Tai-Pan

by James Clavell

  Struan found his door locked.

  “Open the door,” he said, and waited. Ah Gip let him inside.

  “Where the hell’ve you been, May-may?” he said, trying not to show his relief.

  She was standing in the shadows near the window. She spoke to Ah Gip, then motioned her out.

  Struan bolted the door. “Where the hell’ve you been?”

  She moved into the lantern light, and he was shocked by her pallor.

  “What’s amiss?”

  “There’s plenty rumors, Tai-Pan. Word says all barbarians are going to be put to the sword.”

  “Nothing new in that. Where’ve you been?”

  “Bannermen are new. There’s rumor that Ti-sen’s in disgrace. That he’s sentenced to death.”

  “That’s nonsense. He’s cousin to the emperor, and the second-richest man in China.”

  “Rumor says the emperor’s so godrot angry Ti-sen make a treaty, Ti-sen is to suffer public torture.”

  “That’s madness.” Struan stood by the fire and stripped off his coat and shirt. “Where’ve you been?”

  “What happened to you?” she exclaimed, seeing the cut.

  “Highwaymen jumped me.”

  “Did you see Jin-qua?”

  Struan was wonder-struck. “How do you know about Jin-qua?”

  “I went to kowtow and pay my respects to his Supreme Lady. She told me he just returned and sent for you.”

  Struan had been unaware that May-may knew Jin-qua’s first wife, but he was so furious that he dismissed this from his mind. “Why the devil did you na tell me where you were going?”

  “Because then you would have forbid me,” May-may snapped. “I want to see her. Also to have my hair done and to consult the astrologer.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a terrifical good hairdresser that Jin-qua’s ladies use. Terrifical good for hair. This woman is famous in all Kwangtung. Very expensive. The astrologer said joss was good. Very good. But to watch building of houses.”

  “You’d risk your life to talk to soothsayers and get your hair treated?” he erupted. “What the hell’s the matter with your hair? It’s fine as it is!”

  “You dinna ken these things, Tai-Pan,” she said coldly. “That’s where I hear rumors. At hairdresser’s.” She took his hand and made him touch her hair. “There, you see. It is much softer, no?”

  “No! It is na! God’s death, if you ever leave without first telling me where you’re going, I’ll whack you so hard you will na sit for a week.”

  “Just try, Tai-Pan, by God,” she said and glared back at him.

  He grabbed her swiftly and carried her, struggling, to the bed and flung up her robe and petticoats and gave her a smack on her buttocks that stung his hand and tossed her on the bed. He had never struck her before. May-may flew off the bed at him and viciously raked at his face with her long nails. A lantern crashed to the floor as Struan upended her again and resumed the spanking. She fought out of his grip, and her nails slashed at his eyes, missing by a fraction of an inch, and scoring his face. He caught her wrists and turned her over and tore off her robe and underclothes and smashed her bare buttocks with the flat of his hand. She fought back fiercely, shoving an elbow in his groin and clawing at his face again. Mustering all his strength, he pinned her to the bed, but she slipped her head free and sank her teeth into his forearm. He gasped from the pain and slashed her buttocks again with the flat of his free hand. She bit harder.

  “By God, you’ll never bite me again,” he said through clenched teeth. Her teeth sank deeper, but he deliberately did not pull his arm away. The pain made his eyes water, but he smashed May-may harder and harder and harder, always on her buttocks, until his hand hurt. At last she released her teeth.

  “Don’t—no more—please—please,” she whimpered, and wept into the pillow, defenseless.

  Struan caught his breath. “Now say you’re sorry for going out without permission.”

  Her mottled, inflamed buttocks tightened and she flinched against the expected blow, but he had not raised his hand. He knew that the spirit of a thoroughbred must only be tamed, never broken. “I’ll give you three seconds.”

  “I’m sorry—sorry. You hurt me, you hurt me,” she sobbed.

  He got off the bed and, holding his forearm under the light, examined the wound. May-may’s teeth had bitten very deeply and blood seeped.

  “Come over here,” he said quietly. She did not move but continued to weep. “Come over here,” he repeated, but this time his voice was a lash and she jerked up. He did not look at her. She quickly pulled the remnants of her robe around her and began to get off the bed.

  “I did na tell you to dress! I said come here.”

  She hurried over to him, her eyes red and her face powder and eye makeup streaked.

  He steadied his forearm against the table and daubed the seeping blood away and poured brandy into each wound. He lit a match and gave it to her. “Stick the flame in the wounds, one by one.”

  “No!”

  “One by one,” he said. “A human bite is as poisonous as a mad dog’s. Hurry.”

  It took three matches, and each time she wept a little more, nauseated by the smell of burning flesh, but she kept her hand steady. And each time the brandy ignited, Struan grit his teeth and said nothing.

  When it was finished, he slopped more brandy over the blackened wounds and May-may found the chamber pot and was very sick. Struan quickly poured some hot water from the kettle over a towel and patted May-may’s back gently, and when she had finished he wiped her face tenderly and made her rinse her mouth with some of the hot water. Then he picked her up and put her into the bed and would have left her. But she held on to him and began to weep, the deep inner weeping that cleans away the hatred.

  Struan soothed her and gentled her until she slept. Then he left and took over the watch from Brock.

  At noon there was another meeting. Many wished to leave immediately. But Struan dominated Brock and persuaded the merchants to wait until tomorrow. They agreed reluctantly and decided to move into the factory for mutual safety. Cooper and the Americans went to their own factory.

  Struan returned to his suite.

  May-may welcomed him passionately. Later they slept, at peace. Once they awoke together and she kissed him sleepily and whispered, “You were right to beat me. I was wrong, Tai-Pan. But never beat me when I am na wrong. For sometime you must sleep and then I kill you.”

  In the middle watch their peace was shattered. Wolfgang Mauss was pounding on the door. “Tai-Pan! Tai-Pan!”

  “Aye?”

  “Quick! Downstairs! Hurry!”

  Now they could hear the mob swarming into the square.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “My da’ warned you all, God damn yor eyes!” Gorth said, turning away from the dining room window and pushing through the traders.

  “We’ve had mobs before,” Struan said sharply. “And you know they’re always controlled and only ordered out by the mandarins.”

  “Yus, but not like this’n,” Brock said.

  “There’s got to be a special reason. Nothing to worry about yet.”

  The square below was jammed with a heaving mass of Chinese. Some carried lanterns, others torches. A few were armed. And they were screaming in unison.

  “Must beed two to three thousand of the buggers,” Brock said, then called out, “Hey, Wolfgang! Wot be they heathen devils shouting?”

  “‘Death to the devil barbarians.’”

  “What rotten cheek!” Roach said. He was a small, sparrowlike man, his musket taller than himself.

  Mauss looked back at the mob, his heart thumping uneasily, his flanks clammy with sweat. Is this Thy time, oh Lord? The time of Thy peerless martyrdom? “I’ll go and talk to them, preach to them,” he said throatily, wanting the peace of such a sacrifice, yet terrified of it.

  “An estimable idea, Mr. Mauss,” Rumajee said agreeably, his black eyes twitching nervously from Mauss to
the mob and back again. “They’re bound to listen to one of your persuasion, sir.”

  Struan saw Mauss’s beaded sweat and untoward pallor and he intercepted him near the door. “You’ll do nae such thing.”

  “It’s time, Tai-Pan.”

  “You’ll na buy salvation that easily.”

  “Who are you to judge?” Mauss began to push past, but Struan stood in his way.

  “I meant that salvation’s a long and hurt-filled process,” he said kindly. Twice before he had seen the same strangeness in Mauss. Each time it had been before a battle with pirates, and later, during the battle, Mauss had dropped his weapons and gone toward the enemy in a religious ecstasy, seeking death. “It’s a long process.”

  “The—the Lord’s peace is … is hard to find,” Mauss muttered, his throat choking him, glad to be stopped and hating himself for being glad. “I just wanted …”

  “Quite right. Know all about salvation meself,” Masterson butted in. He steepled his hands and his manner was pious. “Lord preserve us from the godrotting heathen! Couldn’t agree more, Tai-Pan. Damn all this noise, what?”

  Mauss collected himself with an effort, feeling naked before Struan, who once again had seen into the depths of his soul. “You’re … you’re right. Yes. Right.”

  “After all, if we lose you, who’s left to preach the Word?” Struan said, and decided to watch Mauss if there was real trouble.

  “Quite right,” Masterson said, blowing his nose with his fingers. “What’s the point of throwing a valuable Christian to the wolves? That damned bunch of scalawags is whipped to a frenzy and in no mood to be preached at. Lord protect us! Goddamme, Tai-Pan, I told you there’d be an attack.”

  “The hell you did!” Roach called from across the room.

  “Who the devil asked your opinion, by God? Having a quiet talk to the Tai-Pan and Reverend Mauss,” Masterson shouted back. Then to Mauss, “Why not say a prayer for us, eh? After all, we’re the Christians, by God!” He bustled over to the window. “Can’t a fellow see what’s going on, eh?”

  Mauss wiped the sweat off his brow. Oh Lord God and sweet Jesus, Thine only begotten Son, give me Thy peace. Send me disciples and missionaries so that I may lay down Thy burden. And I bless Thee for sending me the Tai-Pan who is my conscience and who sees me as I am. “Thank you, Tai-Pan.”

  The door was flung open and more traders poured into the room. All were armed. “What the devil’s going on? What’s amiss?”

  “Nobody knows,” Roach said. “One moment it was peaceful; the next, they started to arrive.”

  “I bet we never see poor old Eliksen again. Poor devil’s probably had his throat cut already,” Masterson said, malevolently priming his musket. “We’ll die in our beds tonight.”

  “Oh, shut up, for the love of God,” Roach said.

  “You’re a harbinger of sweetness and comfort, ain’t you?” Vivien, a bulllike trader, glowered down on Masterson. “Why don’t you pee in your hat?”

  The other traders roared, and then Gorth shouldered his way to the door. “I’ll take my bullyboys and blow ’em to hell!”

  “No!” Struan’s voice was a lash. A hush fell. “They’re doing us nae harm yet. What’s the matter, Gorth? Are you frightened of a few men cursing you?”

  Gorth reddened and started toward Struan, but Brock moved in the way. “Get thee below,” he ordered. “Stand guard in the garden and the first Chinese wot come in, blow his bloody head off!”

  Gorth controlled his rage with an effort and walked out. Everyone started talking again.

  “Baint proper to bait the lad, Dirk.” Brock poured a tankard of ale and drank it thirstily. “He might be handing thee thy head.”

  “He might. And he might be taught a few manners.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Struan,” Rumajee interrupted, his nervousness overcoming his politeness. “Are there guards at the back entrance?”

  “Aye. Three of my men. They can hold that against an army of this rabble.”

  There was a burst of arguing among the traders and then Roach said, “I’m with Gorth. I say we should fight our way out instantly.”

  “We will. If necessary,” Struan said.

  “Yus,” Brock said. “Askin’ for trouble to do it now. We waits and keeps our guard up till light. Mayhaps they be gone by then.”

  “And if they’re not? Eh? That’s what I’d like to know!”

  “Then we spill a lot of blood. I snuck three of my men onto our lorcha and put her in midstream. There be a ten-pounder aboard.”

  Struan laughed. “I think Mr. Brock deserves a vote of confidence.”

  “By God, Mr. Brock, you’re right smart,” Masterson said. “Three cheers for Mr. Brock!”

  They cheered and Brock grinned. “Thank’ee kindly, lads. Now, best to get some sleep. We be safe enough.”

  “Gott im Himmel! Look!” Mauss was pointing out the window, his eyes bulging.

  A lantern procession with gongs and drums was pouring out of Hog Street into the square. Bannermen with flails preceded it, hacking a path through the mob. At the head of the procession was a man of vast girth. His clothes were rich but he was barefoot and hatless, and he staggered under the weight of chains.

  “God’s death!” Struan said. “That’s Ti-sen!”

  The procession wound into the center of the square and halted. All the Co-hong merchants except Jin-qua were in the procession. All had their ceremonial rank buttons removed from their hats, and they stood quaking. The mob began to jeer and hiss. Then the chief bannerman, a tall, black-bearded warrior, banged a huge gong and the mob fell silent once more.

  An open sedan chair with mounted bannermen in front and behind was carried into the square. Seated on the chair, in full ceremonial gray-and-scarlet dress, was Hi’pia-kho, the imperial Hoppo. He was a squat, obese Manchu mandarin, almost neckless, and in his hand was the imperial fan of his office. The fan was ivory and studded with jade.

  The Hoppo’s chair was put down in the center of the square and the chief bannerman screamed out an order. Everyone in the square kowtowed three times and then got up again.

  The Hoppo unrolled a paper and, under the light of a lantern held by a guard, began to read in a high-pitched voice.

  “Wot’s he asaying?” Brock asked Mauss.

  “Look, there’s old How-qua,” Masterson said with a chuckle. “He’s bloody well shaking in—”

  “Please. Quiet. I can’t hear, hein?” Mauss said. He craned out the window. They all listened.

  “It’s an emperor’s edict,” Mauss said, quickly. “‘And the traitor Ti-sen, our late cousin, shall immediately be put in chains and sent to our capital under sentence of death and …’—I can’t hear, hein? Wait a moment—‘and the contemptible treaty called the Convention of Chuenpi, that he signed without our authority, is revoked. The barbarians are ordered out of our kingdom and out of Canton and out of Hong Kong under pain of immediate and lingering death and—’”

  “I don’t believe it,” Roach scoffed.

  “Shut thy face! How can Wolfgang be hearing?”

  Mauss listened intently to the eerie high-pitched voice cutting the brooding silence. “We’re ordered out,” he said. “And we’ve to pay an indemnity for all the trouble we’ve caused. No trade except under the Eight Regulations. Queen Victoria’s ordered to present herself at Canton in mourning—something about … it sounded like rewards are on our heads and—‘as a symbol of our displeasure, the criminal Ti-sen will be scourged publicly and all his property is forfeit. Fear this and tremblingly obey!’”

  The chief bannerman approached Ti-sen and gestured at the ground with his flail. Ti-sen, chalk-white, knelt down and the chief bannerman raised his flail and brought it crashing down on Ti-sen’s back. Again and again and again. There was no sound in the square but for the slash of the whip. Ti-sen fell forward on his face and the bannerman continued to scourge him.

  “I don’t believe it,” Masterson said.

  “It’s impossi
ble,” Mauss said.

  “If they’ll do this to Ti-sen—by the Cross, they’ll kill us all.”

  “Nonsense! We can take the whole of China—any time.”

  Brock started guffawing.

  “What’s so funny, hein?” Mauss asked impatiently.

  “This mean war again,” Brock said. “Good, says I.” He glanced at Struan, mocking him. “I told thee, lad. This be wot thee gets for making a soft treaty with the scum.”

  “It’s a ruse of some kind,” Struan said calmly. But inwardly he was stunned by what was happening. “Ti-sen’s the richest man in China. The emperor’s got a whipping boy, a scapegoat. And all Ti-sen’s wealth. It’s a matter of face. The emperor’s saving face.”

  “Thee and thy face, lad,” Brock said, no longer amused. “’Tis thy face that be red. Treaty be finished, trade finished, Hong Kong finished, thee be finished, and all thee talks about be face.”

  “You’re so wrong, Tyler. Hong Kong’s just begun,” Struan said. “A lot of things have just begun.”

  “Yus. War, by God.”

  “And if there’s war, where’s the base for the fleet, eh? Macao’s as useless as it always has been—it’s part of the mainland and the Chinese can fall on that at whim. But na our island, by God. Na with the fleet protecting it. I’ll agree that wi’out Hong Kong we’re finished. That wi’out it we canna launch a campaign north again. Never. Nor protect whatever mainland ports or settlements we get in the future. You hear, Tyler? Hong Kong’s the key to China. Hong Kong’s got you by the short and curlies.”

  “I knowed all about havin’ a island fortress, by God,” Brock blustered above the chorus of agreement. “Hong Kong baint the only place, I be saying. Chushan be better.”

  “You can na protect Chushan like Hong Kong,” Struan said exultantly, knowing that Brock was committed as they were all committed. “That ‘barren, sodding rock,’ as you call it, is your whole godrotting future.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Brock said sourly. “We be seeing about that. But thee baint be enjoying Hong Kong nohow. I be having the knoll, and thee be finished.”