Tai-Pan (88 page)

“Yes.” Father Sebastian was going to make the sign of the cross over him, but decided against it. “I cannot bless your departure, Mr. Struan. You’re going to a killing, aren’t you?”

“Man is born to die, Father. I just try to protect mysel’ and mine as best I know how and to choose the time of my dying, that’s all.”

He picked up the fighting iron and tied it to his wrist, then left the house.

As he walked the streets, he felt eyes watching him but paid them no heed. He drew strength from the morning and from the sun, and from the sight and smell of the sea.

It’s a good day to stamp out a snake, he thought. But you’re the one that’s dead. You’ve na the strength to go against Gorth with a fighting iron. Na today.

There was a large crowd near the junk. Traders, a detachment of Portuguese soldiers under a young officer, seamen. The junk was moored to a jetty off the 
pra
ça.
 When Struan appeared, those who had wagered on him were dismayed. And those who had wagered on Gorth were exultant.

The Portuguese officer politely intercepted Struan. “Good morning, senhor.”

“Morning, Captain Machado,” Struan replied.

“The governor-general wishes you to know that duels are forbidden in Macao.”

“I realize that,” Struan said. “Perhaps you’ll thank him for me and tell him I’d be the last to break Portuguese laws. I know we’re all guests and guests have responsibilities to their hosts.” He shifted the thong of his fighting iron and walked toward the junk. The crowd parted and he saw the animosity on the faces of Gorth’s men and on those who wished him dead. There were many.

Lo Chum was waiting on the high quarterdeck beside Horatio. “Morning, Mass’er.” He held up the shaving gear. “You wantshee?”

“Where’s Gorth, Horatio?”

“His seconds are looking for him.”

Struan prayed that Gorth was flat on his back in a whorehouse, drunk as a fiddler’s bitch. Oh God, let us fight tomorrow!

He began to shave. The crowd watched silently and many crossed themselves, awed by the serenity of the Tai-Pan.

When he had shaved he felt somewhat better. He looked at the sky. Threads of cirrus touched the heavens and the sea was calm as a lake. He called to Cudahy, whom he had taken off 
China Cloud.
 “Guard my back.”

“Yes, sorr.”

Struan stretched out on a hatch and fell asleep at once.

“Good Lord,” Roach said, “he’s inhuman.”

“Yes,” Vivien said, “he’s the Devil, all right.”

“Double the wager, eh, if you’re so confident?”

“No. Not unless Gorth arrives drunk.”

“Say he was to kill Gorth—what about Tyler?”

“They’ll fight to a death, I’m thinking.”

“What’ll Culum do, eh? If Gorth be victor today.”

“Nothing. What can he do? Except hate, maybe. Poor lad, I rather like him. He hates the Tai-Pan anyway—so maybe he’ll bless Gorth, eh? He becomes Tai-Pan, right enough. Where the devil’s Gorth?”

The sun rose relentlessly in the sky. A Portuguese soldier raced out of an adjacent street and spoke animatedly to the officer, who immediately began to march his men at quick time up the 
pra
ça.
 Bystanders began to follow.

Struan awoke to aching reality, every fiber shrieking the need for sleep. He groped leadenly to his feet. Horatio was looking at him strangely.

Gorth’s brutally savaged body was lying in the filth of an alley near the wharves of Chinatown and around the corpse were the bodies of three Chinese. Another Chinese, more dead than alive with the haft of a broken spear in his groin, was lying moaning at the feet of a patrol of Portuguese soldiers.

Traders and Portuguese were crowding for a closer look. Those who could see Gorth turned away sickened.

“The patrol says they heard screaming and fighting,” the Portuguese officer told Struan and others who were near. “When they rushed down here, they saw Senhor Brock on the ground, as he is now. Three or four Chinese were spearing him. When the murdering devils saw our men, they vanished up there.” He pointed at a silent cluster of hovels and twisting alleys and passageways. “The soldiers gave chase but . . .” He shrugged.

Struan knew that he had been saved by the assassins. “I’ll offer a reward for the ones who escaped,” Struan said. “A hundred taels dead, five hundred if alive.”

“Save your ‘dead’ money, senhor. The heathen will merely produce three corpses—the first they can find. As to ‘alive’ ”—the officer jerked a disdainful thumb at the prisoner—“unless that 
bastardo degenerado
 tells us who the others are, your money is quite safe. On second thought, I think the Chinese authorities would be—shall we say—more deft in interrogation.” He spoke sharply in Portuguese and the soldiers put the man on a broken door and carried him away.

The officer flicked a smudge of dirt off his uniform. “A stupid and unnecessary death. Senhor Brock should have known better than to be in this area. It seems that no honor has been satisfied.”

“You be right lucky, Tai-Pan,” one of Gorth’s friends sneered. “Right lucky.”

“Aye. I’m glad his blood’s na on my hands.”

Struan turned his back on the corpse and slowly walked away.

He broke out of the alley and climbed the hill to the ancient fort. Once on the crest, surrounded by sea and sky, he sat on a bench and thanked the Infinite for the blessing of the night and the blessing of the day.

He was oblivious of passersby, of the soldiers at the gate of the fort, of the song of the church bells. Of birds calling or the gentle wind or the healing sun. Or of time.

Later he tried to decide what to do, but his mind wouldn’t function.

“Get hold of yoursel’,” he said aloud.

He walked down the hill to the bishop’s residence but the bishop was not in. He went to the cathedral and asked for him. A monk told him to wait in the cloistered garden.

Struan sat on a shaded bench and listened to the fountains bubbling. The flowers seemed more brilliant than ever to him, their perfume more exquisite. The beating of his heart and the strength of his limbs and even the constant ache of his ankle—these were not a dream but reality.

Oh God, thank you for life.

The bishop was regarding him from the cloistered walk.

“Oh, hello, Your Grace,” Struan said, exquisitely refreshed. “I came to thank you.”

The bishop pursed his thin lips. “What were you seeing, senhor?”

“I dinna ken,” Struan replied. “I was just looking at the garden. Enjoying it. Enjoying life. I dinna ken exactly.”

“I believe you were very close to God, senhor. You may not think so, but I know you were.”

Struan shook his head. “Nay, Your Grace. Just happy on a glorious day in a lovely garden. That’s all.”

But Falarian Guineppa’s mien did not change. His lean fingers touched his crucifix. “I was watching you for a long time. I could feel that you were close. 
You!
 Surely that’s wrong.” He sighed. “Yet how can we poor sinners know the ways of God? I envy you, senhor. You wished to see me?”

“Aye, your Grace. This cinchona cured the fever.”

“Deo gratias!
 But that is wonderful! How marvelous are the ways of God!”

“I’m going to charter a vessel immediately for Peru, with orders to load cinchona,” Struan said. “With your permission I’d like to send Father Sebastian, to find out how they harvest the bark, where it comes from, how they treat their malaria—everything. We share the cargo and the knowledge equally when he returns. I’d like him, under your authority, to write a medical paper immediately and send it to the 
Lancet
 in England—and to the 
Times
—about your successful treatment of malaria with cinchona.”

“Such an official medical treatise would have to be sent through official Vatican channels. But I will order him to do so. As to sending 
him
—that I will have to consider. However, I shall send someone with the vessel. When will it leave?”

“Three days.”

“Very well. We will share the knowledge and cargo equally. That is very generous.”

“We did na fix a price for the cure. She’s cured. So now will you please tell me the price?”

“Nothing, senhor.”

“I dinna understand.”

“There is no price on a handful of the cinchona that saved the life of one girl.”

“Of course there’s a price, I said whatever you wanted! I’m ready to pay. Twenty thousand taels were offered in Hong Kong. I’ll send you a sight draft.”

“No, senhor,” the tall priest replied patiently. “If you do I will only tear it up. I want no payment for the bark.”

“I’ll endow a Catholic church on Hong Kong,” Struan said. “A monastery if you wish. Dinna play with me, Your Grace. A trade is a trade. Name your price.”

“You owe me nothing, senhor. You owe the Church nothing. But you owe God very much.” He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross. 
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spirit us Sancti,”
 he said quietly, and left.

May-may found herself awakening, Struan’s arms supporting her, and the cup at her lips. She vaguely heard Struan talking quietly to Father Sebastian, but she did not make the effort to understand the English words. Obediently she swallowed the cinchona and let herself slide back into semiconsciousness.

She heard the monk leave and felt the alien presence gone, and this pleased her. She felt Struan lift her again and she swallowed the second cup, the foulness of the taste still nauseating her.

Through the comfortable mist she heard Struan sit in the bamboo chair, and soon came his heavy, regular breathing and she knew that he was asleep. This made her feel very safe.

The sounds of the amahs chattering in the kitchen, and Ah Sam’s brittle, caustic humor, and the perfume of Yin-hsi were so enjoyable that May-may would not let sleep embrace her wholly.

She lay quiet and gathered strength by the minute. And she knew that she would live.

I will burn incense to the gods for my joss. Perhaps a candle to the longskirt god. After all, the monk brought the bark, didn’t he?—however foul it tastes. Perhaps I should become a longskirt Christian. That would give the monk great face. But my Tai-Pan wouldn’t approve of that. Even so, I might as well. For if there’s no longskirt God, no harm is done, and if there is—then I will have been very clever. I wonder if the barbarian God is like our Chinese gods. Who, if you think about it, are very stupid. But not really. They’re like human beings with all our weaknesses and strengths. That’s so much more sensible than pretending, as the barbarians do, that their God is perfect and sees all and hears all and judges all and punishes all.

I’m glad I’m not one of them.

She heard the sibilance of Yin-hsi’s clothes and breathed her perfumed presence. She opened her eyes.

“You look better, Supreme Lady,” Yin-hsi whispered, kneeling close to her. “Look, I’ve brought you some flowers.”

The tiny bouquet was very pretty. May-may nodded weakly, but felt her strength coursing. Struan was sprawled in the reclining chair, heavily asleep, his face young in repose, dark shadows under his eyes and the raw red of a weal on his chin.

“Father’s been there for an hour or more,” Yin-hsi said. She was wearing pale blue silk trousers and a knee-length double-breasted silk tunic of ocean green, and there were flowers in her hair.

May-may smiled and moved her head and saw that it was dusk.

“How many days is it since this fever began, Sister?”

“It was last night. Father came with a longskirt monk. They brought the magic drink, don’t you remember? I sent that miserable slave Ah Sam to the joss house early this morning to give thanks to the gods. Why don’t you let me wash you? Let me arrange your hair. You’ll feel so much better.”

“Oh, yes, please, Sister,” May-may said. “I must look dreadful.”

“Yes, Supreme Lady, but that’s only because you almost died. Ten minutes and you’ll be as beautiful as you always are—I promise!”

“Be as quiet as a butterfly, Sister,” May-may said. “Don’t wake Father, whatever you do, and tell those turtledung slaves if Father wakes before I’m presentable you’ll personally—on my orders—put the thumbscrews on them.”

Yin-hsi delightedly shuffled away. A vast silence fell on the house.

Yin-hsi and Ah Sam tiptoed back into the room and bathed May-may with perfumed water and brought sun-fresh trousers of finest crimson shantung and a crimson tunic, and helped her to dress. They bathed her feet and changed her bandages, then propped her while she brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth out with baby urine. Finally, May-may chewed fragrant tea leaves and felt greatly purified.

They combed and brushed her hair, braided it and dressed it elegantly with fresh, sweet-smelling flowers, and changed the sheets and the pillows and sprinkled them with perfume and put aromatic herbs under the pillow.

And even though the moving and changing had sapped much of her strength, May-may felt reborn.

“Now some broth, Supreme Lady. And then a fresh mango,” Yin-hsi said.

“And then,” Ah Sam said importantly, her silver earrings jingling, “we have marvelous news for you.”

“What?”

“Only after you’ve eaten, Mother,” Ah Sam said. When May-may began to protest, Ah Sam shook her head firmly. “We have to look after you, you’re still a patient. Second Mother and I know that good news is marvelous for digestion. But first you must have something to digest.”

May-may drank some broth and ate a little of the sliced mango. They encouraged her to eat more. “You must build up your strength, Supreme Lady.”

“I’ll finish the mango if you tell me the news now,” May-may said.

Yin-hsi frowned. Then she nodded to Ah Sam. “Go on, Ah Sam. But begin with what Lo Chum told you—how it all started.”

“Not so loud!” May-may said warningly. “Don’t wake Father.”

“Well,” Ah Sam began, “the night before we arrived—seven dreadful days ago—Father’s barbarian son fell into the clutches of the devil incarnate, a barbarian. This monstrous barbarian laid a plot so foul, so fiendish—to destroy Father’s beloved son—that I almost cannot describe it. And last night and today, while the devil magic drink was wrecking your fever sickness, things came to their terrible doom-filled climax. We spent the vigil of the night on our kness begging the gods. But to no avail. Father was lost, you were lost, we were lost, and worse—the enemy had won the game.” Ah Sam paused and with studied faintness tottered to the table, picked up the tiny glass filled with the wine that Yin-hsi has brought as a present to May-may and sipped it, overcome with emotion.