Tai-Pan

by James Clavell

  “You were really at Trafalgar?”

  “Aye. I was seven. I was the oldest of my group but the most afraid.” Struan clapped his son warmly on the shoulder. “So dinna worry. Nae anything wrong in that.”

  “I’m not afraid now, Father. It’s just the stench of the hold.”

  “Dinna fool yoursel’. It’s the stench of the blood you think you smell—and the fear it’ll be your own.”

  Culum quickly hung over the side of the ship as he retched again. Though the wind was brisk, it would not blow the sick sweet smell out of his head or the words of Orlov from his brain.

  Struan went over to the brandy keg and drew a tot and handed it to Culum and watched while he drank it.

  “Beggin’ yor pardon, sirr,” the steward said. “The bath wot was ordered be ready, sirr.”

  “Thank you.” Struan waited until the steward had joined his gun crew, then he said to Culum, “Go below, lad.”

  Culum felt the humiliation well in him. “No. I’m fine here.”

  “Go below!” Though it was an order, it was given gently, and Culum knew that he was being allowed the chance to go below and save face.

  “Please, Father,” he said, near tears. “Let me stay. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry. I’ve been in this sort of danger a thousand times, so it’s easy for me. I know what to expect. Go below, lad. There’s time enough to bathe and come back on deck. And be part of a fight, if fight it is. Please go below.”

  Despondently, Culum obeyed.

  Struan turned his attention to Robb, who was leaning on the gunnel, gray-faced. Struan thought for a moment, then walked over to him. “Would you do me a favor, Robb? Keep the lad company? He’s na feeling well at all.”

  Robb forced a smile. “Thanks, Dirk. But this time I need to stay. Sick or not. Is it an invasion armada?”

  “Nay, lad. But dinna worry. We can blast a way through them if need be.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “How’s Sarah? She’s very near her time, is she na? Sorry, I forgot to ask.”

  “She’s well as most women feel with a few weeks to go. I’ll be glad when the waiting’s over.”

  “Aye.” Struan turned away and adjusted the course a shade.

  Robb forced his mind off the junks that seemed to fill the sea ahead. I hope it’s another girl, he thought. Girls are so much easier to raise than boys. I hope she’s like Karen. Dear little Karen!

  Robb hated himself again for shouting at her this morning—was it only this morning that they had all been together in Thunder Cloud? Karen had disappeared, and Sarah and he had thought she had fallen overboard. They were frantic and when the search had begun, Karen had come blithely on deck from the hold where she had been playing. And Robb had been so relieved that he had shouted at her, and Karen had fled sobbing into her mother’s arms. Robb had cursed his wife for not looking after Karen more carefully, knowing that it was not Sarah’s fault, but being unable to stop himself. Then in a few minutes little Karen was like any child, in easy laughter, everything forgotten. And he and Sarah were like any parents, still sick with mutual anger, everything not forgotten….

  Fore and aft, the junk fleets were blocking China Cloud’s avenues of escape. Robb saw his brother leaning against the binnacle, casually lighting a cheroot from a smoldering cannon taper, and wished that he could be so calm.

  Oh God, give me strength to endure five months and another twelve months and the voyage home, and please make Sarah’s time easy. He leaned over the rail and was very sick.

  “Two points to port,” Struan said, watching the shore of Hong Kong carefully. He was almost close enough to the finger of rocks off the starboard bow and well to windward of the line of junks. A few minutes more and he would turn and hurtle at the junk he had already marked for death, and he would smash through the line safely—if there were no fire ships and if the wind did not slacken and if no hidden reef or bank mutilated him.

  The sky was darkening to the north. The monsoon was holding true, but Struan knew that in these waters the wind could shift a quarter or more with alarming suddenness, or a violent squall could sweep out of the seas. With the ship carrying so much sail he would be in great danger, for the wind could rip away his sails before he could reef them, or tear away his masts. Then too, there could be many reefs and shoals waiting to tear his ship’s belly open. There were no charts of these waters. But Struan knew that only speed would carry them to safety. And joss.

  “Gott im Himmel!” Mauss was peering through the binoculars. “It’s the Lotus! The Silver Lotus!”

  Struan grabbed the binoculars and focused on the flag that flew atop the huge junk: a silver flower on a red background. No mistake. It was the Silver Lotus, the flag of Wu Fang Choi, the pirate king, whose sadism was legendary, whose countless fleets ravaged and ruled the coasts of all south China and exacted tribute a thousand miles north and south. Supposedly, his base was in Formosa.

  “What’s Wu Fang Choi doing in these waters?” Mauss asked. Again he felt the weird hope-fear welling in him. Thy will be done, oh Lord.

  “The bullion,” Struan said. “It must be the bullion. Otherwise Wu Fang Choi would never risk coming here, na with our fleet so close.”

  For years the Portuguese and all the traders had paid tribute to Wu Fang Choi for the safe-conduct of their ships. Tribute was cheaper than the loss of the merchantmen, and his junks kept the south China seas rid of other pirates—most of the time. But with the coming of the expeditionary force last year, the British traders had ceased paying for this safe passage, and one of Wu Fang’s pirate fleets had begun to plunder the sea-lanes and the coast near Macao. Four Royal Navy frigates had sought out and destroyed most of the pirate junks, and followed those that fled into Bias Bay—a pirate haven on the coast, forty miles north of Hong Kong. There the frigates had laid waste the pirate junks and sampans, and had fired two pirate villages. Since that time the flag of Wu Fang Choi had never ventured near.

  A cannon boomed from the pirate flagship, and astonishingly all the junks except one turned into the wind and downed mainsails, leaving only their short sails aft to give them leeway. A small junk detached itself from the fleet and headed the mile toward China Cloud.

  “Helm alee!” Struan ordered, and China Cloud was turned into the wind. The sails flapped anxiously and the ship lost way and almost stopped. “Keep her head t’wind!”

  “Aye, aye, sorr!”

  Struan was looking through the binoculars at the small junk. Waving from the masthead was a white flag. “God’s death! What’re they playing at? Chinese never use a flag o’ truce!” The ship came closer and Struan was even more dumfounded at the sight of a huge black-bearded European dressed in heavy seafaring clothes, cutlass at his belt, conning the junk. Beside the man was a young Chinese boy, richly dressed in green brocade gown and pants and soft black boots. Struan saw the European train his long telescope on China Cloud. After a moment the man put the telescope down, laughed uproariously and waved.

  Struan passed the binoculars to Mauss. “What do you make of that man?” He leaned across to Captain Orlov, who had a telescope trained on the junk. “Cap’n?”

  “Pirate, that’s certain.” Orlov handed his telescope to Robb. “Another rumor is confirmed—that Wu Fang Choi has Europeans in his fleet.”

  “But why would they all down sails, Dirk?” Robb said incredulously.

  “The emissary’ll tell us.” Struan walked to the edge of the quarterdeck. “Mister,” he called out to Cudahy, “ready to put a shot across his bows!”

  “Aye, aye, sorr.” Cudahy jumped for the first cannon and trained it.

  “Cap’n Orlov! Get the longboat ready. You lead the boarding party. If we dinna sink her first.”

  “Why board her, Dirk?” Robb said, approaching Struan.

  “No pirate junk’s coming within fifty yards. It may be a fire ship or full of powder. In times like these it’s better to be ready for devilment.”

  Cu
lum self-consciously appeared in the companionway dressed in a seaman’s clothes—heavy woolen shirt and woolen jacket and wide-legged trousers and rope shoes.

  “Hello, lad,” Struan said.

  “What’s going on?”

  Struan told him, and added, “The clothes suit you, lad. You’re looking better.”

  “I am much better,” Culum said, feeling uncomfortable and alien.

  When the pirate junk was a hundred yards away, China Cloud put a shot across her bows and Struan picked up a horn. “Heave to!” he shouted. “Or I’ll blow you out of the water!”

  Obediently the junk swung into the wind and dropped her sails and began to drift with the strength of the tide.

  “Ahoy, China Cloud! Permission to come aboard,” the black-bearded man shouted.

  “Why, and who are you?”

  “Cap’n Scragger, late o’ London Town,” the man called back and guffawed. “A word in yor ear, M’Lord Struan, privy like!”

  “Come aboard alone. Unarmed!”

  “Flag o’ truce, matey?”

  “Aye!” Struan walked to the quarterdeck rail. “Keep the junk covered, Mr. Cudahy!”

  “He be covered, sorr!”

  A small dinghy was lowered over the side of the junk, and Scragger climbed into it nimbly and began rowing toward China Cloud. As he approached he began singing in a rich, lilting voice. It was a sea chantey, “Blow the Man Down.”

  “Cocky sod,” Struan said, amused in spite of himself.

  “Scragger’s an uncommon name,” Robb said. “Didn’t Great-Aunt Ethel marry a Scragger of London?”

  “Aye. I thought the same, lad.” Struan grinned. “Mayhaps we’ve a relation who’s a pirate.”

  “Aren’t we all pirates?”

  Struan’s grin broadened. “The Noble House’ll be safe in your hands, Robb. You’re a wise man—wiser than you give yoursel’ credit for.” He looked back at the dinghy. “Cocky sod!”

  Scragger appeared to be in his thirties. His long unkempt hair and his beard were raven-black. His eyes were pale blue and small, and his hands like hams. Golden rings hung from his ears and a jagged scar puckered the left side of his face.

  He tied his dinghy up and scaled the boarding net with practiced ease. As he jumped onto the deck he touched his forelock with mock deference to the quarterdeck and made an elaborate bow. “Morning, Yor Honors!” Then to the seamen who were gaping at him, “Morning, mateys! Me guv’, Wu Fang Choi, wishes you a safe journey ’ome!” He laughed and showed broken teeth, then came to the quarterdeck and stopped in front of Struan. He was shorter than Struan but thicker. “Let’s go below!”

  “Mr. Cudahy, search him!”

  “Now, it be a flag o’ truce and I ain’t armed, that be the truth. You’ve me oath, so help me!” Scragger said, the picture of innocence.

  “So you’ll be searched anyway!”

  Scragger submitted to the search. “Be you satisfied, Tai-Pan?”

  “For the moment.”

  “Then let’s below. Alone. Like I asked.”

  Struan checked the priming of his pistol and motioned Scragger down the gangway. “Rest of you stay on deck.”

  To Struan’s amazement, Scragger proceeded through the ship with the familiarity of one who had been aboard before. Reaching the cabin, he plopped to the sea chair and stretched out his legs contentedly. “I’d like to wet me whistle afore I starts, if it please you. Rowin’ be thirsty work.”

  “Rum?”

  “Brandy. Ah, brandy! An’ if you’ve a keg to spare, I’ll be mighty favorable inclined.”

  “To do what?”

  “To be patient.” Scragger’s eyes were steely. “You be like wot I thort you be like.”

  “You said you were late o’ London Town?”

  “Yus, that I did. A long time ago. Ah, thankee,” Scragger said, accepting the tankard of fine brandy. He sniffed it lovingly, then gulped it down and sighed and brushed his greasy whiskers. “Ah, brandy, brandy! Only thing wrong with me present post be the lack of brandy. Does me heart good.”

  Struan refilled the tankard.

  “Thankee, Tai-Pan.”

  Struan toyed with his pistol. “What part of London are you from?”

  “Shoreditch, matey. That were where I were brung up.”

  “What’s your Christian name?”

  “Dick. Why?”

  Struan shrugged. “Now get to the point,” he said. He planned to write by the next mail to find out if Dick Scragger was the name of a descendant of his great-aunt.

  “That I will, Tai-Pan, that I will. Wu Fang Choi wants to talk to you. Alone. Now.”

  “What about?”

  “I didn’t askt him and ’ee didn’t tell me. ‘Go get the Tai-Pan,’ says he. So here I am.” He emptied the tankard, then smirked. “You’ve bullion aboard, so the rumor says. Eh?”

  “Tell him I’ll see him here. He can come aboard alone and unarmed.”

  Scragger roared with laughter and scratched unconsciously at the lice that infested him. “Now, you knows he baint about t’ do that, Tai-Pan, any more’n you’d go aboard alone his ship wivout protection like. You seed the boy aboard my junk?”

  “Aye.”

  “It be his youngest son. He be hostage. You’re to go aboard, armed if you likes, an’ the boy stays here.”

  “And the boy turns out to be just a dressed-up coolie’s son and I get chopped!”

  “Oh no,” Scragger said, pained. “You’ve me oath, by God, and ’is. We baint a scalawag bunch o’ pirates. We’ve three thousand ships in our fleets and rule these coasts as you rightly knowed. You’ve me oath, by God. An’ his.”

  Struan noticed the white scars on Scragger’s wrists and knew there would be more on his ankles. “Why’re you, an Englishman, with him?”

  “Why indeed, matey? Why indeed?” Scragger replied, rising. “Can I helps meself to more grog? Thank you kindly.” He brought the bottle back to the desk and settled himself again. “There be upwards of fifty of us Limeys through ’is fleet. And fifteen or so others, Americans mostly, an’ one Frenchy. Captains, cannon makers, gunners, mates. I were a bosun’s mate by trade,” he continued expansively, inspired by the brandy. “Ten year or more ago I were shipwrecked on some islands north. The dirty little heathen bastards catched me for slave, Japaners they were. They sold me to some other heathen bastards, but I escaped and fell in with Wu Fang. He offer me a berth when he knowed I were a bosun’s mate and could do most things aboard.” He drained the tankard, belched, and refilled it. “Now, do we go or doan we?”

  “Why do you na stay aboard now? I can blow a path through Wu Fang right smartly.”

  “Thank you, matey, but I likes it where I be.”

  “How long were you a convict?”

  Scragger’s tankard stopped in midair and his expression became guarded. “Long enough, matey.” He looked at the wrist scars. “The iron marks, hey? Aye, the marks be still with me after twelve year.”

  “Where’d you escape from? Botany Bay?”

  “Aye, Botany Bay it were,” Scragger said, amiable once more. “Fifteen year transportation I got when just a lad, leastways when I were younger. Twenty-five abouts. How old be you?”

  “Old enough.”

  “I’ve never knowed for sure. Maybe I’m thirty-five or forty-five. Yus. Fifteen year for striking a muck-pissed mate on a muck-pissed frigate.”

  “You were lucky you were na hanged.”

  “Yus, that I were.” Scragger happily belched again. “I likes talking to you, Tai-Pan. It be a change from me mates. Yus, transported from Blighty I were. Nine month at sea chained along o’ four hundred other poor devils an’ the same of women or thereabouts. Chained belowdecks we were. Nine months or more. Water an’ hardtack an’ no beef. That’s no way to treat a man, no way at all. A hundred of us lived to reach port. We mutinied in the port o’ Sydney and broke our chains. Killed all the muck-ficked jailers. Then into the bush for a year, then I found me a ship. A merchantman.” Scr
agger chuckled malevolently. “Leastways, we fed on merchantmen.” He gazed into the depths of his tankard and his smile disappeared. “Yus, gallows bait, that what we all be, God curse all piss-arsed peelers,” he snarled. For a moment he fell silent, lost in his memories. “But I were shipwrecked like I said, and the rest.”

  Struan lit a cheroot. “Why serve a mad-dog pirate scum like Wu Fang?”

  “I’ll tell you, matey. I’m free like the wind. I got three wives an’ all the food I can eat, an’ pay, an’ I be captain of a ship. He treats me better’n my God-cursed kin. God-cursed kin! Yus. I be gallows bait to they. But to Wu Fang I baint, an’ where else and how else could the likes o’ me have wives an’ food and loot and no peelers an’ no gallows, eh? Course I be wiv him—or any wot gives me that.” He got up. “Now be you acomin’ like he asked or do we have to board you?”

  “Board me, Captain Scragger. But first finish your brandy. It’ll be the last you taste on this earth.”

  “We be having more’n a hundred ships again’ you.”

  “You must think me a right proper fool. Wu Fang’d never venture personally into these waters. Never. Na with our warships just the other side of Hong Kong. Wu Fang’s na wi’ your fleet.”

  “You be right proper smart, Tai-Pan,” Scragger cackled. “I were warned. Yus. Wu Fang baint with us but his chief admiral be. Wu Kwok, his eldest son. An’ the boy be ’is. That be the truth.”

  “Truth wears many faces, Scragger,” Struan said. “Now get to hell off my ship. The flag o’ truce is for your vessel only. I’ll show you what I think of your godrotting pirate fleet.”

  “That you will, Tai-Pan, given ’arf a chance. Oh yus, I forgot,” he said and pulled out a small leather bag that was thonged around his neck. He took out a folded piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. “I were to give you this,” he said, his face twisting derisively.