Tai-Pan

  “By the Lord Harry,” Glessing shouted to no one in particular. “That bastard gouged our man!”

  “And who started the melee, by God? The round was over!” Major Turnbull said, his temper rising, hand on his sword. He was a taut man of thirty-five and chief magistrate of Hong Kong. “Just because you’ve been appointed harbor master, you think that gives you the right to mask a foul?”

  “No, by God! But don’t try to bring the full majesty of your appointment into a social affair.” Glessing turned his back on him, and shoved forward in the crowd.

  “Hello, Culum!”

  “Hello, George. Good fight, isn’t it?”

  “Did you see that bastard gouge our man?”

  “I think he got gouged back, didn’t he?”

  “That’s not the point, by God!”

  And then the half minute was up and the fighters rushed at each other.

  The second and third rounds were almost as long as the first, and the spectators knew that no man could stand such punishment for long. In the fourth round a sailing left hook caught the soldier under the ear and he crashed to the canvas. The bell sounded and the seconds grabbed their man. After the cruelly brief half-minute respite the soldier charged to the line, pummeled the sailor, then grabbed him around the chest and savagely hurled him down. Then back into the corner again and thirty seconds and fight once more.

  Round after round. Ahead on falls, behind on falls.

  In the fifteenth round Tinker’s fist connected with Grum’s broken nose. Fire burst in Grum’s head, blinding him; he screamed and flailed wildly in panic. His left fist hit home and his eyes cleared a moment and he saw that the enemy was open and tottering and heard a hugeness of screaming and cheering close by, yet far away. Grum hurled his right fist, clenching it as he had never clenched it before. He saw it crush into the soldier’s belly. His left crossed and smashed his enemy on the side of the face and he felt a small bone in his hand shatter and then he was alone. There was once more that godhating bell and hands grabbed him, and someone shoved the liquor bottle into his broken mouth and he drank deeply and vomited the blood-streaked liquor and croaked, “What round, mate?” and someone said, “Nineteenth,” and he was up to scratch once more and there was the enemy again, hurting him, killing him, and he had to stay and conquer or die.

  “Good fight, eh, Dirk?” Brock bellowed above the excitement.

  “Aye.”

  “You wants to change yor mind and wager?”

  “No thanks, Tyler,” Struan told him, awed by the bravery of the fighters. Both were at the limit of their strength, fiercely beaten. Grum’s right hand was almost useless, Tinker’s eyes barely open. “I would na like to take on one of them in a ring, by God!”

  “They be gutty as any alive!” Brock laughed, showing his brown and broken teeth. “Who’s t’ win?”

  “Take your pick. But I’ll wager they’ll never give up, and no towel for either of them.”

  “That be truth, by God!”

  Hibbs intoned, “Twenty-fourth round,” and the fighters lumbered heavily into the center of the ring, their limbs leaden, and smashed at each other. They kept on their feet only by the strength of their wills. Tinker hurled a monstrous left that would have felled an ox, but the blow slid off Grum’s shoulder and he slipped and fell. The navy cheered and the army roared as the seconds carried the soldier to his corner. When the half minute was up, the army watched breathlessly as Tinker gripped the ropes and pulled himself up. The veins on his neck contorted with the effort, but he rose on both feet and staggered back to the line.

  Struan felt someone watching him, and upon turning, saw the archduke beckoning. He pushed his way around the ring and wondered tensely if Orlov, whom he had sent to “assist” the archduke’s transfer to the hulk, had outsmarted the servants and if he had found any documents of value.

  “Have you picked the winner, Mr. Struan?” Zergeyev asked.

  “No, Your Highness.” Struan glanced at the admiral and the general. “Both men are a credit to your services, gentlemen.”

  “The navy man’s full of guts, by God, remarkable,” the general said jovially, “but I think our man’s got the wind to stay.”

  “No. Our man will be the lad to toe the line. But, by God, your man’s good, M’Lord. A credit to any service.”

  “Why don’t you join us, Mr. Struan?” Zergeyev said, indicating the empty chair. “Perhaps you’d explain the finer points of prizefighting?”

  “With your permission, gentlemen,” Struan said politely, sitting. “Where’s His Excellency?”

  “Left early, by God,” the general said. “Something about dispatches.”

  The bell sounded again.

  Zergeyev shifted restlessly in his chair. “What’s the largest number of rounds that a fight has had?”

  “Saw the Burke-Byrne fight in ’33,” the admiral said shortly. “Ninety-nine rounds. By the blood of Christ, that was a battle royal. Fantastic courage! Byrne died of the beating he took. But he never gave up.”

  “Neither of these two will give up either—they’ve beaten each other senseless,” Struan said. “It’d be a waste to kill one—or both—of them, eh, gentlemen?”

  “Stop the fight?” the archduke asked incredulously.

  “The point of a match is a test of strength and courage, man to man,” Struan said. “They’re equally matched and equally brave. I’d say they’ve both proved their worth.”

  “But then you have no winner. Surely that’s unfair, weak, and proves nothing.”

  “It’s unfair to kill a courageous man, aye,” Struan said calmly. “Only courage is keeping them on their feet.” He turned to the others. “After all, they’re both Englishmen. Save them for a real enemy.”

  A sudden burst of cheering distracted the admiral and the general but not Zergeyev.

  “That almost sounds like a challenge, Mr. Struan,” he said with a dead-calm smile.

  “Nay, Your Highness,” Struan said graciously, “only a fact. We honor courage, but in a case like this, winning is secondary to the preservation of their dignity as men.”

  “What do you say, Admiral?” the general said. “Struan has a point, eh? What’s the round? Thirty-five?”

  “Thirty-six,” Struan said.

  “Say we limit the bout to fifty. One’s got to go before that—impossible to stay on their feet till then. But if they can both toe the line on the fifty-first round, we throw in the towel together, eh? Declare it a draw. Hibbs can make the announcement.”

  “I agree. But your man won’t last.”

  “Another hundred guineas says he will, by God!”

  “Done!”

  “A wager, Mr. Struan?” the archduke said, as the admiral and general grimly turned away and signaled to Hibbs. “You name the stakes and pick a man.”

  “You’re our guest, Your Highness, so it’s your privilege to pick—if the stakes please you: one question—answered by the loser in private, tonight. Before God.”

  “What sort of question?” Zergeyev asked slowly.

  “Anything that the winner wants to know.”

  The archduke was tempted, yet filled with huge misgivings. It was a monumental gamble but a worthy one. There was much he would like to learn from the Tai-Pan of The Noble House. “Done!”

  “Who’s your man?”

  Zergeyev pointed instantly at Bosun Grum. “I’ll put my honor on him!” And he immediately roared at the sailor, “Kill him, by God!”

  The rounds mounted. Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five, forty-six. Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine. And now the spectators were almost as exhausted as the fighters.

  Finally the soldier fell. He dropped like a dead oak and the noise of his falling resounded around the beach. The sailor, drunk with pain, still flailed blindly at the air, impotently seeking the enemy. Then he too fell, equally inert. The seconds carried the men to their corners and the half minute expired and the army screamed at their man to get up and the general was poun
ding the ring floor, his face flushed, imploring Tinker, “Get up, get up for God’s sake, lad!” And the admiral was purple as Grum forced himself to his feet and stood reeling in his corner. “Toe the line, lad, toe the line!” And Struan was exhorting the soldier, and the archduke was shouting a paroxysm of Russian-French-English encouragement to the sailor to get to the line.

  Each fighter knew that the other was beaten. Both tottered to the line and swayed, their arms and legs dead and helpless. Each lifted his arms and tried to hit. But all the strength had vanished. Both fell.

  Last round.

  The crowd went wild, for it was obviously impossible for either fighter to leave his corner in half a minute and walk back to the line.

  The bell sounded and again there was an unearthly silence. The fighters groped to their feet and hung on to the ropes and stayed reeling in their corners. The sailor whimpered and made the first agonized step with one foot toward the line. Then, after a breathless eternity, another. The soldier still was in his corner shivering and swaying and almost falling. Then his foot arched forward pathetically and there was a manic screaming—urging, willing, begging, praying, cursing, blending into a final roar of impossible excitement as both men tottered ahead inch by inch. Suddenly the soldier weaved helplessly and almost slipped, and the general nearly collapsed. Then the sailor lurched drunkenly, and the admiral closed his eyes, sweat streaming his face, and prayed.

  There was pandemonium as both men toed the line and the towels flew over the ropes, and only when the ring was a welter of men jumping up and down did the fighters know for truth that the brawl was over. And only then did they allow themselves to vanish into nightmare pain, not knowing if they were victor or vanquished—or awake or dead or dreaming or alive—only knowing they had done their best.

  “By St. Peter’s beard,” the archduke said, his voice hoarse and painful, his clothes soaked with sweat, “that was a fight of fights.”

  Struan, also sweat-stained and exhausted, pulled out a hip flash and offered it. Zergeyev tilted it and drank deeply of the rum. Struan drank and passed it to the admiral, who gave it to the general, and they finished the flask together.

  “God’s blood,” Struan croaked. “God’s Blood.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The sun had already dipped below the mountains, but the harbor was still bathed with gold. Ah Sam took the binoculars from her eyes and scuttled anxiously away from the spy hole in the garden wall. She ran through the piles of rocks and earth that would soon be a real garden and hurried through a door into the living room.

  “Mother! Father’s boat’s near the shore,” she said. “Oh-ko, he looks very angry indeed.”

  May-may stopped sewing the petticoat. “Did he come from China Cloud or Resting Cloud?”

  “Resting Cloud. You’d better look for yourself.”

  May-may snatched the binoculars and ran out into the garden and stood behind the tiny latticed window and searched the foreshore waves. She focused on Struan. He was sitting amidships in the longboat, the Lion and the Dragon fluttering aft. Ah Sam was right. He looked very angry indeed.

  She closed and barred the cover to the spy window and ran back. “Tidy all this up, and make sure it’s well hidden.” And when Ah Sam carelessly scooped up the ball gown and petticoats, she pinched her cheek sharply. “Don’t crush them, you mealymouthed whore. They’re worth a fortune. Lim Din!” she shrieked. “Pour Father’s bath quickly, and make sure his clothes are laid out properly and nothing’s forgotten. Oh yes, and make sure the bath’s hot if you know what’s good for you. Put out the new cake of perfumed soap.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “And watch yourself. It looks as if Father’s anger’s in front of him!”

  “Oh-ko!”

  “Oh-ko indeed! Everything better be ready for Father or you’ll both get a whipping. And if anything interferes with my plan, you’ll both get thumb-screws and I’ll whip you till your eyeballs fall out. Go on with you!”

  Ah Sam and Lim Din scurried away. May-may went into her bedroom and made sure that there were no signs of the ball gown. She put perfume behind her ears and composed herself. Oh dear, she thought. I don’t want him in a bad mood tonight.

  Struan strode irascibly toward the gate in the high wall.

  He reached for the gate handle but the door was flung open by a beaming, bowing Lim Din.

  “Nice piece sunfall, heya, Mass’er?”

  Struan answered with a sullen grunt.

  Lim Din locked the door and bustled for the front door, where he beamed more hugely and bowed lower.

  Struan automatically checked the ship’s barometer that hung on the wall in the hallway. It was set in gimbals, and the thin, glass-incased column of mercury read a comfortable fair-weather 29.8 inches.

  Lim Din closed the door softly and scampered ahead of Struan, down the corridor, and opened the bedroom door. Struan went in and kicked the door shut and bolted it. Lim Din’s eyes turned upward. He took a moment to compose himself, then he evaporated into the kitchen. “Someone’s going to get a whipping,” he whispered apprehensively to Ah Sam. “As certain as death and squeeze.”

  Don’t you worry about our devil barbarian father,” Ah Sam whispered back. “I’ll bet you next week’s salary Mother will have him like a turtledove in one hour.”

  “Done!”

  May-may stood at the door. “What are you two lumps of dogmeat motherless slaves whispering about?” she hissed.

  “Just praying that Father won’t be cross with our poor dear beautiful mother,” Ah Sam said, her eyes fluttering.

  “Then hurry up, you oily-mouthed whore. For every cross word he says to me, you get a pinch!”

  Struan was standing in the center of the bedroom staring at the bulky, grubby, knotted handkerchief that he had taken out of his pocket. Goddammit to hell, what do I do now? he asked himself.

  After the fight he had escorted the archduke to his new quarters on Resting Cloud. He had been relieved when Orlov had told him privately that he had had no trouble in rifling the archduke’s luggage.

  “But there weren’t any papers,” Orlov had said. “There was a small strongbox, but you said not to break anything, so I left it as it was. I’d plenty of time—the men kept the servants busy.”

  “Thank you. No word of this, now.”

  “Do you take me for a fool!” Orlov had said, his dignity offended. “By the way, Mrs. Quance and the five children are settled on the small hulk. I said Quance was in Macao and due to arrive on the noon tide tomorrow. Had a job avoiding her cursed questions. She’d pester an answer out of a barnacle.”

  Struan had left Orlov and had gone to the boys’ cabin. They were clean now and had new clothes. Wolfgang was still with them and they were not afraid of him. Struan had told them that tomorrow they would be going with him to Canton, where he would put them on a ship for England.

  “Yor ’Onor,” the little English boy had said as he had turned to go, “could I be aseeing you? Privy like?”

  “Aye,” Struan had said, and he had taken the boy into another cabin.

  “Me dad said I were to give you this’n, Yor Worship, an’ not t’tell nobody, not Mr. Wu Pak or’n even Bert.” Fred’s fingers trembled as he undid the cloth bundle that was still attached to the stick and laid the cloth open. It contained a small knife and a rag dog and a bulky knotted kerchief. He passed over the kerchief nervously and, to Struan’s astonishment, turned his back and closed his eyes.

  “What’re you doing, Fred?”

  “Me dad sayed I weren’t t’look and to turn me back, Yor Worship. An’ not to see,” Fred replied, his eyes tight shut.

  Struan untied the kerchief, and gawked at the contents: ruby earrings, diamond pendants, rings studded with diamonds, a big emerald brooch and many broken, twisted gold belt buckles, heavy with diamonds and sapphires. Forty to fifty thousand pounds’ worth. Pirate loot. “What did he want me to do with this?”

  “Can I open me eyes, Yor Worship? I
be not to see.”

  Struan knotted the kerchief and put it into his frockcoat pocket. “Aye. Now, what did your dad want me to do with it?”

  “He sayed it were me—I forgits the word. It were, it were somethin’ like ‘mittance’ or ‘ritance.’” Fred’s eyes filled with tears. “I beed a good boy, Yor Worship, but I forgits.”

  Struan squatted down and held him firmly and gently. “No need to cry, lad. Let’s think. Was it ‘inheritance’?”

  The boy stared up at Struan as though he were a magician. “Yus. ‘Ritance.’ How’d’yer knowed?”

  “No need to cry. You’re a man. Men dinna cry.”

  “What’s a ‘ritance’?”

  “It’s a gift, usually money, from a father to a son.” Fred mulled that a long time. Then he said, “Why’d me dad sayed not to tell bruvver Bert?”

  “I dinna ken.”

  “Wot, Yor Worship?”

  “Perhaps because he wanted you to have it and not Bert.”

  “Can a ‘ritance’ be for lots of sons?”

  “Aye.”

  “Can me bruvver Bert an’ me share a ‘ritance’ if we gets one?”

  “Aye. If you have one.”

  “Oh good,” the boy said, drying his tears. “Bruvver Bert’s me best friend.”

  “Where did you and your dad live?” Struan asked. “In a house. Wiv Bert’s mum.”

  “Where was the house, lad?”

  “Near the sea. Near the ships.”

  “Did the place ever have a name?”

  “Oh yus, it were called ‘Port.’ We was livin’ at a house in Port,” the boy said proudly. “Me dad sayed I were to tell you everythin’, truthful.”

  “Let’s go back now, eh? Unless there’s anything else.”

  “Oh yus.” Fred quickly tied up the bundle. “Me dad sayed to tie it up like before. Secret like. And not to tell. I be ready, Yor Worship.”