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.
“Get the blankets and brandy and a brazier,” Struan snapped at a seaman. “Your Highness, can you move your right leg?”
Zergeyev shifted it slightly and winced with pain, but his leg moved.
“Your hip’s all right, I think, laddie. Stay still, now.”
When the blankets were brought, he wrapped Zergeyev in them and propped him more comfortably on the seat behind the helmsman, and gave him brandy.
When the brazier came, Struan opened the wound to the air and doused it heavily with the brandy. He heated his knife in the coals of the brazier.
“Hold him, Will! Culum, give us a hand.” They knelt down, Longstaff at his feet, Culum at his head.
Struan put the red-hot knife into the fore wound and the brandy caught and Zergeyev passed out. Struan cauterized the wound in front and probed deeply and quickly, wanting to do it fast now that Zergeyev was unconscious. He turned him over, and probed again. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. Longstaff turned aside and vomited, but Culum held on and helped, and Longstaff turned back once more.
Struan reheated the knife and poured more brandy over the back wound and cauterized it deeply and thoroughly. His head ached from the stench, and sweat was dripping off his chin, but his hands were steady and he knew that if he did not do the burning carefully, the wound would rot and Zergeyev would certainly die.
With such a wound nine men in ten would die.
Then he was finished.
He bandaged Zergeyev, and he rinsed his own mouth with brandy; its fumes cleared away the smell of blood and burning flesh. Then he gulped heavily and studied Zergeyev. The face was gray and bloodless.
“Now he’s in the hands of his own joss,” he said. “You all right, Culum?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so.”
“Get below. Organize hot rum for all hands. Check stores. You’re Number Two aboard now. Get everyone sorted out.”
Culum left the poop.
The two Russian servants were kneeling beside Zergeyev. One of them touched Struan and spoke brokenly, obviously thanking him. Struan motioned them to stay beside their master.
He stretched wearily and put his hand on Longstaff’s shoulder and drew him aside and .bent low to Longstaff’s ear. “Did you see muskets among the Chinese?”
Longstaff shook his head. “None.”
“Nor did I,” Struan said.
“There were guns going off all over the place.” Longstaff was white-faced and greatly concerned. “One of those unlucky accidents.”
Struan said nothing for a moment. “If he dies, there’ll be very large trouble, eh?”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t, Dirk.” Longstaff bit his lip. “I’ll have to advise the Foreign Secretary of the accident at once. I’ll have to hold an inquiry.”
“Aye.”
Longstaff looked across at the gray, corpselike face. Zergeyev’s breathing was shallow. “Damned annoying, what?”
“From the position of the wound, and from where he was standing when he was felled, there’s nae doubt that it was one of our bullets.”
“It was one of those unfortunate accidents.”
“Aye. But the bullet could have been aimed.”
“Impossible. Who’d want to kill him?”
“Who’d want to kill you? Or Culum? Or perhaps me? We were all very close together.”
“Who?”
“I’ve a dozen enemies.”
“Brock wouldn’t murder you in cold blood.”
“I never said he would. Offer a reward for information. Someone may have seen something.”
Together they watched the Settlement. It was far astern now: only flames and smoke over the rooftops of Canton. “Madness to loot like that. Hasn’t happened ever before. Why would they do that? Why?” Longstaff said.
“I dinna ken.”
“As soon as we get to Hong Kong, we go north—this time to the gates of Peking, by God. The emperor’s going to be very sorry he ordered this.”
“Aye. But first mount an immediate attack against Canton.”
“But that’s a waste of time, what?”
“Mount an attack within the week. You’ll na have to press it home. Ransom Canton again. Six millions of taels.”
“Why?”
“You need a month or more to get the fleet ready to stab north. The weather’s na right yet. You’ll have to wait till the reinforcements arrive. They’re due when?”
“Month, six weeks.”
“Good.” Struan’s face hardened. “In the meantime the Co-hong’ll have to find six million taels. That’ll teach them na to warn us, by God. You have to show the flag here, before you go north, or we’ll lose face. If they get away with burning the Settlement, we’ll never be safe in the future. Order
Nemesis
to stand off the city. A twelve-hour ultimatum or you’ll lay waste Canton.”