Mecca, he thought, or about discovering Lake Tanganyika.
Amongst all that Mormon snatch you’d think Burton, who openly favors polygamy, which any fool knows is the right idea, would describe his conquests—he’s done it enough times in other books to raise the old hackles. Some papers reported he had a baker’s dozen of ’em, all at the same time, presented personally by Brigham Young, head of their “Latter-day Saints” Church and Governor of Utah. What liars!
But, my God, what a man—he’s done more and seen more than any Englishman alive, makes you even prouder to be English. And with all the freedom to go where he wants, live as he wants, how he wants, what’s he do but go back to England and get married to a good Englishwoman like any normal man. Of course, he left after a month and now they say he’s somewhere in parts unknown, the Hindu Kush or up in the secret land on Top of the World, living with the snow giants …
He sipped more of the drink, and thought about Gornt. That young bugger’s not as smart as he thinks. Anyone can work out what’s aboard Pearl and why. Ketterer can keep a secret, so can Wee Willie but Michaelmas Tweet can’t, nor Heavenly when he’s in his cups, so I’d heard about Tess Struan’s letters and that she’s boxed Wee Willie, blocked the Church, blocked all ship captains, and through Ketterer the Navy—’cepting she’s no power over the Navy! And aboard Pearl is Marlowe. Marlowe could marry ’em—if Ketterer allows it.
He chuckled.
But Ketterer hates Struan’s because they sold cannon to the White Lotus pirates, like us, like we’ve been selling cannon to any God-cursed warlord who’ll buy, and will continue to do the same even if Struan’s don’t, and why not? They’re legal and always will be. Parliament needs armament factories because armaments are great business and all governments like war—because wars are great business, and, most of all, because war covers up their own sodding incompetence.
To hell with governments.
Ketterer hates Struan’s. For all his redneck arrogance he’s no fool, he would want practical results for a favor. Those he can’t get—announcements from that young fool mean nothing—so he’s cat-and-mousing him. Maybe he’ll let Struan and his doxy go aboard, maybe he won’t, but either way Marlowe won’t be allowed to marry them—Ketterer wants Struan to crawl. The sod would make me crawl too if he’d a quarter of a chance and give me a hundred lashes to boot.
A large swallow of the fine whisky put him into a better humor and he laughed. So young Struan’s stymied: no Pearl-assisted marriage and back to Hong Kong, with or without his doxy, and into the sodding pit with his ma. Curious that I’ve got to leave the bugger alive when I’d planned to take the Old Man’s cream: “…but Norbert don’t thee be a-telling Morgan, he’s agin any killing, he be wanting to see young Struan in’t shit, his ma too! Remember, or I’ll have thy guts for garters.”
Must I stop the duel? I’ll think about that. Careful. I need the extra bonus.
Just like Morgan to give Gornt secret instructions and keep me in the dark. What else has he told Gornt he hasn’t told me? Never mind. Morgan’s the clever one, with all of his Old Man’s nerves but smooth with it, modern, no madness, and no risk—none of his dad’s brutal, merciless obsessions. Morgan’s our real tai-pan, and he’ll be the tai-pan of the new Noble House. It’s only taken twenty years to crush Dirk’s company, the biggest that’s ever been in Asia.
Satisfied, he finished his drink, turned down the wick, and settled himself with a yawn. Sorry I never saw the Old Man in his heyday, or the tai-pan, old Green-eyed Devil himself, whom only the devil winds of the Great Typhoon could kill. Lucky that young fool inherited none of his qualities.
Now the last guest had gone. Only Angelique, Jamie McFay, and Malcolm remained. The embers in the huge inglenook fireplace glowed as drafts came down the chimney and went away. Silently Malcolm was frowning at the fire, watching pictures in the coals. She sat on the arm of his chair, unsettled. McFay was leaning against the table. “I’ll say good night, Tai-pan,” he said.
Malcolm came out of his reverie. “Oh … Hang on a moment.” He smiled up at Angelique. “Sorry, Angel, I’ve a few things to discuss with Jamie, do you mind?”
“Of course not. ’Night, Jamie.” She bent and kissed Struan affectionately. “Good night, Malcolm, sleep well.”
“Good night, darling, we should leave early.”
“Yes … but Malcolm, please can I ask, what was all the shouting about? I didn’t understand, could you explain?”
“It was jealousy. Nothing more.”
“Oh! Of course, how strong you were and how modern! How right you are about guns and opium … oh la la, chéri, and wise. Thank you. Of course.” She kissed him again. “What time do we leave in the morning? I’m so excited, the voyage will be such a changement superbe.”
“Just after dawn. I’ll see you’re awakened in good time, but—but don’t be surprised if … if there’s a change of plan—Marlowe said the weather might change.”
“But he swore the wind would drop and it would be a grand day for a voyage.”
“I said ‘might change,’ Angel.” He gave her a hug. “If not tomorrow the earliest possible day, he promised.”
“I do hope it’s tomorrow. Je t’aime, chéri.”
“Je t’aime.”
When she was gone the silence in the room congealed. Chen peered around the door again. Malcolm said, “Close the bloody door and don’t come back.” It closed with alacrity. Jamie began to talk but he held up his hand. “Don’t say a thing about ships or cannon or opium. Please.”
“Very well.”
“Sit down, Jamie.” Malcolm had thought all around the corners of the Admiral and devised a plan for each of the various possibilities: if the Admiral decided they could make the trip with his blessing, or if they could make the trip but Marlowe was forbidden to perform the ceremony, or if the trip was postponed till sometime in the future. For the moment he put countermeasures aside. “Would you have our steam cutter alongside Pearl just before dawn, the Bosun to
find out from Marlowe if our trip’s on or not. If it is or if it isn’t, tell the Bosun to report to me here with the answer. All right?”
“Of course.”
“I wrote the letter for Norbert and gave it to Gornt tonight, so that’s done. Have I forgotten anything?”
“About Wednesday?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing I know of. Routes and times you know about, the pistols are standard, no doctors will be present as both Babcott and Hoag are considered unsafe. The letters are your only defense. No witnesses except Gornt and me.”
“Good. You’re ready to leave with Prancing Cloud?”
“I’ll send a valise aboard with our mails tomorrow, no one should notice. What about your trunks?”
“I’m only taking one. Sneak it aboard tomorrow—if anyone says anything it’s some clothes I’m sending on ahead, pending my move back to Hong Kong for Christmas.”
“Chen will pack for you?”
“He’ll have to. I’ll swear him to secrecy but that’ll only work with our society, not with the Chinese. I’ll have to take him with me. Ah Tok’s a problem but she can stay here pending our ‘real move.’ I’ll have to let Ah Soh into the secret. She’ll come with us to Hong Kong.”
“Angelique?”
“No need to tell her. If we go aboard Pearl, Ah Soh can pack a trunk of clothes and send that aboard with the same excuse, after nightfall tomorrow for safety. All right?”
“Yes.”
“Wednesday morning we, you and I, will sneak out the back way as planned. A little later Chen, Ah Soh and Angelique, well cloaked, will go across the road to our wharf where you’ll have the steam cutter waiting to take them to the clipper—”
“Excuse me butting in but if this is the final plan, better to use an oared cutter, less noise. For safety, the steam cutter should be waiting for us at Drunk Town wharf.”
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