Tai-Pan (101 page)

May-may turned and put her lips near Struan’s ear and shouted, “Tai-Pan, I’m displeasurably unhappy with all this noise.”

He laughed and held her tighter and she put her arms around his neck. He knew that nothing would touch them now. The worst was past.

“Three or four more hours, and it’ll be gone, lassie.”

“Stinky storm. Did I tell you it was a dragon? A sea-monster dragon?”

“Aye.”

“God’s blood!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I forgot to take the last dungtasting-poison-cinchona cup. Today’s the last day, never mind.”

“You’ll take it in a few hours, never mind!”

“Yes, Husband!” May-may felt very happy and very healthy. She played with the long hair at the nape of Struan’s neck. “I hope the children are all right.”

“Aye. Dinna worry, Chen Sheng will look after them.”

“When we go, heya? I’m fantastical urgent about marriage.”

“Three months. Definitely before Christmas.”

“I think you should take another barbarian wife as Third Sister.”

He laughed.

“Very important have lots of sons. Dinna laugh, by God!”

“Maybe you’ve a good thought, lassie,” he said. “Perhaps I should have three barbarians. Then there’s you and Yin-hsi. I think it’s terrifical important we should get another Chinese sister before we leave.”

“Huh! If your activity thus far with Second Sister’s any signal, we take lovers, by God!” Then she kissed his ear and shouted, “I’m very gracious pleased my joss gave me you, Tai-Pan!”

A cannonade of Supreme Winds blew the windows in on the south side and the whole building shifted as though in an earthquake. The nails in the roof screamed against an untoward pull, and then a devil gust peeled off the roof and hurled it into the sea.

Struan felt Yin-hsi surge away into the maelstrom above. He grabbed for her, but she had vanished.

Struan and May-may held each other tightly.

“Dinna give up, Tai-tai!”

“Never! I love you, Husband.”

And the Supreme Winds fell on them.

The sun rose bravely and spread warmth over the shattered town and the safe harbor.

Culum found his father in the havoc of the residence. Struan was crumpled in a corner of the north suite, and in his arms was a small, gaunt Chinese girl. Culum wondered how his father could have loved her, for to him she was not beautiful.

But they were not made obscene by death. Their faces were calm, as if they were asleep.

Culum left the room and went down the broken staircase, and outside into the gentle east breeze.

Tess was waiting. And when she saw him shake his head helplessly, her eyes too filled with tears and she held his hand. They walked out of Happy Valley by Queen’s Road, seeing nothing.

The new township was in ruins, with debris scattered everywhere. But, here and there, buildings were still standing, some mere shells, others damaged only slightly. The foreshore was alive with people hurrying to and fro, or standing still in groups surveying the wreckage of their dwellings or business houses. Many were supervising gangs of coolies, salvaging their sodden possessions or making repairs. Sedan-chair coolies were plying their trade. So were the beggars. Patrols of soldiers had been placed at strategic points against the inevitable looting. But, strangely, there were very few looters.

Sampans and junks were fishing in the calm harbor among the flotsam of broken boats. Others were arriving, bringing new settlers. And the procession of Chinese from the shore up to Tai Ping Shan had begun again.

Smoke hung over the hillside. There were a few fires amid the wreckage of hovels. But beneath the smoke was the hum of industry. Restaurants, tea and food shops and street vendors were doing business again while the inhabitants—hammering, sawing, digging, chattering—patched up their homes or began to rebuild, blessing their joss they were alive.

“Look, Culum luv,” Tess said. They were near the dockyard.

Culum was numb, his brain hardly functioning. He looked where she was pointing. On a slight hillside their almost-finished home was roofless and tilted off the foundations.

“Oh dear,” she said. “What’re we going to do?”

He did not answer. Her fear magnified as she sensed his panic. “Come on, luv. Let’s—let’s go to the hotel, then—then aboard 
White Witch.
 Come on, luv.”

Skinner hurried up to them. His face was grimy, his clothes ripped and filthy.

“Excuse me, Mr. Culum. Where’s the Tai-Pan?”

“What?”

“The Tai-Pan. Do you know where he is? I’ve got to see him immediately.”

Culum did not answer, so Tess said, “He’s—he’s dead.”

“Eh?”

“He’s dead, Mr. Skinner. We—my—Culum saw him. He’s dead. In’t factory.”

“Oh God, no!” Skinner said, his voice thick. Just my cursed joss!

He mumbled condolences and went back to his printing shop and his demolished press. “You’re publisher-owner!” he shouted. “Of what? You’ve no press and no money to buy another, and now the Tai-Pan’s dead, so you can’t borrow from him, so you own nothing and you’re busted! Busted! What the hell’re you going to do?” He kicked the rubble, careless of his coolies who stood to one side, waiting patiently. “Why the hell did he have to die at a time like this?”

He ranted on for a few minutes and then sat on a high stool. “What’re you going to do? Get yourself together! Think!”

Well, he told himself, the first thing is to bring out the paper. Special edition. How? Handpress. “Yes, handpress,” he repeated aloud. “You’ve the labor and you can do that. Then what?”

He noticed the coolies watching him. Then you keep your mouth shut, he cautioned himself. You get out a paper then go to that helpless young idiot Culum and talk him into putting up money for the new press. You can twist him easily. Yes. And you keep your mouth shut.

Blore came in. His face was lifeless.

“Morning,” he said. “What a bloody mess! The stands’ve vanished, and the paddock. Everything. Lost four horses—the gelding too, dammit to hell!”

“The Tai-Pan’s dead.”

“Oh God!” Blore leaned against the shattered doorway. “That tears it. Oh well, thought it was too good to last.”

“Eh?”

“Hong Kong—the Jockey Club—everything. This puts the coffin on everything. Stands to reason. The colony’s a disaster. This new bugger Whalen’ll take one look and laugh himself silly. No hope now, without the Tai-Pan. Dammit, I liked him.”

“He put you up to seeing me, didn’t he? Giving me the dispatch?”

“No,” Blore said. The Tai-Pan had sworn him to secrecy. A secret was a secret. “Poor chap. Glad in a way he didn’t live to see the end of the colony.”

Skinner took him by the arm and pointed to the harbor. “What’s out there?”

“Eh? The harbor, for God’s sake.”

“That’s the trouble with people. They don’t use their heads or their eyes. The fleet’s safe—all the merchantmen! We lost one frigate aground, and she’ll be repaired and floated in a week. 
Resting Cloud
 the same. 
Boston Princess
 gutted on Kowloon. But that’s all. Don’t you understand?

The worst typhoon in history put Hong Kong to the test—and she came out of it with all flags flying, by God. The typhoon was huge joss. You think the admiral won’t understand? You think even that clot-headed Cunnington doesn’t know our might rests with the fleet—whatever that dumb-brained general thinks? 
Sea power,
 by God!”

“Good Lord. You really think so?”

Skinner had already gone back inside and was shoving debris out of his way. He sat down and found a quill and ink and paper and began scribbling.

“You really think so?”

“If I were you, I’d start making plans for the new stands. You want me to print that you’re having a meet as scheduled?”

“Absolutely. Oh, jolly good! Yes.” Blore thought a moment. “We ought to start a custom—I know, we’ll have a special race. Biggest prize money of the year—last race of the season. We’ll call it the Tai-Pan Stakes.”

“Good. You’ll read it tonight!”

Blore watched Skinner writing. “Are you doing his obituary?”

Skinner opened a drawer and pushed a sheaf of papers toward him. “Wrote it a few days ago. Read it. Then you can help me on the handpress.”

Culum and Tess were still standing where Skinner had left them.

“Come on, luv,” Tess said, tugging his arm, anguished.

With an effort Culum concentrated. “Why don’t you go aboard 
White Witch?
 I’m—I’m sure they’re anxious to—to know you’re safe. I’ll come aboard later. Let me alone for a while, will you, dear? I’ve—well, just let me alone.”

“Oh Culum, what’re we going to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

He saw her looking up at him and then she had gone. He walked on toward Glessing’s Point, not hearing and not seeing, time ceasing to exist for him. Oh God in heaven, what do I do?

“Mr. Struan?”

Culum felt a tug on his arm and came out of his daze. He noticed that the sun was high in the sky and that he was leaning against the shattered flagpole at Glessing’s Point. The master-at-arms was looking down at him.

“His Excellency’s compliments, Mr. Struan. Would you kindly step aboard?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Culum said, feeling drained and dull-witted.

He allowed the master-at-arms to guide him to the waiting cutter. He climbed the gangway on the flagship and then went below.

“My dear Culum,” Longstaff said, “terrible news. Terrible. Port?”

“No. No, thank you, Your Excellency.”

“Sit down. Yes, terrible. Shocking. As soon as I heard the news I sent for you to give you my condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m leaving with the tide tomorrow. The new plenipotentiary sent word by Monsey that he’s in Macao.” Damn Whalen! Why the devil didn’t he wait? Damn the typhoon! Damn Dirk! Damn everything! “You’ve met Monsey haven’t you?”

“No—no, sir.”

“No matter. ’Pon me word, damned annoying. Monsey was in the residence and not a scratch. Yes, terrible. No accounting for joss.” He took snuff and sneezed. “Did you hear that Horatio was killed too?”

“No—no, sir. The last—I thought he was at Macao.”

Damned fool, what did he have to get killed for? Complicates everything. “Oh, by the way, your father had some documents for me. Have to have them before I leave.”

Culum searched his memory. The effort exhausted him even more. “He didn’t mention them to me, Your Excellency. I don’t know anything about them.”

“Well, I’m sure he kept them in a safe place,” Longstaff said, delighted that Culum was not privy to them. “A safe, Culum, that’s where they’d be. Where’s his private safe?”

“I—I don’t know, sir. I’ll ask Vargas.”

“Come on, Culum, pull yourself together. Life goes on. The dead must bury their dead and all that sort of thing. Mustn’t give up, what? Where’s his safe? Think! In the residence? Aboard 
Resting Cloud?
”

“I don’t know.”

“Then I suggest you look, and very quickly.” Longstaff’s voice sharpened. “This is of paramount importance. And keep this entirely to yourself. You understand the punishment for treason?”

“Yes—yes, of course,” Culum answered, frightened by Longstaff.

“Good. And don’t forget you’re still deputy colonial secretary and under a solemn oath to the Crown. I put the papers in your father’s hands for safekeeping. Highly secret diplomatic documents concerning a ‘friendly power.’ Maps, documents in Russian with English translations. Find them. Report back aboard the instant you have them. Report back aboard at sunset in any event. If you can’t do the job, I’ll do it myself. Oh yes, and I’ll be consigning some seeds to you. They’ll be arriving in a few days. You will redirect them to me and treat the matter with equal secrecy. Orderly!” he called out.

The door opened instantly. “Yessir!”

“Show Mr. Culum ashore!”

Culum went back to the longboat in panic. He hurried to 
Resting Cloud.
 She was in the middle of the sampan village, almost upright. Soldiers had been posted against looters. He clambered aboard and went below.

Lim Din was standing guard with a cleaver, outside Struan’s quarters.

“Mass’er dead?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Lim Din made no reply. Nor did his expression change.

“When Tai-Pan hav paper—important paper—where putshee?” Culum asked.

“Heya?”

“Paper—put safe. Safe hav? Safe box?”

Lim Din motioned him inside and showed him the safe in the bulkhead of Struan’s bedroom. “This piece?”

“Key-ah?”

“Key-ah no hav. Tai-Pan hav, never mind.”

Where would he have the key? Culum asked himself in desperation. On him! On him, of course! I’ll have to . . . would Vargas have a duplicate? Oh God in heaven, help me. There’ll be—well, a funeral and coffin. Where do I—and . . . and what about the girl, the Chinese girl? Can she be buried with him? No, that’s not right. Does he have a family by her? Didn’t he say that he had? Where are they? In the ruins? Think, Culum! Wake up, for God’s sake! What about the ships? And money? Did he leave a will?

Forget that, that’s not important now—none of it is. You’ve got to find the secret papers. What did Longstaff say? Maps and a Russian document?

Brock walked, unnoticed, into the cabin. He saw the fear and helplessness in the youth’s face, and the bloodstains on his hands and clothes. “Morning, lad,” he said, kindly. “I comed as soon as I heared. I be sorry, lad, but doan thee fret. I be doing everything for thee.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Brock,” Culum said, his relief apparent. “It’s just that I . . .” He sat down weakly.

“Tess sayed without you, she beed deaded an’ Glessing too. It be bad joss about thy Da’, but doan thee fret. I beed to residence, lad, and I be making all arrangements proper. I ordered Orlov t’put Lion and Dragon at half-mast and I be getting 
Resting Cloud
 afloat in no time. Thee just catch thy breath. I be lookin’ after all.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Brock. Did you see his key? I need to get—” Culum was on the point of explaining about the documents, and then he remembered what Longstaff had said about treason and he stopped himself in time. “I just thought,” he said lamely, “well, I suppose I ought to go through his papers.”