Tai-Pan (75 page)

“I’m sorry to bear such bad tidings. I do so in good faith, hoping that somehow the information will be of value and that you will be able to survive to fight again. I still believe your plan for Hong Kong is the correct one. And I intend to continue to try to put it into effect.

“I know little about Sir Clyde Whalen, the new Captain Superintendent of Trade. He served with distinction in India and has an excellent reputation as a soldier. He’s no administrator, so I believe. I understand that he leaves tomorrow for Asia; thus his arrival would be imminent.

“Last: I commend my youngest son to you. He is a wastrel, black sheep, ne’er-do-well whose only purpose in life is to gamble, preferably on horses. There is a debtor’s warrant out for him from Newgate Prison. I told him that I would—a last time—settle his debts here if he would forthwith undertake this dangerous journey. He agreed, wagering that if he achieved the impossible feat of arriving in Hong Kong in under sixty-five days—half the normal time—I would give him a thousand guineas to boot.

“To insure as fast a delivery as possible, I said five thousand guineas if under sixty-five days; five hundred guineas less for every day over that stipulated period; all provided that he stayed out of England for the rest of my life—the money to be paid at five hundred guineas per year until finished. Enclosed is the first payment. Please advise me by return mail the date of his arrival.

“If there is any way you could use his ‘talents’ and control him, you would earn a father’s undying gratitude. I’ve tried, God help both me and him, and I’ve failed. Though I love him dearly.

“Please accept my sorrow at your bad luck. Give my best to Mr. Robb, and I end on the hope that I will have the pleasure of meeting you personally under more favorable circumstances. I have the honor to be, Sir, your most obedient servant, Charles Crosse.”

Struan gazed out at the harbor and the island. He remembered the cross that he had burned on the first day. And Brock’s twenty golden guineas. And Jin-qua’s remaining three coins. And the lacs of bullion that were to be invested for someone who, one day, would come with a certain chop. Now all the sweat and all the work and all the planning and all the deaths were wasted. Through the stupid arrogance of one man: Lord Cunnington. 
Good sweet Christ, what do I do now?

Struan overcame the shock of the news and forced himself to think. The Foreign Secretary’s a brilliant man. He would not repudiate Hong Kong lightly. There must be a reason. What can it be? And how am I to control Whalen? How to fit a “soldier and no administrator” into the future? Perhaps I should stop buying the land today. Let the rest of the traders buy and to hell with them. Brock’ll be crushed along with the others, for Whalen and the news will na arrive for a month or more. By that time they’ll be deep into desperate building. Aye, that’s one way, and when the news is common knowledge, we all retire to Macao—or to one of the treaty ports that Whalen will get—and everyone else is smashed. Or hurt very badly. Aye. But if I can get this information, Brock can too. So perhaps he’ll na be sucked in. Perhaps.

Aye. But that way you lose the key to Asia: this miserable threadbare rock, without which all the open ports and the future will be meaningless.

The alternative is to buy and build and gamble that—like Longstaff—Whalen can be persuaded to exceed his directives, that Cunnington himself can be got at. To pour the wealth of The Noble House into the new town. Gamble. Make Hong Kong thrive. So that the Government will be forced to accept the colony.

That’s mortal dangerous. You canna force the Crown to do that. The odds are terrible, terrible. Even so, you’ve nae choice. You have to gamble.

Odds reminded him of young Crosse. Now, here’s a valuable lad. How can I use him? How can I keep his mouth shut tight about his fantastic journey? Aye, and how can I create a favorable impression on Whalen for Hong Kong? And get closer to Cunnington? How can I keep the treaty as I want it?

“Well, Mr. Crosse, you did a remarkable voyage. Who knows how long it took you?”

“Only you, sir.”

“Then keep it to yoursel’.” Struan wrote something on a pad of paper. “Give this to my chief clerk.”

Crosse read the note. “You’re giving me the whole five thousand guineas?”

“I’ve put it in the name of Roger Blore. I think you’d better keep that name—for the time, anyway. ”

“Yes, sir. Now I’m Roger Blore.” He stood up. “Are you finished with me now, Mr. Struan?”

“Do you want a job, Mr. Blore?”

“I’m afraid there’s—well, Mr. Struan, I’ve tried a dozen things but it never works. Father’s tried everything and, well—I’m committed—perhaps it was preordained—to what I am. I’m sorry, but you’d be wasting good intentions.”

“I’ll bet you five thousand guineas you’ll accept the job I’ll offer you.”

The youth knew that he’d win the wager. There was no job, none that the Tai-Pan could offer him, that he would accept.

But wait. This is no man to play with, no man to wager lightly with. Those devil calm eyes are flat. I’d hate to see them across a poker table. Or at baccarat. Watch your step, Richard Crosse Roger Blore. This is one man who’ll collect a debt.

“Well, Mr. Blore? Where’re your guts? Or are you na the gambler you pretend?”

“The five thousand guineas is my life, sir. The last stake I’ll get.”

“So put up your life, by God.”

“You’re not risking yours, sir. So the wager’s uneven. That sum’s contemptible to you. Give me odds. Hundred to one.”

Struan admired the youth’s brashness. “Very well—the truth, Mr. Blore. Before God.” He shoved out his hand, and Blore reeled inside for he had gambled that asking for such odds would kill the wager. Don’t do it, you fool, he told himself. Five hundred thousand guineas!

He shook Struan’s hand.

“Secretary of the Jockey Club of Hong Kong,” Struan said.

“What?”

“We’ve just formed the Jockey Club. You’re secretary. Your job is to find horses. Lay out a racetrack. A clubhouse. Begin the richest, finest racing stable in Asia. As good as Aintree or any in the world. Who wins, lad?”

Blore desperately wanted to relieve himself. For the love of God, concentrate, he shouted to himself. “A race track?”

“Aye. You start it, run it—horses, gambling, stands, odds, prizes, everything. Begin today.”

“But, Jesus Christ, where’re you going to get the horses?”

“Where will 
you
 get the horses?”

“Australia, by God,” Blore burst out. “I’ve heard they’ve horses to spare down there!” He shoved the banker’s draft back at Struan and let out an ecstatic bellow. “Mr. Struan, you’ll never regret this.” He turned and rushed for the door.

“Where’re you going?” Struan asked.

“Australia, of course.”

“Why do you na see the general first?”

“Eh?”

“I seem to remember they’ve some cavalry. Borrow some horses. I’d say you could arrange the first meet next Saturday.”

“I could?”

“Aye. Saturday’s a good day for race day. And India’s nearer than Australia. I’ll send you by the first available ship.”

“You will?”

Struan smiled. “Aye.” He handed back the slip of paper. “Five hundred is a bonus on your first year’s salary, Mr. Blore, of five hundred a year. The rest is prize money for the first four or five meets. I’d say eight races, five horses each, every second Saturday.”

“God bless you, Mr. Struan.”

Then Struan was alone. He struck a match and watched the letter burn. He ground the ashes to dust then went below. May-may was still in bed, but she was freshly groomed and looked beautiful.

“Heya, Tai-Pan,” May-may said. She kissed him briefly, then continued fanning herself. “I’m gracious glad you’re back. I want you to buy me a small piece of land because I’ve decided to go to bisness.”

“What sort of business?” he asked, slightly peeved at the offhand welcome but pleased that she accepted his going and returning without question, and without fuss.

“You will see, never mind. But I want some taels to begin. I pay ten percent interest, which is first-class. A hundred taels. You will be a sleep partner.”

He reached over and put his hand on her breast. “Talking about sleeping, there’s—”

She removed his hand. “Bisness before sleepings. You buy me land and lend me taels?”

“Sleepings before business!”

“Ayeee yah, in this hot?” she said with a laugh. “Very well. It’s terrifical bad to tax yoursel’ in this hot—your shirt sticks already to your back. Come along, never mind.” She obediently walked toward her bedroom door, but he caught her.

“I was just teasing. How are you? Has the baby given you any troubles?”

“Of course na. I am a very careful mother, and I eat only very special foods to build a fine son. And think warlike thoughts to make him Tai-Pan-brave.”

“How many taels do you want?”

“A hundred. I already said. Have you nae ears? You’re terrifical strange today, Tai-Pan. Yes. Certainly very strange. You’re na sick, are you? You have bad news? Or just tired?”

“Just tired. A hundred taels, certainly. What’s the ‘bisness’?”

She clapped her hands excitedly and sat back at the table. “Oh, you will see. I’ve thought much since you gone. What do I do for you? Make love and guide you both terrifical good, to be sure, but that’s na enough. So now I make taels too for you, and for my old age.” She laughed again and he delighted in her laugh. “But only from the barbarians. I will make fortunes—oh, you will think I am cleveritious.”

“There’s nae such word.”

“You know very well what I mean.” She hugged him. “You want to make love now?”

“There’s a land sale in an hour.”

“True. Then best you change clotheses and hurry back. A small lot on Queen’s Road. But I pay no more than ten taels’ rent a year! Did you bring me present?”

“What?”

“Well, it’s a good custom,” she said, her eyes innocent, “that when a man leaves his woman, he brings her present. Jades. Things like that.”

“Nae jades. But next time I’ll be more attentive.”

She shrugged. “Good custom. Your poor old mother’s werry impoverish. We eat later, heya?”

“Aye.” Struan went to his own staterooms on the next deck above.

Lim Din bowed. “Bathe werry cold, all same, Mass’er. Wantshee?”

“Aye.”

Struan took off his limp clothes and lay in the bath and let his mind consider the implications of Sir Charles’s news, his fury at Cunnington’s stupidity almost overwhelming him. He dried himself and dressed in fresh clothes, and in a few moments his shirt was damp with sweat again.

Best I sit and think it out, he thought. Let Culum take care of the land. I’ll bet my life Tess told her father about his plan for the hill. Maybe Culum’ll be trapped into overbidding. The lad did well; I must trust him with this.

So he sent word to Culum to bid for The Noble House, and also told him to buy a small but good lot on Queen’s Road. And he sent word to Horatio that Mary was poorly and arranged for a lorcha to take him immediately to Macao.

Then he sat in a deep leather chair and stared out a porthole at the island and let his mind roam.

Culum bought the marine and suburban lots, proud to bid for The Noble House and to gain more face. He was asked by many where the Tai-Pan was—where he had been—but he answered curtly that he had no idea and continued to imply a hostility he no longer felt.

He bought the hill—and the lots that made the hill safe—and he was relieved that the Brocks did not bid against him, thus proving that Tess could be trusted. Even so, he decided to be more cautious in the future, and not put her in such a position again. It was dangerous to be too open with some knowledge, he thought. Dangerous for her and for himself. For example, the knowledge that the thought of her, the slightest touch of her, drove him almost frantic with desire. Knowledge that he could never discuss with her or his father but only with Gorth, who understood: “Yes, Culum lad. I knows only too well. It be terrible pain, terrible. Thee can hardly walk. Yes—and it be terrible hard to control. But doan worry, lad. We be pals and I understands. It be right to be frank, thee and me. It be terrible dangerous for thee to be like monk. Yes. Worse’n that, it be storing up troubles in the future—and even worse, I beared tell it be making for sickly offspring. The pain in thy guts be the warning of God. Yes—that pain’ll sicken a man all his life, and that be the mortal truth, so help me God! Doan thee worry—I knowed a place in Macao. Doan thee worry, old lad.”

And though Culum did not truly believe the superstitions that Gorth pronounced, the pains he endured day and night sapped his will to resist. He wanted relief. Even so, he swore, if Brock agrees to let us marry next month, then I won’t go to a whorehouse. I won’t!

At sunset Culum and Struan went aboard the 
White Witch.
 Brock was waiting for them on the quarterdeck, Gorth beside him. The night was cool and pleasant.

“I be decided about thy marrying, Culum,” Brock said. “Next month be unseemly. Next year be probable better. But the third month from now be Tess’s seventeenth birthday, and on that day, the tenth, thee can marry.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brock,” Culum said. “Thank you.”

Brock grinned at Struan. “Do that suit thee, Dirk?”

“It’s your decision, Tyler, na mine. But I think three months or two’s nae different to one. I still say next month.”

“September suit thee, Culum? Like I sayed? Be honest, lad.”

“Yes. Of course. I’d hoped, but—well, yes, Mr. Brock.” Culum swore that he would wait the three months. But deep inside he knew that he could not.

“Then that be settled proper.”

“Aye,” Struan echoed. “Three months it is, then.” Aye, he told himself, three months it is. You’ve just signed a death warrant, Tyler. Maybe two.

“And, Dirk, mayhaps thee’ll give me time tomorrer? We can fix dowry and wot not,”

“At noon?”

“Yus. At noon. And now I thinks we be joining the ladies below. You be staying for supper, Dirk?”

“Thank you, but there are some things I have to attend to.”

“Like the races, eh? I’ve to hand it to you. Proper smart to brung that Blore fellow out from home. He be a proper young spark. The last race o’ every meet be the Brock Stakes. We be putting prize money.”