Tai-Pan

  “It’s puppy love. It means nothing.”

  “By the Lord God, you be a terrible hard man to talk sense to. Yo’re wrong, Dirk.” Brock suddenly felt very tired and very old. He wanted to be done with this. “Weren’t for ball it baint never happening. Thee picked her to lead dance. Thee picked her to win prize. Thee—”

  “I did na! That was Zergeyev’s choice, na mine!”

  “That be truth, by God?”

  “Aye.”

  Brock looked at Struan deeply. “Then mayhaps there be hand o’ God in this’n. Tess baint best-dressed in’t ball. I knowed it, all knowed it, ’cepting Culum and Tess.” He finished his tankard and set it down. “I makes thee offer: Thee doan love thy Culum like I be loving Tess, but give they two a fair wind and an open sea and a safe harbor and I be doing likewise. The boy deserve it—he saved thy neck over the knoll ’cause I swear by Christ I’d’ve strangled thee with it. If it’s a fight thee wants, thee’s got it. If I gets a lever to break thee, regilar, I swear by Christ I still be adoing it. But not to they two. Give ’em fair wind, open sea and safe harbor afore God, eh?”

  Brock stuck out his hand.

  Struan’s voice grated. “I’ll shake on Culum and Tess. But na on Gorth.” The way Struan said “Gorth” chilled Brock. But he did not withdraw his hand even though he knew the agreement was fraught with danger.

  They shook hands firmly.

  “We be having one more drink to fix it proper,” Brock said, “then thee can get t’hell out of my house.” He picked up the bell and rang it a third time and when no one appeared he hurled it against the wall. “Lee Tang!” he roared.

  His voice echoed strangely.

  There was the sound of footsteps scurrying up the huge staircase, and the frightened face of a Portuguese clerk appeared.

  “The servants have all disappeared, senhor. I can’t find them anywhere.”

  Struan raced to the window. The hawkers and stall sellers and bystanders and beggars were streaming silently from the square. Groups of traders in the English garden were standing stock-still, listening and watching.

  Struan turned and ran for the muskets, and he and Brock were at the rack in the same instant. “Get everyone below!” Brock shouted to the clerk.

  “My factory, Tyler. Sound the alarm,” Struan said, and then he was gone.

  Within the hour all the traders and their clerks were crammed into the Struan factory, and into the English Garden which was its forecourt. The detachment of fifty soldiers was armed, in battle order, beside the gate. Their officer, Captain Oxford, was barely twenty, a lithe, smart man with a wisp of fair mustache.

  Struan and Brock and Longstaff were in the center of the garden. Jeff Cooper and Zergeyev were nearby. The night was wet and hot and brooding.

  “You’d better order an immediate evacuation, Your Excellency,” Struan said.

  “Yus,” Brock agreed.

  “No need to be precipitous, gentlemen,” Longstaff said. “This has happened before, what?”

  “Aye. But we’ve always had some sort of warning from the Co-hong or from the mandarins. It’s never been this sudden.” Struan was listening intently to the night, but his eyes were counting the lorchas moored alongside the wharves. Enough for everyone, he thought. “I dinna like the feel of the night.”

  “Nor I, by God.” Brock spat furiously. “Afloat it be, says I.”

  “Surely you don’t think there’s any danger?” Longstaff said.

  “I dinna ken, Your Excellency. But something tells me to get out of here,” Struan said. “Or at least get afloat. Trade’s finished for the season, so we can go or stay at our pleasure.”

  “But they wouldn’t dare attack us,” Longstaff scoffed. “Why should they? What do they gain? The negotiations are going so well. Ridiculous.”

  “I’m just suggesting we put into effect what you’re always saying, Your Excellency: that it’s better to be prepared for any eventuality.”

  Longstaff motioned queasily to the officer. “Split your men into three parties. Guard the east and west entrances, and Hog Street. Deny access to the square until further orders.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Struan saw Culum and Horatio and Gorth together near a lantern. Gorth was explaining the loading of a musket to Culum, who was listening attentively. Gorth seemed strong and vital and powerful alongside Culum. Struan looked away and glimpsed Mauss in the shadows talking to a tall Chinese whom Struan had never seen before. Curious, Struan walked over to them. “Have you heard anything, Wolfgang?”

  “No, Tai-Pan. No rumors, nothing. Nor has Horatio. Gott im Himmel, I don’t understand it.”

  Struan was studying the Chinese. The man was wearing filthy peasant clothes and appeared to be in his early thirties. His eyes were heavy-lidded, and piercing, and he was studying Struan with equal curiosity. “Who’s he?”

  “Hung Hsu Ch’un,” Wolfgang said, very proudly. “He’s a Hakka. He’s baptized, Tai-Pan. I baptized him. He’s the best I’ve ever had, Tai-Pan. Brilliant mind, studious, and yet a peasant. At long last I’ve a convert who will spread God’s word—and help me in His work.”

  “You’d better tell him to leave. If there’s trouble and the mandarins catch him with us, you’ll have one convert less.”

  “I’ve already told him, but he said, ‘The ways of the Lord are strange and men of God don’t turn their backs on the heathen.’ Don’t worry. God will guard him and I’ll watch him with my own life.”

  Struan nodded briefly to the man and went back to Longstaff and to Brock.

  “I be going aboard,” Brock said, “and that be that!”

  “Tyler, send Gorth and his men to reinforce the soldiers there.” Struan pointed to the maw of Hog Street. “I’ll take the east and cover you if there’s trouble. You can fall back here.”

  “You look after yor’n,” Brock said. “I be looking after mine. You baint commander-in-chief, by God.” He beckoned to Gorth. “You come along with me. Almeida, you and the rest of the clerks get books and aboard.” He and his party marched out of the garden and headed across the square.

  “Culum!”

  “Yes, Tai-Pan?”

  “Clean out the safe and get aboard the lorcha.”

  “Very well.” Culum lowered his voice. “Did you talk to Brock?”

  “Aye. Na now, lad. Hurry. We’ll talk later.”

  “Was it yes or no?”

  Struan felt others watching him, and although he wanted very much to tell Culum what had been said, the garden was not the place to do it. “God’s death, will you na do as you’re told!”

  “I want to know,” Culum said, eyes blazing.

  “And I’m na prepared to discuss your problems now! Do as you’re told!” Struan stamped off toward the front door.

  Jeff Cooper stopped him. “Why evacuate? What’s all the hurry, Tai-Pan?” he asked.

  “Just cautious, Jeff. Have you a lorcha?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d be glad to give any of your people space who dinna have berths.” Struan glanced at Zergeyev. “The view from the river’s quite pleasant, Your Highness, if you’d care to join us.”

  “Do you always run away when the square empties and the servants disappear?”

  “Only when it pleases me.” Struan shoved back through the press of men. “Vargas, get the books aboard and all the clerks. Armed.”

  “Yes, senhor.”

  When the other traders saw that Struan and Brock were in truth preparing for a quick withdrawal, they hastily returned to their own factories and collected their books and bills of lading and everything that represented proof of their season’s trading—and thus their future—and began to pack them in their boats. There was little treasure to worry about, since most of the trading was done with bills of exchange—and Brock and Struan had already sent their bullion back to Hong Kong.

  Longstaff cleared out his private desk and put his cipher book and secret papers into his dispatch box and joined Zergeyev in the g
arden. “Are you all packed, Your Highness?”

  “There is nothing of importance. I find all this extraordinary. Either there is danger or there isn’t. If there’s danger, why aren’t your troops here? If there’s none, why run away?”

  Longstaff laughed. “The heathen mind, my dear sir, is very different from a civilized one. Her Majesty’s Government has been dealing directly with it for more than a century. So we’ve come to learn how to cope with Chinese affairs. Of course,” he added dryly, “we’re not concerned with conquest, only with peaceful trade. Though we do consider this area a totally British sphere of influence.”

  Struan was going through his safe, ascertaining that all their vital papers were aboard.

  “I’ve already done that,” Culum said as he barged into the room and slammed the door. “Now, what was the answer, by God?”

  “You’re engaged to be married,” Struan said mildly, “by God.”

  Culum was too stupefied to speak.

  “Brock’s delighted to have you as a son-in-law. You can get married next year.”

  “Brock said yes?”

  “Aye. Congratulations.” Struan calmly checked his desk drawer, and locked it, pleased that his talk with Brock had gone as planned. “You mean he says yes? And you say yes?”

  “Aye. You have to ask him formally, but he said he’d accept you. We have to discuss dowry and details, but he said you can be married next year.”

  Culum threw his arms around Struan’s shoulders. “Oh Father, thank you, thank you.” He did not hear himself say “Father.” But Struan did.

  A burst of firing shattered the night. Struan and Culum ran to the window in time to see the front ranks of a mob at the western entrance to the square reeling under the fusillade. The hundreds in the rear shoved those in front forward, and the soldiers were pathetically engulfed as the screaming torrent of Chinese poured into the far end of the square.

  The mob carried torches and axes and spears—and Triad banners. They swarmed over the westernmost factory, which belonged to the Americans. A torch was thrown through a window and the doors were rushed. The mob began to loot and fire and rape the building.

  Struan grabbed his musket. “Nae word of Tess—keep it very private till you’ve seen Brock.” They charged out into the hall. “To hell with those, Vargas,” he shouted as he saw him staggering under an armload of duplicate invoices. “Get aboard!”

  Vargas took to his heels.

  The square in front of Struan’s factory and the garden was filled with traders in full flight to the lorchas. Some of the soldiers were stationed on the garden wall ready for a last-ditch stand, and Struan joined them to help cover the retreat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Culum run back into the factory, but he was distracted when the van of the second mob surged down Hog Street. The soldiers protecting this entrance fired a volley and retreated in good order toward the English garden, where they took up their positions with the other soldiers to defend the last of the traders who were running for the boats. Those already on the ships had muskets ready, but the mob concentrated solely on the factories on the far side of the square and, astonishingly, paid little attention to the traders.

  Struan was relieved to see Cooper and the Americans aboard one of the lorchas. He had thought that they were still in their factory.

  “’Pon me word, look at those scalawags,” Longstaff said to no one in particular as he stood outside the garden and watched the mob, walking stick in hand. He knew that this meant the end of negotiations, that war was inevitable. “Her Majesty’s forces will soon put a stop to this nonsense.” He stamped back into the garden and found Zergeyev observing the havoc, his two liveried servants armed and nervous beside him.

  “Perhaps you’d care to join me aboard, Your Highness,” he said above the noise. Longstaff knew that if Zergeyev were injured there would be an international incident, which would give the tsar a perfect opening to send reprisal warships and armies into Chinese waters. And that’s not going to happen, Goddamme, he told himself.

  “There’s only one way to deal with those carrion. You think your democracy will work with them?”

  “Of course. Have to give them time, what?” Longstaff replied easily. “Let’s board now. We’re fortunate it’s a pleasant evening.”

  One of the Russian servants said something to Zergeyev, who simply looked at him. The servant blanched and was silent.

  “If you wish, Your Excellency,” Zergeyev said, not to be outdone by Longstaff’s obvious contempt for the mob. “But I think I’d rather wait for the Tai-Pan.” He took out his snuff box and offered it, and was pleased to see his fingers were not shaking.

  “Thank you.” Longstaff took some snuff. “Damnable business, what!” He strolled over to Struan. “What the devil started them off, Dirk?”

  “The mandarins, that’s certain. There’s never been a mob like this before. Never. Best get aboard.” Struan was watching the square. The last of the traders boarded the ships. Only Brock was not accounted for. Gorth and his men were still guarding the door to their factory on the east side, and Struan was infuriated to see Gorth fire into the looting mob, which was not threatening them directly.

  He was tempted to order an immediate retreat; then, in the confusion, to raise his musket and kill Gorth. He knew that no one would notice in the melee. It would save him a killing in the future. But Struan did not fire. He wanted the pleasure of seeing the terror in Gorth’s eyes when he did kill him.

  Those on the lorchas cast off hastily, and many of the boats eased into midstream. Queerly the mob still ignored them.

  Smoke was billowing from the Cooper-Tillman factory. The whole building caught as a squall of tinder wind hit it, and flames licked the night.

  Struan saw Brock storm out of his factory, a musket in one hand, a cutlass in the other, his pockets bulging with papers. His chief clerk Almeida ran ahead toward the boat under the weight of the books, Brock, Gorth and his men guarding, and then another mob hit the east entrance, swamping the soldiers, and Struan knew it was time to run.

  “Get aboard!” he roared, turning for the garden gate. He stopped in his tracks. Zergeyev was leaning on the garden wall, a pistol in one hand, his rapier in the other. Longstaff was beside him.

  “Time to run!” he yelled above the tumult.

  Zergeyev laughed. “Which way?”

  There was a violent explosion as the flames reached the American arsenal, and the building shattered, spilling burning debris into the mob, killing some, mutilating others. The Triad banners crossed Hog Street, and the berserk pillaging mob followed, systematically tearing into the eastern factories. Struan was through the gate when he remembered Culum. He shouted to his men to cover and rushed back.

  “Culum! Culum!”

  Culum came charging down the stairs. “I forgot something,” he said, and tore for the lorcha.

  Zergeyev and Longstaff were still waiting with the men beside the gate. Their escape was blocked by a third mob which gushed across the square and fell on the factory next to theirs. Struan pointed to the wall and they shinned over it. Culum fell, but Struan grabbed him up and together they ran for the boats, Zergeyev and Longstaff close alongside.

  The mob let them pass, but once they had started across the square, leaving the path to the factory clear, the leaders charged into the garden. Many had torches. And they fell on The Noble House.

  Now flames poured from most of the factories, and a roof fell with a vast sigh and more flames showered the thousands in the square.

  Brock was on the main deck of his lorcha, profanely exhorting the crew. They all were armed and their guns pointed landward.

  Standing on the poop, Gorth saw the fore and aft hawsers cast off. As the lorcha began to fall away from the wharf, Gorth seized a musket, aimed at the Chinese who were jammed into the doorway of their factory, and pulled the trigger. He saw a man fall and grinned devilishly. He picked up another musket; then noticed Struan and the others charging for their lorcha—
milling Chinese ahead of and behind them. He made certain no one was watching him and aimed carefully. Struan was between Culum and Zergeyev, Longstaff alongside. Gorth pulled the trigger.

  Zergeyev spun around and smashed into the ground.

  Gorth took another musket but Brock rushed up to the poop. “Get for’ard and man the fore cannon!” he shouted. “No firing till I says!” He shoved Gorth along, roaring at his men, “Get thy helm over, by God! Let go the reefs an’ all sail ho!” He glanced shoreward and saw Struan and Longstaff bending over Zergeyev, Culum beside him, the mob surging toward them. He grabbed the musket that Gorth had dropped, aimed and fired. A leader fell and the mob hesitated.

  Struan hoisted Zergeyev onto his shoulder. “Fire over their heads!” he ordered. His men spun out protectively and fired a volley at point-blank range. The Chinese in front shrank back and those behind pressed forward. The hysterical melee which ensued gave Struan and his men enough time to make their boat.

  Mauss was waiting on the dock beside the lorcha, the strange Chinese convert nearby. Both were armed. Mauss had a Bible in one hand and a cutlass in the other and he was shouting, “Blessed be the Lord, forgive these poor sinners.” He hacked at the air with the blade and the mob avoided him.

  When they were all aboard and the lorcha in midstream, they looked back.

  The whole Settlement was ablaze. Dancing flames and billowing smoke and fiendish screaming all blended into an inferno.

  Longstaff was on his knees beside Zergeyev, who lay on the quarterdeck. Struan hurried toward them.

  “Get for’ard!” he roared at Mauss. “Be lookout!”

  Zergeyev was white with shock and was holding the right side of his groin. Blood was oozing from under his hand. The servant guards were moaning with terror. Struan pushed them out of the way and ripped open the front flap of Zergeyev’s trousers. He cut away the trouser leg. The musket ball had scored the stomach deeply, low and obliquely, a fraction of an inch above his sex, and then had entered the right thigh. Blood seeped heavily but it was not spurting. Struan thanked God that the ball had not entered the stomach as he had expected. He turned Zergeyev over and the Russian choked back a groan. The back of his thigh was torn and bloody where the ball had come out. Struan gingerly probed the wound and took out a small piece of shattered bone.