The Tai-Pan had never forgotten his first ships and the fo’c’sles or his floggings. Or the men that had ordered them. Some of the men had died before he found them. Those that he found he broke. Only Brock he had not touched.
Robb did not know why his brother had spared Brock. He shuddered, knowing that whatever the reason, one day there would be a reckoning.
Perry added a spoonful of sugar and condensed milk. He handed Robb a cup, then sat behind the mahogany sea desk and peered out from eyes that were deep-set under shaggy brows. “Mr. Struan’s in good health?”
“As always. You expected him to be sick?”
“No.”
There was a knock on the cabin door.
“Come in!”
The door opened and Robb gaped at the young man standing there. “Great God, Culum lad, where’d you come from?” He got up excitedly, knocking his cup over. “‘Very important dispatches’ indeed—and of course ‘Zenith’!” Culum Struan entered the cabin and shut the door. Robb held him affectionately by the shoulders, then noticed his pallor and sunken cheeks. “What’s amiss, lad?” he asked anxiously.
“I’m much better, thank you, Uncle,” Cullum said, the voice too thin.
“Better from what, laddie?”
“The plague, the Bengal plague,” Culum said, puzzled.
Robb whirled on Perry. “You got plague aboard? In Christ’s name, why aren’t you flying the Yellow Jack?”
“Of course there’s no plague aboard! It was in Scotland months ago.” Perry stopped. “Scarlet Cloud! She never arrived?”
“Four weeks overdue. No word, nothing. What happened? Come on, man!”
“Shall I tell him, Culum lad, or do you want to?”
“Where’s Father?” Culum asked Robb.
“Ashore. He’s waiting for you ashore. At the valley. For the love of God, what’s happened, Culum?”
“Plague came to Glasgow in June,” Culum said dully. “They say it came by ship again. From Bengal—India. First to Sutherland then Edinburgh, then it came to us in Glasgow. Mother’s dead, Ian, Lechie, Grandma—Winifred’s so weak she won’t last. Grandpa’s looking after her.” He made a helpless gesture and sat on the arm of the sea chair. “Grandma’s dead. Mother. Aunt Uthenia and the babies and her husband. Ten, twenty thousand died between June and September. Then the plague disappeared. It just disappeared.”
“Roddy? What about Roddy? My son’s dead?” Robb said in anguish.
“No, Uncle. Roddy’s fine. He wasn’t touched.”
“You’re certain, are you, Culum? My son’s safe?”
“Yes. I saw him the day before I left. Very few at his school got the plague.”
“Thank God!” Robb shivered, remembering the first wave of the plague that had mysteriously swept Europe ten years ago. Fifty thousand deaths in England alone. A million in Europe. Thousands in New York and New Orleans. Some called this plague by a newer name—cholera.
“Your mother’s dead?” Robb said, unbelieving. “Ian, Lechie, Granny?”
“Yes. And Aunt Susan and Cousin Clair and Aunt Uthenia, Cousin Donald and little Stewart and …”
There was a monstrous silence.
Perry broke it nervously. “When I berthed in Glasgow, well, Culum lad was on his own. I didn’t know what to do, so I thought it best to bring him aboard. We sailed a month after Scarlet Cloud.”
“You did right, Isaac,” Robb heard himself say. How was he going to tell Dirk? “I’d better go. I’ll signal you to come ashore. You stay aboard.”
“No.” Culum said it aloud as though to himself, deep inside. “No. I’ll go ashore first. Alone. That’s better. I’ll see Father alone. I must tell him. I’ll go ashore alone.” He got up and quietly walked to the door, the ship rocking smoothly and the sweet sound of the waves lapping, and he left. Then he remembered and came back into the cabin. “I’ll take the dispatches,” he said in his tiny voice. “He’ll want to see the dispatches.”
When the longboat pulled away from Thunder Cloud, Struan was on the knoll where the Great House would be. As soon as he saw his eldest son amidships, his heart turned over.
“Culummmm!” he roared exultantly from the top of the knoll. He ripped off his coat and waved it frantically like a man marooned six years who sees his first ship. “Culummmm!” He tore headlong through the coarse brier toward the shore, careless of the thorns and forgetting the path that led from the shore over the crest to the fishing village and pirate nests on the south side of the island. He forgot everything except that here was his darling son on the first day. Faster. And now he was racing along the shore, ecstatic.
Culum saw him first. “Over there. Put in over there.” He pointed at the nearest landing.
Bosun McKay swung the tiller over. “Pull, my hearties,” he said, urging them shoreward. They all knew now, and word was flying through the fleet—and, in its wake, anxiety. Between Sutherland and Glasgow lived many a kin and in London Town most of the rest.
Culum got up and slipped over the side into the shallows. “Leave us.” He began to splash ashore.
Struan ran into the surf that swept the beach, heading straight for his son, and he saw the tears and shouted, “Culum laddie,” and Culum stopped for a moment, helpless, drowned in the abundance of his father’s joy. Then he began running in the surf too, and finally he was safe in his father’s arms. And all the horror of the months burst like an abscess and he was weeping, holding on, holding on, and then Struan was gentling his son and carrying him ashore in his arms and murmuring. “Culum laddie” and “Dinna fash yoursel’” and “Oh ma bairn,” and Culum was sobbing, “We’re dead—we’re all dead—Mumma, Ian, Lechie, Granny, aunts, Cousin Clair—we’re all dead, Father. There’s only me and Win’fred, and she’s dead by now.” He repeated the names again and again, and they were knives in Struan’s guts.
In time Culum slept, spent, safe at last in the strength and warmth. His sleep was dreamless for the first time since the plague had come. He slept that day and the night and part of the next day, and Struan cradled him, rocking him gently.
Struan did not notice the passing of the time. Sometimes he would talk with his wife and children—Ronalda and Ian and Lechie and Winifred—as they sat on the shore beside him. Sometimes when they would go away he would call to them, softly lest he wake Culum, and later they would come back. Sometimes he would sing the gentle lullabies that Ronalda used to croon to their children. Or the Gaelic of his mother or Catherine, his second mother. Sometimes the mist covered his soul and he saw nothing.
When Culum awoke he felt at peace. “Hello, Father.”
“You all right, laddie?”
“I’m all right now.” He stood up.
It was cold on the beach in the shadow of the rock, but in the sun it was warmer. The fleet was quietly at anchor, and tenders scurried back and forth. There were fewer ships than before.
“Is that where the Great House’ll be?” Culum asked, pointing to the knoll.
“Aye. That’s where we could live in the autumn till the spring. The climate’s bonny then.”
“What’s the valley called?”
“It has na a name.” Struan moved into the sun and tried to dominate the brooding ache in his shoulders and back.
“It should have a name.”
“Little Karen, your cousin Karen—Robb’s youngest—wants to call it Happy Valley. We’d’ve been happy here.” Struan’s voice grew leaden. “Did they suffer much?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me about it?”
“Not now.”
“Little Winifred. She died before you left?”
“No. But she was very weak. The doctors said that being so weak … the doctors just shrugged and went away.”
“And Grandpa?”
‘The plague never touched him. He came like the wind to us and then he took Win’fred. I went to Aunt Uthenia’s to help. But I didn’t help.”
Struan was facing the harbor without seeing it. “Yo
u told Uncle Robb?”
“Yes. Yes, I think I did.”
“Poor Robb. I’d better get aboard.” Struan reached down and picked up the dispatches, half buried in the sand. They were unopened. He wiped the sand off.
“I’m sorry,” Culum said. “I forgot to give them to you.”
“Nay, lad. You gave them to me.” Struan saw a longboat making for shore. Isaac Perry was in the stern.
“Afternoon, Mr. Struan,” Perry said cautiously. “Sorry about your loss.”
“How’s Robb?”
Perry did not answer. He stepped ashore and barked at the crew, “Hurry it up!” and Struan wondered through the numbness of his torn mind why Perry was afraid of him. No reason to be afraid. None.
The men carried ashore a table and benches and food, tea and brandy and clothes.
“Hurry it up!” Perry repeated irritably. “And stand off! Get to hell out of here and stand off.”
The oarsmen shoved the longboat off quickly and pulled out above the surf and waited, glad to be away.
Struan helped Culum into dry clothes and then put on a clean, ruffled shirt and warm reefer jacket. Perry helped him off with his soaking boots.
“Thanks,” Struan said.
“Does it hurt?” Culum asked, seeing the foot.
“No.”
“About Mr. Robb, sir,” Perry said. “After Culum left he went for the liquor. I told him no, but he wouldn’t listen.” He continued haltingly, “You’d given orders. So the cabin got a bit bent, but I got it away from him. When he came to, he was all right. I took him aboard China Cloud and put him into his wife’s hands.”
“You did right, Isaac. Thank you.” Struan helped Culum to a dish of food—beef stew, dumplings, cold chicken, potatoes, hardtack biscuits—and took a pewter mug of hot, sweet tea for himself.
“His Excellency sends his condolences. He’d like you to step aboard, at your convenience.”
Struan rubbed his face and felt the stubble of his beard, and he wondered why he always felt dirty when his face was unshaven and his teeth not brushed.
“Your razor’s there,” Perry said, indicating a side table. He had anticipated Struan’s need to spruce up. The Tai-Pan had a fanatical obsession with his personal cleanliness. “There’s hot water.”
“Thank you.” Struan soaked a towel in the water and wiped his face and head. Next he lathered his face and shaved deftly without a mirror. Then he dipped a small brush into his mug of tea and began to clean his teeth vigorously.
Must be another heathen superstition, Perry thought contemptuously. Teeth grow old and rot and fall out and that’s all there is to it.
Struan rinsed his mouth with tea and threw the dregs away. He washed the mug with fresh tea and refilled it and drank deeply. There was a small bottle of cologne with his shaving gear, and he poured a few drops on his hands and rubbed them into his face.
He sat down, refreshed. Culum was only toying with the food. “You should eat, lad.”
“I’m not hungry, thank you.”
“Eat anyway.” The wind ruffled Struan’s red-gold hair, which he wore long and uncurled, and he brushed it back. “Is my tent set up, Isaac?”
“Of course. You gave orders. It’s on a knoll above the flagstaff.”
“Tell Chen Sheng, in my name, to go to Macao and buy honey and fresh eggs. And to get Chinese herbs to cure distempers and the aftereffect of Bengal plague.”
“I’m all right, Father, thank you,” Culum protested weakly. “I don’t need any heathen witches’ brews.”
“They’re na witches as we know witches, lad,” Struan said. “And they’re Chinese, not heathen. Their herbs have saved me many a time. The Orient’s not like Europe.”
“No need to worry about me, Father.”
“There is. The Orient’s nae place for the weak. Isaac, order China Cloud to Macao with Chen Sheng, and if she’s not back in record time, Captain Orlov and all the officers are beached. Call the longboat in.”
“Perhaps Culum should go with the ship to Macao, Mr. Struan.”
“He’s to stay in my sight till I think he’s well.”
“He’d be well looked after in Macao. Aboard there’s not—”
“God’s blood, Isaac, will you na do as you’re told? Get the longboat in!”
Perry stiffened momentarily and shouted the longboat ashore.
Struan, with Culum beside him, sat amidships, Perry behind them.
“Flagship!” Struan ordered, automatically checking the lie of his ships and the smell of the wind and studying the clouds, trying to read their weather message. The sea was calm. But he could smell trouble.
On the way to the flagship Struan read the dispatches. Profits on last year’s teas, good. Perry had made a lucrative voyage, good. A copy of Scarlet Cloud’s bill of lading that Perry had brought from Calcutta; bad: two hundred and ten thousand pounds sterling of opium lost. Thank God the ship was insured—though that would na replace the men and the time lost while another ship was abuilding. The cargo of opium was contraband and could not be insured. A year’s profit gone. What had happened to her? Storm or piracy? Storm, more likely. Unless she’d run into one of the Spanish or French or American—aye, or English—privateers that infested the seas. Finally he broke the seal on his banker’s letter. He read it and exploded with rage.
“What is it?” Culum asked, frightened.
“Just an old pain. Nothing. It’s nothing.” Struan pretended to read the next dispatch while raging inwardly over the contents of the letter. Good sweet Christ! “We regret to inform you that, inadvertently and momentarily, credit was overextended and there was a run on the bank, started by malicious rivals. Therefore we can no longer keep our doors open. The board of directors has advised we can pay sixpence on the pound. I have the honor to be, sir, your most obedient servant …” And we hold close to a million sterling of their paper. Twenty-five thousand sterling for a million, and our debts close to a million pounds. We’re bankrupt. Great God, I warned Robb not to put all the money in one bank. Na with all the speculating that was going on in England, na when a bank could issue paper in any amount that it liked.
“But this bank’s safe,” Robb had said, “and we need the money in one block for collateral,” and Robb had gone on to explain the details of a complicated financial structure that involved Spanish and French and German bonds and National Debt bonds, and in the end gave Struan and Company an internationally safe banking position and a huge buying power for expanding the fleet that Struan wanted, and bought for The Noble House special privileges in the lucrative German, French and Spanish markets.
“All right, Robb,” he had said, not understanding the intricacies but trusting that what Robb said was wise.
Now we’re broke. Bankrupt.
Sweet Christ!
He was still too stunned to think about a solution. He could only dwell on the awesomeness of the New Age. The complexity of it. The unbelievable speed of it. A new queen—Victoria—the first popular monarch in centuries. And her husband Albert—he did na ken about him yet, he was a bloody foreigner from Saxe-Coburg, but Parliament was strong now and in control, and that was a new development. Peace for twenty-six years and no major war imminent—unheard of for hundreds of years. Devil Bonaparte safely dead, and violent France safely bottled, and Britain world-dominant for the first time. Slavery out eight years ago. Canals, a new method of transport. Toll roads with unheard-of smooth and permanent surfaces, and factories and industry and looms and mass production and iron and coal and joint stock companies, and so many other new things within the past ten years: the penny post, first cheap post on earth, and the first police force in the world, and “magnetism”—whatever the hell that was—and a steam hammer, and a first Factory Act, and Parliament at long last taken out of the hands of the few aristocratic rich landowners so that now, incredibly, every man in England who owned a house worth twenty pounds a year could vote, could actually vote, and any man could become Prime Minister. And th
e unbelievable Industrial Revolution and Britain fantastically wealthy and its riches beginning to spread. New ideas of government and humanity ripping through barriers of centuries. All British, all new. And now the locomotive!
“Now, there’s an invention that’ll rock the world,” he muttered.
“What did you say, Father?” Culum asked.
Struan came back into himself. “I was just thinking about our first ride on a train,” he improvised.
“You been on a train, sorr?” McKay asked. “What’s it like? When was that?”
Culum said, “We went on the maiden trip of Stephenson’s engine, the Rocket. I was twelve.”
“No, lad,” Struan said, “you were eleven. It was in 1830. Eleven years ago. It was the maiden run of the Rocket, on the first passenger train on earth. From Manchester to Liverpool. A day’s run by stagecoach, but we made the journey in an hour and a half.” And once again Struan began to ponder the fate of The Noble House. Then he remembered his instructions to Robb to borrow all the money they could to corner the opium market. Let’s see—we could make fifty, a hundred thousand pounds out of that. Aye—but a drop in the bucket for what we need. The three million we’re owed for the stolen opium! Aye, but we canna get that until the treaty’s ratified—six to nine months—and we’ve to honor our drafts in one!
How to get cash? Our position’s good—our standing good. Except there are jackals salivating at our heels. Brock for one. Cooper-Tillman for another. Did Brock start the run on the bank? Or was it his whelp Morgan? The Brocks have power enough and money enough. It’s cash we need. Or a huge line of credit. Supported by cash, na paper. We’re bankrupt. At least we’re bankrupt if our creditors fall on us.
He felt his son’s hand on his arm. “What did you say, lad? The Rocket, you were saying?”
Culum was greatly unsettled by Struan’s pallor and the piercing luminous green of his eyes. “The flagship. We’re here.”