“Send him in.”
Fong bowed himself in silently.
Struan studied the thickset, pockmarked Chinese. In the three months that he had been aboard he had changed in many ways. Now he wore European seaman’s clothes easily, his queue coiled neatly under a knitted cap. His English was passable. An excellent sailor. Obedient, soft-spoken, quick to learn.
“What are you doing off ship?”
“Captain say can go shore, Tai-Pan. My watch go shore.”
“What do you want, Fong?”
Fong offered a crumpled piece of paper. The writing on it was childlike. “Aberdeen. Same place, matey. Eight bells, midwatch. Come alone.” It was signed “Bert and Fred’s Dad.”
“Where’d you get this?”
“Coolie stop me. Give me.”
“Do you know what it says?”
“I read, yes. Not read easy. Very hard, never mind.”
Struan considered the scrap of paper. “The sky. Have you seen it?”
“Yes, Tai-Pan.”
“What did it tell you?”
Fong knew that he was being tested. “Tai-fung,” he said. “How long?”
“Doan knowah. Three day, four day, more, less. Tai-fung, never mind.”
The sun was already below the horizon, the light dying fast. Lanterns were dotting the foreshore and the building sites.
The veil over the sky had thickened. A gigantic bloody moon sat ten degrees above the clear horizon.
“I think you’ve a good nose, Fong.”
“Thank you, Tai-Pan.”
Struan held up the paper. “What does your nose say about this?”
“Not go alone,” Fong said.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
With the coming of darkness the sky began to cloud over and the humidity intensified. The China traders who were old in the ways of wind and sea knew that rain would come soon. The clouds heralded merely the first of the season’s rains, which would alleviate the constant mugginess for a time and lay the dust. Just a shower if joss was with them. If joss was against them, there would be a storm. And only joss would decide if the storm was to become a typhoon.
“I’m hot, Tai-Pan,” May-may said, fanning herself in the bed.
“So am I,” Struan said. He was changing out of a limp, dank shirt into a fresh one. “I told you you should stay in Macao. It’s much cooler there.”
“That may be, but then I’d na have the pleasure of telling you that I’m hot, by God.”
“I preferred you when you were sick. Nae cheek then and nae vulgar swearing.”
“Huh!” she snorted. “Dinna be mendacious with me!”
“What with you?”
“Mendacious, Tai-Pan. Do you na ken the English? While you’re out all day, na worrying about your poor old mother, I’ve been terrifical busy reading your Dr. Johnson word book, improving my mind with the barbarian tongue. Everyone knows ‘mendacious.’ It means ‘lying.’ That’s wat you are, by God.” She forced a pout and this made her even prettier. “You dinna adore me any more!”
“I’ve a good mind to mendacious your bottom.”
May-may forced a long-suffering groan. “Tai-Pan wantshee cow chillo jig-jig, heya, Mass’er? Can, oh ko, never mind.”
Struan approached the bed and May-may backed off. “Now, Tai-Pan, that was joke.”
He held her tight. “Ah, lassie, you get yoursel’ well, that’s the important thing to do.”
She was wearing a soft blue silk tunic and her hair was done elegantly, her perfume intoxicating. “Don’t you dare to go to whorehouses, eh?”
“Dinna be silly.” He kissed her and finished dressing. He put his knife in its back holster and the small dirk in his left boot, and retied his hair neatly with a ribbon at the nape of his neck.
“Why for you cut your hair, Tai-Pan? Grow it into a queue like a civilized person. Very pretty.”
Lim Din knocked and came in. “Mass’er. Mass’er Chen here-ah. Can?”
“See-ah cabin topside.”
“You come back, Tai-Pan?”
“Nay, lassie. I’ll go straight ashore.”
“Ask Gordon to see me—yes?”
“Aye, lassie.”
“Where you go?”
“Out, by God. And you better behave yoursel’ while I’m away. I’ll na be back till after midnight. But I’ll look in as soon as I’m aboard.”
“Good,” she purred. “But wake me if I’m sleepings. Your old mother would like to know her mendaciousical son’s safe.”
He patted her fondly and went to the cabin on the next deck. “Hello, Gordon.”
Gordon Chen was wearing a long robe of blue silk and light silk trousers. He was hot and greatly worried. “Good evening, Tai-Pan. Welcome back. I’m so happy to hear about the cinchona. How is the Lady T’chung?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“I’m sorry my inadequate efforts were fruitless.”
“Thank you for trying.”
Gordon Chen was again vexed because he had to lay out a substantial number of taels on the quest, but his vexation was nothing compared to his anxiety over Hong Kong. The whole Kwangtung hierarchy of the Triads was in an uproar over the news from England. He had been summoned by Jin-qua and ordered to sound out the Tai-Pan, to use the total power of the Triads, and whatever means were necessary—bullion, squeeze, increased trade—to prevent the barbarians from leaving the island and to encourage them to stay. “There’s a matter of grave importance, Tai-Pan; otherwise I would not have intruded. Hong Kong. This editorial. Is it true? If it is, we’re lost—ruined.”
“I hear you’re Tai-Pan of the Hong Kong Triads.”
“What?”
“Tai-Pan of the Hong Kong Triads,” Struan repeated blandly, and told him what the Portuguese officer had said. “Stupid story, eh?”
“Not stupid, Tai-Pan, terrible indeed! A shocking lie!” If Gordon had been alone he would have torn his hair and clothes and screamed with rage.
“Why should Triads murder Gorth?”
“I don’t know. How should I know what those anarchists do? Tai-Pan of the Triads? Me? What a foul accusation!” My life’s not worth a price of a coolie’s droppings, he was shouting to himself. That turtledung traitor! How dare he divulge secrets! Get your wits about you. The Tai-Pan of the barbarians is staring at you and you’d better give him a clever answer! “I simply have no idea. Good heavens. Triads in Tai Ping Shan, under my very nose? Ghastly.”
“Have you enemies who’d spread such a story?”
“I must have, Tai-Pan. Great heaven! I wonder if—” The whites of his eyes showed.
“If what?”
“Well, I am—well, you are my father. Could it be that someone is trying to attack you, through me?”
“It could be, Gordon. It could be you are chief of the Triads.”
“An anarchist? Me?” Oh gods, why have you forsaken me? I spent fifty taels on incense and offerings, and on having prayers said only last week. Am I not the most lavish supporter of all your temples without favor? Have I not personally endowed three temples and four burial grounds, and have I not a retinue of forty-three Buddhist priests on my personal payroll? “Why should I mix with those felons? Through you I am becoming rich. I’ve no need to steal or rob.”
“But you’d like the Manchus off the throne of China?”
“Manchus or Chinese, it’s all the same to me, Tai-Pan. Why should I care? Nothing to do with me.” Oh gods, close your ears for a moment. “I’m not Chinese—I’m English. I’d think the last person any Chinese secret society would trust is me. That would be dangerous, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. I dinna ken. Perhaps you should spend some taels, Gordon. Start a spy system. Find out who these men are, who their leaders are.”
“At once, Tai-Pan.”
“Three months should be enough for a man of your astuteness to produce the leaders.”
“Six months,” Gordon Chen said automatically, desperately trying to think of a way out of the trap. Now he
had an inspiration. Of course. Let the barbarians be the ones to deal with the anti-Triad turtledung. We’ll recruit spies from among them and arrange for them to join a sub-lodge and initiate them with false ceremonies. Excellent! Then … let me see. We let drop that the real Triad leader is—is who? I’ll think of some enemy when the time comes. Then we reveal them to the barbarians as actual Triads and off come their heads. “Oh yes, Tai-Pan, I’ll get onto it at once.”
“I think you should. Because one way or another, I’m going to smash the Triads.”
“And I’ll assist you to the limit of my being,” Gordon said fervently. Ten heads should satisfy even you, Tai-Pan. Pity Chen Sheng is family, otherwise he’d be the perfect one to set up as the “head Triad.” With any joss at all I’d be next in line to be compradore of The Noble House. Don’t worry, Jin-qua will assist you to find the right decoy. “Tai-Pan. To more important things. What about this editorial? Is Hong Kong finished? We stand to lose a fortune. It would be disastrous if we lost the island.”
“There are a few minor problems. But they’ll be settled. Hong Kong’s permanent. This Government will be out of office soon. Dinna worry. The Noble House and Hong Kong are one.”
Gordon Chen’s anxiety disappeared. “Are you sure? This Cunnington will be removed?”
“One way or another. Aye.”
He looked at his father with admiration. Ah, he thought, even by assassination. Excellent. He would have liked to tell the Tai-Pan that he had eliminated Gorth and thus saved his life. But this could wait until a more important time, he said to himself, filled with delight. “Excellent, Tai-Pan. You’ve reassured me marvelously. I agree. The Noble House and Hong Kong are one.” If they’re not, you’re a dead duckling, he thought. But you’d better not set foot on the mainland ever again. Not with this Triad story set in motion. No. You’re committed to Hong Kong. It’s your palace or your tomb. “Then we’d better expand, gamble heavily. I will work to make Hong Kong very strong. Oh yes. You can depend on me! Thank you, Tai-Pan, for reassuring me.”
“My Lady wished to say hello. Go below, eh?”
“Thank you. And thank you for warning me about that ridiculous but dangerous story.” Gordon Chen bowed and left.
Struan had watched his son very carefully. Is he or is he na? he asked himself. The surprise could have been real, and what he said makes a lot of sense. I dinna ken. But if Gordon is, you’ll have to be very clever to catch him. And what then?
Struan found Skinner in the printing-press room of the Oriental Times. It was stifling and noisy. He complimented the newspaperman on the way he had handled the release.
“Don’t worry, Tai-Pan,” Skinner said. “There’s a follow-up issue tomorrow.” He handed the proof sheet to Struan. “I’ll be glad when this cursed summer’s over.” He was wearing his usual black broadcloth frockcoat and heavy trousers.
Struan read the article. It was filled with invective and sarcasm and emphasized that all traders should band together to bombard Parliament and destroy Cunnington.
“I’d say this would make a few of the lads break out in a rash,” Struan said approvingly.
“I certainly hope so.” Skinner held his arms away from his sides to relieve the fiery itch in his armpits. “Cursed heat! You take your life in your hands, Tai-Pan, walking out in the night like that,” he said.
Struan wore only a light shirt and linen trousers and thin boots. “You should try it. You’ll sweat less—and no prickly heat.”
“Don’t mention that cursed plague. Nothing to do with heat, it’s a summer flux. Man was born to sweat.”
“Aye, and to be curious. You mentioned something in your note about a strange codicil to Longstaff’s agreement with Viceroy Ching-so. What was it?”
“Just one of those strange bits of information a newspaperman collects.” Skinner wiped his face with a rag, which left ink stains in its wake, and sat back on the high stool. He told Struan about the seeds. “Mulberries, camellias, rice, tea, all sorts of flowers.”
Struan brooded awhile, “Aye, that’s curious, right enough.”
“Longstaff’s no gardener that I know of. Perhaps it was Sinclair’s idea—he’s a bent for gardening. At least his sister has.” Skinner watched the Chinese coolies working at the printing press. “I hear she’s quite sick.”
“The lass is recovering, I’m happy to say. The doctor said it was a stomach flux.”
“I hear Brock was aboard the flagship this afternoon.”
“Your information’s very good.”
“I was wondering whether I should be preparing an obituary.”
“Sometimes I dinna find your humor amusing.”
The sweat ran down Skinner’s jowls and dropped onto his soiled shirt. “That wasn’t meant as a pleasantry, Tai-Pan.”
“Well, I’m taking it as such,” Struan said easily. “Bad joss to talk about obituaries.” He watched the press spewing out tomorrow’s paper. “I had a thought about Whalen. Longstaff named the old town Queen’s Town. Now we have a new town. Perhaps Whalen should have the honor of choosing another name.”
Skinner chuckled. “That would involve him nicely. What name have you decided on, Tai-Pan?”
“Victoria.”
“I like it. Victoria, eh? In one simple stroke Longstaff’s obliterated. Take it as ‘suggested,’ Tai-Pan. Leave that to me. Whalen will never realize it wasn’t his own idea—I guarantee.” Skinner scratched his belly contentedly. “When do I own the paper?”
“The day Hong Kong’s accepted by the Crown and the Treaty’s ratified by both governments.” Struan gave him a document. “It’s all down here. My chop’s on it. Of course, provided the Oriental Times is still a going concern at that time.”
“Have you any doubt, Tai-Pan?” Skinner asked happily. He could see the future clearly. Ten years, he told himself. Then I’ll be rich. Then I’ll go home and marry a squire’s daughter and buy a small manor house in Kent and start a paper in London. Yes, Morley, old lad, he thought, you’ve come a long way from the alleys of Limehouse and that pox-ridden orphanage and gutter scavenging. God curse those devils who birthed me and left me. “Thank you, Tai-Pan. I won’t fail, never fear.”
“By the way, you might like an exclusive story. Cinchona cures the malaria of Happy Valley.”
Skinner was momentarily speechless. “Oh my God, Tai-Pan, that’s not a story—that’s immortality,” he finally blurted out. “Exclusive, did you say? This is the greatest story in the world! Of course,” he added craftily, “the peg to that story is the ‘she’—or ‘he’—who was cured.”
“Write what you like—but dinna involve me or mine.”
“No one’ll ever believe it unless they’ve seen the cure with their own eyes. The doctors will say it’s hogwash.”
“Let ’em. Their patients will die. Say so!” Struan told him bluntly. “I believe the story so much that I’m putting a substantial investment into it. Cooper and I are now partners in the cinchona business. We’ll have stocks available in six months.”
“Can I print that?”
Struan laughed shortly. “I’d na tell you if it was secret.”
On Queen’s Road, Struan was blasted by the heat of the night. The moon was high and misted in a sky almost completely cloud-locked. But as yet there was no nimbus.
He set off down the road and did not stop until he had reached the dockyard. There he turned inland slightly, down a shabby potholed street. He went up a short flight of stairs and into a house.
“Bless my soul,” Mrs. Fortheringill said, her false teeth making her smile grotesque. She was in the parlor having supper—kippers and brown bread and a flagon of ale. “Ladies,” she called out, and rang a bell that was attached to her belt. “Nothing like a good frolic on a hot night, I always say.” She noticed Struan was in shirt-sleeves. “No wasted time undressing, is that the idea, Tai-Pan?”
“I just came to see—er, your guest.”
She smiled sweetly. “That old bugger’s outstayed his
welcome.”
Four girls ambled in. Their feathered woolen kimonos were stained and they stank of perfume and stale sweat. They were barely twenty—hard, rough, and used to the life they led. They waited for Struan to choose.
“Nelly’s the one for you, Tai-Pan,” Mrs. Fortheringill said. “Eighteen and sound in limb and vigorous.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Nelly bobbed a curtsy and her full breasts swayed out of the kimono. She was heavy and blonde, her eyes ancient and frosted. “You wanta come with me, Tai-Pan luv?”
Struan gave them each a guinea and sent them away. “Where is Mr. Quance?”
“Second floor back, left. The Blue Room.” Mrs. Fortheringill peered over her spectacles at him. “Times is very hard, Tai-Pan. Your Mr. Quance eats like a horse and swears something terrible. Shocking for the young ladies. His bill’s long overdue.”
“Where’d you get the girls, eh?”
A stony glint came into the old woman’s eyes. “Where there’s a market, there’s always ladies to service it, eh? From England. Some from Australia. Here and there. Why?”
“How much does one cost you?”
“Trade secret, Tai-Pan. You’ve yours, we’ve ours.” She nodded to the table and changed the subject. “You’d like to sup? The kippers is special from home. This week’s mail ship.”
“Thank you, but I’ve already eaten.”
“Who’s to pay dear Mr. Quance’s bill?”
“How much is it?”
“He has the reckoning. I hear Mrs. Quance is right proper upset with him.”
“I’ll discuss the reckoning with him.”
“Your credit’s never in question, Tai-Pan.”
“Did Gorth’s girl die?” Struan asked abruptly.
The old woman was again a model of gentility. “What? I don’t know what you mean. There ain’t any bad goings-on in my establishment!”
Struan’s knife was in his hand, the point touching the withered folds of skin that hung from Mrs. Fortheringill’s neck. “Did she?”
“Not here she didn’t. She were took away. For the love of God, don’t—”
“Did she or did she na die?”
“I hear she did, but it weren’t nothing to do with me—”
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