Tai-Pan

  And the people of Tai Ping Shan were greatly impressed with the manners of the Tai-Pan and with the largess of his house. The stature of Gordon Chen increased with the gained face of his father, for none of the dwellers on the hill would have guessed that the Tai-Pan would so honor their gods and their customs. Not that Gordon Chen needed an increase of face. Was he not already the greatest landlord in Hong Kong and did not his business tentacles extend in all directions? Did he not own most of the buildings? And the sedan chair business? And three laundries? Fourteen fishing sampans? Two apothecary shops? Six restaurants? Nineteen shoeshine stands? And clothes shops and shoemaking shops and knife-making shops? And did he not own fifty-one percent of the first jewelry-making shop with expert Kwangtung carvers, both of jewels and of wood?

  All this apart from his vast moneylending business. Ayeeee yah, and what a moneylender! Incredible to believe, he was so rich he loaned money at one and a half percent less than was customary and monopolized the industry. And it was rumored that he was in partnership with the Tai-Pan himself, and that with the death of his barbarian uncle new huge riches would come to him.

  Among the Triads Gordon Chen needed nothing to improve his position. They knew who he was and he was obeyed without question. Even so, the Triads in the building trade and the stevedore trade and cleaning trade and night-soil-collecting trade, and in the fishing, cooking, and hawking trades, in the laundry, servant, and coolie trades—they too needed to borrow money from time to time and needed houses to live in; consequently they too were filled with great sorrow that their leader’s barbarian uncle had died, and they happily gave the extra week of squeeze. They knew that it was wise to be on the side of the Tai-Pan of Tai Ping Shan; they knew that part of the squeeze would pay for the offerings to the gods—roast suckling pigs and pastries and sweet meats and cooked meats without number, and lobsters and prawns and fish and crabs by sampan load, and breads and mountains of rice; they knew that once the gods had benignly looked upon such magnificence, these offerings would be distributed and that they themselves would feast upon them to the satisfaction of even the hungriest.

  So all the people groaned aloud with the mourners, enjoying the drama of death hugely, blessing their joss that they were alive to mourn, to eat, to make love, to make money, to become perhaps—with joss—as rich, and thus have so colossal a face in death before all their neighbors.

  Gordon Chen followed the cortege. He was very solemn and rent his garments—but with great dignity—and cried aloud to the gods of the huge loss he had suffered. The King of the Beggars followed him and thus both gained face. And the gods smiled.

  When the grave was filled with the dry, sterile earth, Struan accompanied Sarah to the cutter.

  “I’ll come aboard this evening,” he said.

  Without answering him, Sarah sat in the stern of the boat and turned her back on the island.

  When the cutter was seaborne, Struan headed toward Happy Valley.

  Beggars and sedan-chair coolies were infesting the roadway. But they did not bother the Tai-Pan; he had continued to pay the monthly squeeze to the King of the Beggars.

  Struan saw Culum standing beside Tess in the midst of the entire Brock clan. He approached the group and raised his hat politely to the ladies. He glanced at Culum. “Would you walk with me, Culum?”

  “Certainly,” Culum said. He had not talked to his father since their return—not about important things, like how Uncle Robb’s death would affect their plans, or when the engagement could be official. It was no secret that he had asked Brock formally for Tess at Whampoa on the retreat from Canton, and had been gruffly accepted. It was also no secret that because of the sudden tragedy, plans for the announcement had been held in abeyance.

  Struan raised his hat again and walked off, Culum beside him.

  They strolled the road silently. Others who had seen them with the Brocks shook their heads in renewed amazement that Brock had agreed to a marriage that surely was the Tai-Pan’s brainchild.

  “Morning, Mary,” Struan said as Mary Sinclair came up to him, Glessing and Horatio with her. She looked drained and unwell.

  “Morning, Tai-Pan. Could I drop by this afternoon?” she asked. “Perhaps I could have a few moments of your time?”

  “Aye, of course. Around sunset? At my house?”

  “Thank you. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about—about your loss.”

  “Yes,” Glessing said. “Terrible luck.” Over the weeks he had become more and more impressed with Struan. Dammit, anyone who was Royal Navy, who was a powder monkey at Trafalgar, was worthy of the greatest respect, by God. When Culum had told him, he had immediately asked, “What ship?” and had been astonished when Culum said, “I don’t know, I didn’t ask.” He wondered if the Tai-Pan had served with his father. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but he could not, for Culum had told him privately. “Damned sorry, Tai-Pan.”

  “Thank you. How’re things with you?”

  “Fine, thank you. Damned lot of work to do, that’s certain.”

  “Might be a good idea to put deepwater storm anchors out for the capital ships.”

  Glessing was abruptly attentive. “You can smell a storm coming?”

  “Nay. But this is typhoon season. Sometimes they come early, sometimes late.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll have them begin this afternoon.” Damn wise, Glessing told himself. The man bears so much tragedy well. And he’s as canny a seaman as ever sailed the seas. Mary thinks the world of him, and her opinion’s valuable, by Jove. And because of him the fleet’s slamming against Canton, by God, within a couple of days of those devils daring to fire the Settlement. Damn the admiral’s eyes! Why the devil won’t that stupid bugger give me back my ship? Wonder if I dare ask the Tai-Pan to put in a word for me? “Are you going to join the fleet?”

  “I dinna ken.” Struan glanced at Horatio. “When did you get back, lad?”

  “Last night, Tai-Pan. His Excellency sent me back to represent him at the funeral. I’m glad to pay my respects. I’ll be going back with the tide.”

  “It was kind of him, and kind of you. Please give him my regards.”

  “He was most anxious to find out how His Highness was.”

  “Na so bad. He’s aboard China Cloud. Why do you na pay him a visit? I think his hip’s damaged, but you can never tell this early. See you later, Mary.” He raised his hat again, and he and Culum took their leave. Struan wondered about Mary. I suppose she wants to tell me about the children. Hope nothing’s amiss. What’s the matter with Horatio and Glessing? They seem so tense and ruffled.

  “May I see you to the hotel, Miss Sinclair?” Glessing was saying. “Perhaps you’d both care to lunch with me at the dockyard?”

  “I’d like that, George dear,” Mary said, “but Horatio won’t be able to join us.” Before Horatio could say anything she added quietly, “My dear brother told me you asked formally for my hand in marriage.”

  Glessing was startled. “Yes, er—yes, I did. I hope—well, yes.”

  “I would like to tell you that I accept.”

  “By Jove!” Glessing took her hand and kissed it. “I swear to God, Mary, by the Lord Harry, by jove! I swear—” He turned to thank Horatio. His joy vanished. “God’s death, what’s the matter?”

  Horatio’s eyes were fixed malevolently on Mary. He forced a twisted smile but did not look away from her. “Nothing.”

  “You don’t approve?” Glessing’s voice was tight.

  “Oh yes, he does, don’t you, dear brother?” Mary broke in.

  “It’s—you’re very … very young and—”

  “But you do approve, don’t you? And we’ll be married three days before Christmas. If that would suit you, George?”

  Glessing was chilled by the blatant animosity between sister and brother. “Is that satisfactory, Horatio?”

  “I’m sure the Tai-Pan would appreciate your approval, Horatio.” Mary was glad that she had decided to marry George. No
w she would have to get rid of the baby. If May-may could not help, then she would have to ask the Tai-Pan for the favor that he owed her. “I’m accepting George,” she said defiantly, hiding her fear.

  “Be damned to both of you!” Horatio stalked off.

  “What in God’s name’s the matter with him? Does that mean he approves? Or that he doesn’t?” Glessing asked irately.

  “He approves, George dear. Don’t worry. And please forgive me for being so abrupt, but I wanted it said now.”

  “No, Mary. I’m sorry. I had no idea that your brother was so bitterly against it. If I’d thought for a moment—well, I wouldn’t have been so precipitate.” His joy at being accepted was twisted by the pain he saw in Mary’s face. And by his ever-present fury at not being with the fleet. God damn the admiral! The pox on this cursed shore berth and the pox on Sinclair. How the devil could I ever have liked that bastard! How dared he be so rude?

  “I’m so glad you’re here, George,” he heard her say.

  He saw her brush away some tears and his happiness returned. Without the shore job he would never be able to spend so much time with Mary. He blessed his luck! She’d accepted him and that was all that counted. He put his arm in hers. “No more tears,” he said. “This is the best day in my life and we’re going to have lunch and celebrate. We’ll dine together tonight—and every lunch and every dinner from now on. We’ll make the announcement next month. From now on I’ll look after you. If anyone troubles you, he’ll have to answer to me, by God!”

  Struan and Culum were having brandy in the factory office. The room was vast, stone-floored. In it were a polished teak desk and ships’ lanterns, a barometer in gimbals near the teak door, Quance paintings on the walls, well-oiled leather chairs and sofa, sweetly smelling.

  Struan stood at the window and stared at the harbor. The calm expanse seemed empty without the fleet and troopships. Of the clippers, only China Cloud and the White Witch remained. There were few merchantmen which had not yet found full cargoes for home, and several incoming ships that had just arrived with stores ordered last year.

  Culum was studying the painting that hung over the mantel. It was the portrait of a Chinese boat girl wearing a cloak; she was startlingly beautiful. She carried a basket under her arm, and was smiling.

  Culum wondered if the rumor were true—that this was his father’s mistress who lived in his house a few hundred yards away.

  “I canna leave now as we planned. I’ve decided to stay,” Struan said, without turning from the window.

  Culum felt a shaft of disappointment. “I could manage. I’m sure I could.”

  “Aye. In time.”

  Culum marveled again at the wisdom of his friend Gorth. Last night on the quarterdeck of the White Witch, Gorth had said, “You mark my words, old friend. He’ll never leave now. I’ll wager wots you like, but he’ll be acalling you in and he’ll say he’ll not be leaving. It be a terrible thing to say, but you and me’s to wait for dead men’s shoes.”

  “But I couldn’t manage, Gorth, by myself. Not as Tai-Pan, not alone.”

  “O’ course you could. Why, if you needs help, which you won’t, I’d help you all you needs. And so will Da’. After all, Culum, you be family now. Of course you could manage, by God. But if you says that, the Tai-Pan’ll say, ‘Sure you can, Culum. In time.’”

  “You really think I could?”

  “No doubt on God’s green earth. Wot’s so hard, eh? You buys and sells, and yor compradore takes most of the risk. Ships is ships and tea’s tea and opium’s opium. A Tai-Pan makes decisions, that be all. Just common sense mostly. Why, look wot you did over the knoll! You decided right clever. You did, no one else. And you forced him to talk to Da’ about Tess, and Da’ forced him to give you and Tess a safe harbor.”

  “Perhaps I could manage the house if all was quiet. But not Longstaff and a war and Jin-qua.”

  “Them’s unimportant. The war be out of our’n hands, howsomever your Da’ would like to pretend otherwise. An’ as for that old fox Jin-qua, I can helps you keep that monkey in place. No, Culum, we’s to wait till they dies, and that be terrible when we’s young with new ideas and wot not. An’ even if they gives us reins now, wot’s so wrong with that? Our Da’s protects our back at home and we seeks their help at the drop of a bowler. Not like we was casting they out. It be their house, o’ course. But they’d never believe that. They both be having salt water for brain. They’ve to keep all to theyselves, and then and only then’ll they be happy. He’ll sluff you off with ‘You be needin’ experience—two or three year,’ but that mean forever….”

  Culum stared at his father’s back. “I could manage, Tai-Pan.”

  Struan turned to him. “Longstaff? Jin-qua and the war?”

  “The war’s not in your hands, is it?”

  “No. But without guidance Longstaff would have wrecked us years ago.”

  “If you were to leave, well, it’s not like you’d be washing your hands of the house, would it? If there was anything I couldn’t handle, I’d ask you at the drop of a bowler.”

  “When I leave, lad, you have to be in total charge. The mails take six months home and back. Too much could happen in that time. You need experience. You’re na ready yet.”

  “When will I be?”

  “That depends on you.”

  “You promised I’d be Tai-Pan a year after—well, a year after Uncle Robb.”

  “Aye. If you were ready. And you’re na ready for me to leave as planned. Brock and Gorth’ll eat you up.”

  Yes, Culum told himself, Gorth’s right again. It’s dead men’s shoes. “Very well. What can I do to prove I’m worthy?”

  “Nothing more than you’re doing, lad. You need more experience. Two years, three—I’ll tell you when I’m sure.”

  Culum knew that nothing could be gained by arguing at this time. “Do you want me to take over Uncle Robb’s departments?”

  “Aye. But for the moment order nothing and sell nothing and sack nae-body wi’out my approval. I’ll give you a specific letter of instruction. Help Vargas to assess our loss in the Settlement and put the books in order.”

  “When do you think it would be all right to announce our engagement?”

  “Have you discussed this with Brock?”

  “Only when I saw him at Whampoa. He suggested Midsummer Night.”

  Struan suddenly remembered Scragger and what he had said about Wu Kwok: that Wu Kwok could be ambushed easily at Quemoy on Midsummer Night. He knew that now he had no alternative but to gamble that Scragger had been speaking the truth and to go after Wu Kwok. Wu Kwok dead would mean one less hazard for Culum to worry about. What about the other three half coins? What Machiavellian “favors” would they require? And when? He looked at the calendar that was on his desk. Today was June 15th. Midsummer Night was nine days off. “Leave it for Midsummer Night. But only a small party. Just family,” he added with thin irony.

  “We’ve thought about the wedding present we want you to give us. It was Tess’s idea.” He handed a sheet of paper to Struan.

  “What is it?”

  “Just a solemn contract to forget the past and be friends. To be signed by the Brocks and the Struans.”

  “I’ve already made the only bargain I’ll make with those two,” Struan said, giving it back without reading it.

  “Gorth’s willing, and he said his father would be.”

  “I’ll bet Gorth is, by God. But Tyler will na sign any such paper.”

  “If he’s willing, will you sign it?”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  “Our children will belong to both of you an—”

  “I’ve considered the children carefully, Culum,” Struan interrupted. “And a lot of other things. I doubt very much if your children will have an uncle and a grandfather on their mother’s side by the time they’re old enough to understand what those are.”

  Culum stalked to the door.

  “W
ait, Culum!”

  “Will you please give us the present we ask for, beg for?”

  “I canna. They’ll never honor that. Gorth and Brock are after your hide and—”

  Culum slammed the door in his face.

  Struan drank another brandy, then hurled the glass into the fireplace.

  That night Struan lay awake in the four-poster beside May-may. The windows were open to the moon and to the breeze that carried a bracing salt tang. Outside the vast net which enclosed the bed a few mosquitoes relentlessly sought an entrance to the food within. Unlike most of the Europeans, Struan had always used a mosquito net. Jin-qua had advised it as good for health, years upon years ago.

  Struan was brooding about the malarial night gases, afraid that he and May-may were breathing them now.

  And he was concerned about Sarah. When he had seen her a few hours ago, she had told him she was determined to leave by the first boat.

  “You’re na strong enough,” he had said. “Nor is Lochlin.”

  “Even so, we’re leaving. Will you make the arrangements or shall I? You’ve a copy of Robb’s will?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ve just read it. Why should you be trustee for his share of the company, not me?”

  “It’s na a woman’s job, Sarah! But you need na worry. You’ll get every penny.”

  “My lawyers will see to that, Tai-Pan.”

  He had controlled his anger with an effort. “This is typhoon season. It’s a bad time to sail home. Wait till fall. You’ll both be stronger then.”

  “We leave at once.”

  “Have it your own way.”

  He had gone to see Zergeyev. The Russian’s wound was inflamed but not gangrenous. So there was hope. Next he had returned to his office and had written a dispatch for Longstaff, telling him that he had heard the pirate Wu Kwok would be at Quemoy on Midsummer Night, that frigates should lie in wait for him, that he knew these waters well and would be glad to lead the expedition if the admiral wished. He had sent the dispatch to Horatio. And, just before he left for home, the army doctors had come to see him. They told him there was no doubt any more. The fever of Happy Valley was malaria …