“Aye,” he said, after a long moment.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Struan was in his private office on the ground floor, writing a dispatch to Robb. It was almost two o’clock. Outside the traders and their clerks and coolies and servants were carrying possessions from their factories to their lorchas. The Hoppo had relaxed the order withdrawing all the servants. Servants and coolies were to be allowed until the Hour of the Monkey—three o’clock—the time by which the Settlement was to be abandoned. Bannermen were still in the square preventing access to the American factory.
Struan finished the letter, affixed his special chop and sealed it with wax and signet ring. He had told Robb not to worry, that he would bring good news to Hong Kong, and that if he was late Robb should go to the land sale and buy all the land they had long ago decided upon. And buy the knoll, whatever the cost. Whatever Brock bid, Robb was to bid one dollar more.
Now Struan sat back and rubbed the fatigue out of his eyes and began to recheck his plan, trying to find the holes in it. Like all plans that involved the reactions of others, there always had to be a measure of joss. But he felt that the weathervane of his joss had backed to the old quarter, where he was always guarded and things happened as he wanted them to happen.
The tall grandfather clock chimed twice. Struan got up from the carved teak desk and joined the servants, who were streaming in and out of the factory under the supervision of the Portuguese clerks.
“We’re almost finished, Mr. Struan,” Manoel de Vargas said. He was an elderly, gray-haired, sallow Portuguese of great dignity. He had been with The Noble House for eleven years and was chief clerk. Before this he had had his own company with its headquarters in Macao, but he had been unable to compete with the British and American traders. He bore them no grudge. It is the will of God, he had said without rancor, and had gathered his wife and his children around him and had gone to Mass and had thanked the Madonna for all their blessings. He was like the vast majority of Portuguese—faithful, calm, content and unhurried. “We can go as soon as you say,” he said tiredly.
“Are you feeling all right, Vargas?”
“A little agued, senhor. But once we get settled, I will be well once more.” Vargas shook his head. “Bad to move and to move and to move.” He spoke sharply in Cantonese to a coolie staggering past under the weight of ledgers and pointed to a lorcha.
“That’s the last of the books, Mr. Struan.”
“Good.”
“This is a sad day, sad. Many bad rumors. Some stupid.”
“What?”
“That we will all be intercepted on our way and killed. That Macao is to be terminated, and we’re to be thrown out of the Orient once and for all. And the usual rumors that we’ll be back in a month and trade will be better than ever. There’s even a rumor that there’s forty lacs of bullion in Canton.”
Struan kept the smile on his face. “There are na that many lacs in Kwangtung Province!”
“Of course. Stupid, but it is amusing to relate. The bullion’s supposed to have been collected by the Co-hong as a gift to placate the emperor.”
“Drivel.”
“Of course, drivel. No one would dare to have so much in one place. All the bandits in China would fall on it.”
“Take this letter and deliver it into Mr. Robb’s hands. As soon as possible,” Struan said. “Then go immediately to Macao. I want you to organize teams of building workmen. I want them on Hong Kong Island two weeks from today. Five hundred men.”
“Yes, senhor.” Vargas sighed and wondered how long he would have to keep up the pretense. We all know The Noble House is finished. Five hundred men? Why do we need men when there is no money to buy land? “It will be difficult, senhor.”
“In two weeks,” Struan repeated.
“It will be difficult to find good workmen,” Vargas said, politely. “All the traders will be competing for their services—and the emperor’s edict has revoked the treaty. Perhaps they will not agree to work on Hong Kong.”
“Good wages will change their minds. I want five hundred men. The best. Pay double wages if necessary.”
“Yes, senhor.”
“If we’ve nae money to pay for them,” Struan added with a grim smile, “Brock will pay you well. There’s nae need to worry.”
“I am not worried about my own labors,” Vargas said with great dignity, “but I am worried about the safety of the house. I would not wish The Noble House to cease.”
“Aye, I know. You’ve served me well, Vargas, and I appreciate it. You take all the clerks with you now. I’ll go with Mauss and my men.”
“Shall I lock up, or will you, senhor?”
“You do that when all your clerks are aboard.”
“Very well. Go with God, senhor.”
“And you, Vargas.”
Struan walked across the square. Around him men were hurrying to make last-minute additions to the cargoes of the heavily laden lorchas that lay the length of the wharf. Farther up the wharf he saw Brock and Gorth profanely exhorting their sailors and clerks. Some of the traders had already left, and he waved cheerily to a lorcha as it headed downstream. Across the river, the boat people were watching the exodus, clamoring to offer their sampans for tows to midstream, since the direction of the wind made departure from the dock awkward.
Struan’s lorcha was two-masted, forty feet long, and commodious. Mauss was already on the poop.
“All squared away, Tai-Pan. There’s a rumor that the Hoppo seized Ti-sen’s house. Fifty lacs of silver bullion was in it.”
“So?”
“Nothing, Tai-Pan. A rumor, hein?” Mauss looked tired. “All my converts have disappeared.”
“They’ll be back, dinna worry. And there’ll be plenty to convert on Hong Kong,” Struan said, feeling sorry for him.
“Hong Kong is our only hope, isn’t it?”
“Aye.” Struan headed up the wharf. He saw a tall coolie emerge from the American factory and join the throng in the square. He changed direction.
“Heya, wat you Yankee dooa can?” he called out to the coolie.
“Damn you, Tai-Pan,” Cooper said from under the coolie hat. “Is my disguise so bad?”
“It’s your height, laddie.”
“Just wanted to wish you Godspeed. Don’t know when I’ll see you again. You’ve the thirty days, of course.”
“But you dinna think they’re of value?”
“I’ll find that out in thirty-odd days, won’t I?”
“In the meantime, buy eight million pounds of tea for us.”
“With what, Tai-Pan?”
“What do you usually pay for tea with?”
“We’re your agents, certainly. For the next thirty days. But I can’t buy for you without bullion.”
“Did you sell all your cotton?”
“Not yet.”
“You better sell fast, lad.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps the bottom’s out of the market.”
“If it is, there goes Independence.”
“That’d be a pity, would it na?”
“I hope you settle with Brock somehow. And build your Independent Cloud. I want the satisfaction of beating you myself.”
“Stand in the line, lad,” Struan said good-naturedly. “Be prepared to buy heavily and fast. I’ll send word.”
“It won’t be the same without you, Tai-Pan. If you go, we’ll all lose a little.”
“Perhaps I won’t go after all.”
“Half of me wants you out. You, more than any, have had a too huge slice of the market, too long. It’s time for free seas.”
“Free for American ships?”
“And others. But not on British terms.”
“We’ll always rule the seas, lad. We have to. You’re an agricultural country. We’re industrialists. We need the seas.”
“One day we’ll take the seas.”
“By that time perhaps we will na need the seas because we’ll rule the skies.” Cooper chuckled. “Don’t forg
et about our bet.”
“That reminds me. I got a letter from Aristotle a few days ago. He asked for a loan to tide him over because ‘that delectable commission has to wait till summer because she suffers from goose pimples.’ We’ve plenty of time to run her to earth—or would it be to bed?”
“Can’t be Shevaun. She’s got ice for blood.”
“Did she say nay to you again?”
“Yes. Put in a good word for me, huh?”
“I’ll na get in the middle of that negotiation!”
Over Struan’s shoulder Cooper could see Brock and Gorth approaching. “If the Brocks never reached Hong Kong, you’d get the time you need. Wouldn’t you?”
“Are you suggesting a wee bit o’ murder?”
“That wouldn’t be a little. That would be very much, Tai-Pan. Afternoon, Mr. Brock.”
“I thort it were thee, Mr. Cooper,” Brock said breezily. “Nice of thee to see us’n off.” Then, to Struan, “Thee be off now?”
“Aye. I’ll show Gorth the stern of my ship all the way to Whampoa. Then, in China Cloud, all the way to Hong Kong. As usual.”
“The only stern you’ll show is yors in six day when you be tossed into debtors’ prison, where you belong,” Gorth said thickly.
“All the way to Hong Kong, Gorth. But there’s nae point in having a race with you. As a seaman you’re na fit to row a boat.”
“I be better’n you, by God.”
“If it were na for your father, you’d be the laughingstock of Asia.”
“By God, you son of—”
“Hold yor tongue!” Brock barked. He knew Struan would be delighted to be called son of a bitch publicly by Gorth, for then he could challenge him to a duel. “Why bait the lad, eh?”
“Na baiting him, Tyler. Just stating a fact. You better teach him some manners as well as seamanship.”
Brock held himself in check. Gorth was no match for Struan yet. Yet. In a year or two, when he be more cunning, that be different. But not now, by God. An’ it baint the English way to kick yor enemy in the gut when he be lying on his back, helpless. Like godrotting Struan. “Friendly wager. A hundred guineas says my boy can beat thee. First to touch the flagpole at Hong Kong.”
“Twenty thousand guineas. His money, not yours,” Struan said, his eyes taunting Gorth.
“How you going to pay, Tai-Pan?” Gorth said contemptuously, and Brock boiled at his son’s stupidity.
“He doan mean that other’n as a joke, Dirk,” Brock said quickly. “Twenty thousand it is.”
“Aye, a joke it is. If you say so, Tyler.” Struan was outwardly cold but inwardly jubilant. They had swallowed the bait! Now Gorth and Brock would hurry to Hong Kong—twenty thousand guineas was a tidy fortune, but nothing against forty lacs safe in China Cloud. Brock was safely out of the way. A dangerous game though. Gorth nearly went too far and then blood would have been spilled. Too easy to kill Gorth.
He put out his hand to Cooper. “I’m holding you to the thirty days.” They shook. Then Struan glanced at Gorth. “The flagpole at Hong Kong! Good voyage, Tyler!” and he hared for his lorcha, which had already cast off and was being nosed into midstream.
He leaped onto the gunnel and turned back and waved mockingly. Then he disappeared belowdecks.
“Excuse us’n, eh, Mr. Cooper?” Brock said, taking Gorth by the arm. “We be in touch!”
He shoved Gorth toward their lorcha. On the poop deck he pushed him violently against the gunnel. “You cursed halfwit poxwobbled scupper rat! You want yor godrotting troat cut from godrotting ear to ear? You call a man son of a bitch in these waters, you got to fight. You call him that, he’s the right to kill thee!” He backhanded Gorth across the face, and blood trickled from Gorth’s mouth. “I tell thee fifty times to watch that devil. If I watch he, by God, thee better!”
“I can kill him, Da’, I know I can!”
“I tell thee fifty times, act perlite to him. He be waiting to cut thee up, fool. An’ he can. You baint fighting that devil but once! Understand?”
“Yes.” Gorth felt the blood in his mouth, and the taste increased his rage.
“Next time I let thee get deaded, fool. An’ another thing. Never challenge a man like ’im on a gamblin’ debt. Nor kick him in the groin when he be beat an’ helpless. That not be the code!”
“Pox on the code!”
Brock backhanded him again. “The Brocks live by the code. Open. Man t’man. Go again’ it, and thee be out of Brock and Sons!”
Gorth wiped the blood off his mouth.
“Doan hit me again, Da’!”
Brock felt the violent edge to his son’s voice, and his face tightened.
“Doan do it, Da’. By the Lord Jesus Christ, I’ll hit you back,” Gorth said, his weight on both legs, fists like granite. “You hit me a last time. You hit me again and I won’t stop. By the Lord Jesus, you hit me a last time!”
The veins in Brock’s throat were black and throbbing as he squared up to his son, no longer a son but an enemy. No, not an enemy. Only a son who was no longer a youth. A son who had challenged his father as all sons challenge all fathers. Brock knew and Gorth knew that if they fought, blood would be spilled and there would be a casting out. Neither wanted a casting out, but if it came, both father and son knew they would be blood enemies.
Brock hated Gorth for making him feel his age. And loved him for standing up to him when he knew, beyond doubt, that he was more cunning in the art of death fighting than Gorth would ever be.
“Thee best get to Hong Kong.”
Gorth unclenched his fists with an effort. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “But thee’d best settle with that bastard right smartly, if thee’ve a mind—or next time I do it my own way.” He glared at the bosun. “What the hell’re you scum waiting for? Get under way!”
He wiped the blood off his chin and spat overboard. But his heart was still pumping heavily and he was sorry that there had not been a third blow. I were ready, by God, an’ I could’ve beat him—like I can beat that green-eyed son of a bitch. I know I can.
“Which course should we follow, Da’?” he asked, for there were many different ways to go. The approaches to Canton on the river were a maze of islands large and small, and multitudinous waterways.
“Thee got thyself into this mess. Chart thy own course.” Brock walked to the port gunnel. He felt very old and very tired. He was remembering his own father who was an ironworker, and how as a boy he had had to take the beatings and guidance and watch his temper and do what he was told until the day he was fifteen and the blood filled his eyes. And when his sight had cleared, he saw that he was standing over his father’s inert body.
Lord above, he thought, that were near. I be glad I doan have to fight him proper. I doan want to lose my son.
“Doan thee take after Dirk Struan, Gorth,” he said, his voice not unkind.
Gorth said nothing. Brock rubbed the socket of his eye and replaced the patch. He watched Struan’s lorcha. It was already in midstream, Struan nowhere in sight. The sampan shoved the bow around, then scuttled neatly to the other side. A tangle of Struan’s men leaned on the ropes and chanteyed the sails aloft. The sampan poled back toward Vargas’ lorcha.
Baint like Dirk to leave so fast, Brock reflected. Baint right at all. He glanced back at the wharf and saw that Vargas and all Struan’s clerks were still there, the lorcha still tied up. Now, that baint like Dirk. To leave afore his clerks. Dirk be strange about things like that. Yus.
Struan was hiding in the cabin of the sampan. As the boat nosed around the bow of the Vargas’ lorcha, Struan rammed the coolie hat low on his head and pulled the padded Chinese jacket tighter around him. The sampan owner and his family did not appear to notice him. They had been well paid not to hear or to see.
The plan he had made with Mauss was the safest under the circumstances. He had told Mauss to hurry to China Cloud, which lay at anchor off Whampoa Island thirteen miles away; to take the shorter northern passage there and then order Captain
Orlov to cram on all sail and rush downstream to the end of the island; to change course there and cut around it and head back upstream by the south channel toward Canton again; he had warned that it was of paramount importance that this maneuver not be observed by Brock. Struan, meanwhile, would wait for the bullion lorcha and then take the long route and sneak by devious waterways to the south side of the island where they would rendezvous. By the Marble Pagoda. The pagoda was two hundred feet high and easily seen.
“But why, Tai-Pan?” Mauss had said. “It’s dangerous. Why all the risk, hein?”
“Just be there, Wolfgang,” he had said.
When the sampan reached the wharf, Struan picked up some panniers that he had had prepared, and hurried through the throng to the garden gate. No one paid any attention to him. Once inside, he tossed the panniers aside, raced to the dining-room window and peered carefully through the curtains.
His lorcha was well away. Brock was in midchannel, gaining way, the sails billowing as the breeze caught them. Gorth stood on the poop and Struan could faintly hear his obscenities. Brock was at the port gunnel, staring downstream. Vargas had just finished checking the clerks and was walking back toward the garden.
Struan ducked out of the dining room and ran quickly upstairs. From the landing he saw Vargas come into the foyer, make a final check and leave. Struan heard the key turn in the door. He relaxed, and climbed a narrow staircase to the loft. He eased his way past old packing cases and walked cautiously toward the front of the building.
“Hello, Tai-Pan,” May-may said. She was dressed in her verminous Hoklo trousers and padded jacket, but she had not dirtied her face. She was kneeling on a cushion behind some packing cases. Ah Gip got up and bowed and then squatted down again near the small bundle of clothes and cooking utensils. May-may indicated another cushion that was opposite her, and the backgammon board that was set up. “We play, same stakes, heya?”
“Just a moment, lassie.”
There was a skylight in the loft and another in the front wall. Struan could scan the whole square clearly and safely. People were still milling and cursing and making last-minute changes. “Did you notice me?”
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