“Today’s your seventh day, lad, the last, is it na?”
“Yes,” Culum said. Oh God, he thought, protect me from such a week again. Twice he had been frightened to death. Once it had hurt to pass water and once it seemed that there had been a swelling and rash. But the Tai-Pan had succored him and father and son had grown closer together. Struan had told him about May-may.
And in the watches of the night Struan had talked to his son as a father can sometimes talk, when grief—or sometimes happiness—has unlocked the doors. Plans for the future, problems of the past. How very difficult it is to love someone and live with someone over years.
Struan got up. “I want you to go to Hong Kong at once,” he told Culum. “You’ll go in
China Cloud,
with the tide. I’ll put Captain Orlov officially under your orders. For this voyage you’ll be master of
China Cloud.”
Culum liked the idea of being master of a real clipper. Yes.
“As soon as you get to Hong Kong, have Captain Orlov fetch Skinner aboard. Deliver to him personally a letter I’ll give you. Then do the same with another for Gordon. Under no circumstances go ashore yoursel’ or allow anyone else aboard. As soon as Skinner and Gordon have written their replies, send them back ashore and return here immediately. You should be back tomorrow night. Leave on the noon tide.”
“Very well. I can’t thank you enough for—well, for everything.”
“Who knows, lad? Mayhaps you never were within a league of the pox.”
“Yes. Even so—well, thanks.”
“I’ll see you in the office in an hour.”
“Good. That’ll give me time to say goodbye to Tess.”
“Have you ever considered taking your lives into your own hands? Na waiting for three months?”
“You mean, elope?”
“I asked if you’ve ever considered it, that’s all. I’m na saying you should.”
“I wish I could—we could. That would solve . . . it’s not possible, or I would. No one’d marry us.”
“Brock’d certainly be furious. And Gorth. I would na recommend that course. Is Gorth back yet?” he asked, knowing he was not.
“No. He’s due tonight.”
“Send word to Cap’n Orlov to meet us in my office, in an hour.”
“You’ll put him under my absolute orders?” Culum asked.
“Na as far as seamanship is concerned. But in all other matters, aye. Why?”
“Nothing, Tai-Pan,” Culum said. “See you in an hour.”
“Evening, Dirk,” Liza said, striding into the residence dining room. “Sorry to interrupt thy supper.”
“That’s all right, Liza,” Struan said, getting up. “Please sit down. Would you join me?”
“No, thank you. Be the youngsters here?”
“Eh? How could they be here?”
“I be waiting more’n hour with their supper,” Liza said irritably. “I thort they be dawdling again.” She turned for the door. “Sorry to interrupt your supper.”
“I dinna understand. Culum left in
China Cloud
on the noon tide. How could you be expecting him for supper?”
“Wot?”
“He left Macao on the noon tide,” Struan repeated patiently.
“But Tess—I thort she were with him. At cricket match all afternoon.”
“I had to send him suddenly. This morning. The last I heard was that he was going to say goodbye to Tess. Oh, it must’ve been just before noon.”
“They never sayed he were leaving today, only that they’d be aseeing me later. Yes, it were afore noon! Then where be Tess? She baint been back all day.”
“That’s nothing to worry about. She’s probably wi’ friends—you know how young people dinna notice the passing of time.”
Liza bit her lip anxiously. “She never beed late afore. Not this late. She be a homebody, none of that there galavantin’ around. Anything’s happened to her, Tyler’ll . . . If she went with Culum on’t ship, there’ll be the devil to pay.”
“Why should they do that, Mrs. Brock?” Struan asked.
“God help ’em if they has. An’ you if you’ve ahelped ’em.”
After Liza had gone, Struan poured himself a glass of brandy, and went to the window to watch the
pra
ça
and the harbor. When he saw the
White Witch
almost at her moorings, he went downstairs.
“I go-ah Club, Lo Chum.”
“Yes, Mass’er.”
Gorth came charging into the foyer of the Club like a wild bull, a cat-o’-nine-tails in his hands. He shoved startled servants and guests out of the way and crashed into the gaming room.
“Where be Struan?”
“I believe he’s in the bar, Gorth,” Horatio said, shocked by Gorth’s face and the cat that twitched maliciously.
Gorth whirled around and bolted across the foyer and into the bar. He saw Struan at a table with a group of traders. Everyone moved out of the way as Gorth strode up to Struan. “Where be Tess, you son of a bitch?”
There was dead silence in the room. Horatio and the others crowded the doorway.
“I dinna ken, and if you call me that again I’ll kill you.”
Gorth jerked Struan to his feet. “Be she on
China Cloud?
”
Struan freed himself from Gorth’s grip. “I dinna ken. And if she is, what does it matter? Nae harm in a couple of youngsters—”
“You be planning it! You planned it, you scum! You tol’ Orlov t’marry ’em!”
“If they’ve eloped, what does it matter? If they’re married now, what does it matter?”
Gorth slashed at Struan with the cat. One of the iron-tipped tails sliced Struan’s face neatly. “Our Tess wedded to that pox-ridden rake?” he shouted. “You stinking son of a bitch!”
So I was right, Struan thought. You
are
the one! He lunged at Gorth and grabbed the handle of the cat, but others in the room fell on the two of them and pulled them apart. In the melee a candelabrum on one of the tables crashed to the floor, and Horatio stamped out the flames which caught the fluffy carpet.
Struan ripped himself free and glared at Gorth.
“I’ll send seconds to call on you tonight.”
“I baint needin’ seconds, by God. Now. Choose yor god-rotting weapons. Come on! And after you, Culum. I swear to God!”
“Why provoke me, Gorth, eh? And why threaten Culum?”
“You knowed, you son of a bitch. He be poxed, by God!”
“You’re mad!”
“You baint covering up, by God.” Gorth tried to fight loose from the grasp of four men but could not. “Let me go, for Christ sake!”
“Culum’s na poxed! Why say he is?”
“Everyone knowed. He beed t’ Chinatown. You knowed it and that be why they’s gone—afore it be showing terrible.”
Struan picked up the cat in his right hand. “Let him go, lads.”
Everyone backed off. Gorth went for his knife and readied for a charge, and a knife seemed to appear in Struan’s left hand as if by magic.
Gorth feinted but Struan remained rock-still and let Gorth see for an instant all the primeval murder lust that was consuming him. And his pleasure. Gorth stopped in his tracks, his senses screaming danger.
“This is nae place to fight,” Struan said. “This duel’s na of my choosing. But there’s nae anything I can do. Horatio, would you be a second?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Horatio replied, conscience-stricken over the tea seeds he had arranged for Longstaff. Is this the way to repay a lifetime of help and friendship? The Tai-Pan sent you word about Mary and gave you a lorcha to come to Macao. He’s been like a father to you and her, and now you knife him in the back. Yes—but you’re nothing to him. You’re only destroying a great evil. If you can do that, then that will make up for your own evil when you face God, as you will.
“I’d be honored to be your other second, Tai-Pan,” Masterson was saying.
“Then perhaps you’ll come with me, gentlemen.” Struan wiped the trickle of blood from his chin and threw the cat over the bar and headed for the door.
“You be a dead man!” Gorth shouted after him, confident again. “Hurry it up, you bastard-whorebitch-whelp!”
Struan did not stop until he was outside the club and safely on the
pra
ça.
“I choose fighting irons.”
“Good Lord, Tai-Pan, that’s not—not usual,” Horatio said. “He’s very strong and, well, you’ve . . . you’re . . . the last week’s taken more out of you than you realize.”
“I quite agree,” Masterson said. “A bullet between the eyes is wiser. Oh yes, Tai-Pan.”
“Go back and tell him now. Dinna argue. My mind’s firm!”
“Where—where will you . . . well, surely this must be kept quiet? Perhaps the Portuguese’ll try to stop you.”
“Aye. Hire a junk. You two, me, Gorth and his seconds’ll leave at sunup. I want witnesses and a fair duel. There’ll be more than enough room on the deck of a junk.”
I’m na going to kill you, Gorth, Struan exulted to himself. Oh, no, that’s too easy. But by the Lord God, from tomorrow on you’ll never walk again, you’ll never feed yoursel’ again, you’ll never see again, you’ll never bed again. I’ll show you what vengeance is.
By nightfall the news of the duel had flown from mouth to mouth, and with the news the betting began. Many favored Gorth: He was in the full flush of strength and, after all, had good reason to challenge the Tai-Pan if there was truth to the rumor that Culum was poxed and that, knowing this, the Tai-Pan had sent Tess and Culum to sea with a captain who could marry them beyond the three-mile limit.
Those who put money on the Tai-Pan did so because they hoped, not believed, he would win. Everyone knew of his frantic anxiety over the cinchona and that his legendary mistress was dying. And everyone could see the havoc this had caused in him. Only Lo Chum, Chen Sheng, Ah Sam and Yin-hsi borrowed every penny they could and bet on the Tai-Pan confidently and petitioned the gods to watch over them. Without the Tai-Pan they were lost anyway.
No one mentioned the duel to May-may. Struan left her early and went back to his residence. He wanted to sleep soundly. The duel did not trouble him; he was sure that he could handle Gorth. But in the process he did not care to be mutilated, and he knew that he would have to be very strong and very fast.
Calmly he walked the quiet streets in the warmth of another beautiful, starlit night.
Lo Chum opened the door. “Night, Mass’er.” He motioned blandly to the anteroom. Liza Brock was waiting.
“Evening,” Struan said.
“Be Culum poxed?”
“Of course he’s na poxed! God’s blood, we dinna even know if they’re married yet. Perhaps they just went for a secret trip.”
“But he beed to house—who knowed where? That night with the highwaymen.”
“Culum’s na got the pox, Liza.”
“Then why dost others sayed it?”
“Ask Gorth.”
“I did an’ he sayed he were told it.”
“I’ll say it again, Liza. Culum does na have the pox.”
Liza’s huge shoulders shook with sobs. “Oh, God, wot’ve we done?” She wished that she could stop the duel. She liked Gorth even though he was not her own son. She knew that her hands also were guilty with the blood that would be spilled—Gorth’s or the Tai-Pan’s or Culum’s or her man’s. If she hadn’t forced Tyler to let Tess go to the ball, then all this might never have happened.
“Dinna worry, Liza,” Struan said kindly. “Tess’s all right, I’m sure. If they’re wed, then you’ve na anything to fear.”
“When be
China Cloud
comin’ back?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Thee be letting our’n doctor examine him?”
“That’s up to Culum. But I’ll na forbid him. He does na have the pox, Liza. If he had, you think I’d allow the marriage?”
“Yes, I do,” Liza said, tormented. “You be a devil and only the Devil knowed wot be in thy mind, Dirk Struan. But I swear to God, if thee be lying, I be killing thee if my men doan.”
She groped for the door. Lo Chum opened it and closed it after her.
“Mass’er, best slep-slep,” Lo Chum said cheerfully. “Tomollow soon, heya?”
“Go to hell.”
The iron front door knocker sent a dull reverberation through the sleeping residence. Struan listened keenly in the warm, airy darkness of his bedroom and then heard Lo Chum’s soft footsteps. He slipped out of bed, knife in hand, and grabbed his silk robe. He went out onto the landing quickly and silently, and peered over the balustrade. Two floors below, Lo Chum put down the lantern and unbolted the door. The grandfather clock chimed 1:15.
Father Sebastian stood on the threshold.
“Tai-Pan see me can?”
Lo Chum nodded and put away the cleaver that he had been carrying behind his back. He started up the staircase but stopped as Struan called out.
“Aye?”
Father Sebastian craned up into the darkness, the hackles of his neck crawling from the suddenness of the cry. “Mr. Struan?”
“Aye?” Struan said, his voice strangled.
“His Grace sent me. We’ve got the cinchona bark.”
“Where is it?”
The monk held up a small, soiled bag. “Here. His Grace said you’d be expecting someone.”
“And the price?”
“I know nothing about that, Mr. Struan,” Father Sebastian called out weakly. “His Grace simply said to treat whomsoever you’d take me to. That’s all.”
“I’ll be there in a second,” Struan shouted, charging back into the room.
He threw on his clothes, fought into his boots, rushed for the door and stopped. After thinking a second, he picked up the fighting iron and came down the stairs four at a time.
Father Sebastian saw the fighting iron and flinched.
“Morning, Father,” Struan said. He hid his disgust at the monk’s filthy habit, and hated all doctors anew. “Lo Chum, wen Mass’er Sinclair here—you fetch, savvy?”
“Savvy, Mass’er.”
“Come on, Father Sebastian!”
“Just a moment, Mr. Struan! Before we go I must explain something. I’ve never used cinchona before— none of us have.”
“Well, that does na matter, does it?”
“Of course it matters!” the gaunt monk exclaimed. “All I know is that I’ve to make a ‘tea’ of this bark by boiling it. The trouble is we don’t know for certain how long to boil it or how strong to make it. Or how much the patient should have. Or how often the patient should be dosed. The only medical treatise we have on cinchona is archaic Latin—and vague!”
“The bishop said he’d had the malaria. How much did he take?”