He had gone to sea to cleanse himself. To cleanse away the dross and the words of Sarah and the loss of Robb and of Karen.
And to bless May-may and the joy of her.
He went to the bosom of the ocean as a lover who had been gone for an eternity, and the ocean welcomed him with squall and with storm, yet controlled, never endangering the ship or him who drove the ship. She sent her wealth sparingly, making him strong again, giving him life, giving him dignity, and blessing him as only the sea can bless a man, cleansing him as only the ocean can cleanse a man.
He drove himself as he drove the ship, not sleeping, testing the limit of strength. Watch after watch changed and still he walked the quarterdeck: sunrise to sunrise to sunrise, singing softly to himself and hardly eating. And never talking, except to force more speed, or to order a ripped shroud replaced or another sail set. He drove into the depths of the Pacific, into infinity.
On the fourth day he turned about and drove her for half the day northwest. Then he hove to and went below and shaved and bathed and slept for a day and a night, and the next dawn he ate a full meal. Then he went on deck.
“Morning, sorr,” Cudahy said.
“Set course for Hong Kong.”
“Yes, sorr.”
He stayed on the quarterdeck all day and part of the night and once more he slept. At dawn he shot the sun and marked the chart and again ordered the ship hove to. Then he dived over the side and swam naked in the sea. The seamen crossed themselves superstitiously. There were sharks circling.
But the sharks kept their distance.
He climbed aboard and ordered the spotless ship cleaned and the decks holy-stoned—sand and broom and water—rigging replaced, sails tended, scuppers and cannon cleansed. All his own clothes and those of his men he cast overboard. He issued new gear to his men and took seaman’s clothes for himself.
A double tot of rum was issued to all hands.
At dawn on the seventh day Hong Kong loomed on the horizon, dead ahead. The Peak was shrouded with mist. There was cirrus aloft and a lusty swell below. He stood on the bowsprit, the spray billowing beneath him. “Do your worst, Island!” he shouted into the wake of the east wind. “I’m home!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
China Cloud came back into harbor through the western channel. The rising sun was strong, the wind east and steady—and humid.
Struan was on the quarterdeck, naked to the waist, his skin deeply tanned and his red-gold hair sun-bleached. He trained his binoculars on the ships of the harbor. First Resting Cloud. Code flags fluttered on the mizzen: “Zenith”—owner to come aboard immediately. Only to be expected, he thought. He remembered the last time—an eternity ago—that he had read “Zenith” on Thunder Cloud, the time that had heralded the news of so many deaths, and Culum’s arrival.
In the harbor there were more troopships than before. They were all flying the East India Company flags. Good. The first of the reinforcements. He saw a large three-masted brigantine near the flagship. The Russian flag flew aft and the tsarist pennant aloft the mainmast.
There were many more sampans and junks than usual scurrying over the waves.
After he had scanned the rest of the fleet meticulously, he turned to the shore, the sea tang mixing nicely with the smell of land. He could see activity near Glessing’s Point and many Europeans and clusters of beggars walking Queen’s Road. Tai Ping Shan seemed to have grown appreciably.
The Lion and the Dragon flew over the abandoned factory of The Noble House and the abandoned emptiness of Happy Valley.
“Four points t’ starboard!”
“Aye, aye, sorr,” the helmsman sang.
Struan adroitly conned the lorcha alongside Resting Cloud. He pulled on a shirt and went aboard.
“Morning,” Captain Orlov said. He knew the Tai-Pan too well to ask where he had been.
“Morning. You’re flying ‘Zenith.’ Why?”
“Your son’s orders.”
“Where is he?”
“Ashore.”
“Please fetch him aboard.”
“He was sent for when you came into harbor.”
“Then why is he na here?”
“Can I have my ship back now? By Thor, Green Eyes, I’m mortal tired of being a captain-flunky. Let me be a tea captain or an opium captain, or let me take her into Arctic waters. I know fifty places to get a cargo of furs—more bellygutting bullion for your coffers. That’s not much to ask.”
“I need you here.” Struan grinned and years dropped from him.
“You can laugh, by Odin’s foreskin!” Orlov’s face twisted with his own smile. “You’ve been to sea and I’ve been stuck on an anchored hulk. You look like a god, Green Eyes. Did you have storm? Typhoon? And why’s my mains’l changed, and the fore-royal, crossjack, the flying jib? There’re new halyards and stays and clew lines all over. Why, eh? Did you tear the heart out of my beauty just to clean your soul?”
“What kind of furs, Captain?”
“Seal, sable, mink—you name them and I’ll find them—just so long as I can say to any, ‘Get to Hades off my ship,’ even you.”
“In October you sail north. Alone. Does that satisfy you? Furs for China, eh?”
Orlov peered up at Struan and knew at once that he would never sail north in October. A little shudder ran through him and he hated the second sight that plagued him. What’s going to happen to me twixt June and October? “Can I have my ship now? Yes or no, by God? October’s a bad month and far off. Can I have my ship now, yes or no?”
“Aye.”
Orlov shinned over the side and stamped onto the quarterdeck. “Let go the forehawser,” he shouted, then waved to Struan and laughed uproariously. China Cloud fell away from the mother ship and snaked daintily for her storm mooring off Happy Valley.
Struan went below to May-may’s quarters. She was deeply asleep. He told Ah Sam not to awaken her; he would come back later. Then he went to the deck above, to his own private quarters, and bathed and shaved and put on fresh clothes. Lim Din brought him eggs and fruit and tea.
The cabin door opened and Culum hurried in. “Where’ve you been?” he began with a rush. “There’re a thousand things that need to be done and the land sale’s this afternoon. You might have told me before you disappeared. The whole place’s in turmoil and—”
“Do you na knock on doors, Culum?”
“Of course, but I was in a hurry. I’m sorry.”
“Sit down. What thousand things?” Struan asked. “I thought you could manage everything.”
“You’re Tai-Pan, I’m not,” Culum said.
“Aye. But say I’d na come back today, what would you have done?” Culum hesitated. “Gone to the land sale. Bought land.”
“Did you make a deal with Brock on which lots we would na bid against each other on?”
Culum was unsettled by his father’s eyes. “Well, in a way. I made a tentative arrangement. Subject to your approval.” He took out a map and laid it on the desk. The site of the new town surrounded Glessing’s Point, two miles west of Happy Valley. Level building space was cramped by the surrounding mountains and barely half a mile wide and half a mile deep from the shore. Tai Ping Shan overlooked the site and blocked expansion eastward. “These are all the lots. I picked 8 and 9. Gorth said they wanted 14 and 21.”
“Did you check this with Tyler?”
“Yes.”
Struan glanced at the map. “Why pick two lots next to each other?”
“Well, I don’t know anything about land or factories or wharves, so I asked George Glessing. And Vargas. Then privately, Gordon Chen. And—”
“Why Gordon?”
“I don’t know. Just that I thought it was a good idea. He seems to be very smart.”
“Go on.”
“Well, they all agreed 8, 9, 10, 14 and 21 were the best of the marine lots. Gordon suggested two together in case we wanted to expand, then one wharf would service two factories. At Glessing’s suggestion I had Captain Orlov pr
ivately plumb the depth offshore. He said there’s good rock bottom, but the shelf is shallow. We’ll have to reclaim land from the sea and put our wharf well out.”
“Which suburban lots did you pick?”
Culum nervously pointed them out. “Gordon thought we should bid on this property here. It’s—well, it’s a hill, and—well, I think it would be a fine place for the Great House.”
Struan got up and went to the stern windows and looked through the binoculars at the hill. It was west of Tai Ping Shan on the other side of the site. “We’d have to build a road up there, eh?”
“Vargas said if we could buy suburban lots 9A and 15B we’d have an—I think he called it an ‘easement,’ something like that, and that would protect our property. Later we could build on them and rent if we wished. Or resell later.”
“Have you discussed this with Brock?”
“No.”
“Gorth?”
“No.”
“Tess?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“No reason. I like talking to her. We talk about lots of things.”
“It’s dangerous to talk to her about a matter like this. Like it or na, you’ve put her to a test.”
“What?”
“If Gorth or Brock bid for 9A and 15B, you know she canna be trusted. Without the smaller lots the hill’s an extreme gamble.”
“She’d never say anything,” Culum said belligerently. “It was private, between ourselves. Perhaps the Brocks have had the same idea. It won’t prove anything if they do bid against us.”
Struan studied him. Then he said, “Drink or tea?”
“Tea, thank you.” The palms of Culum’s hands felt clammy. He wondered if Tess had indeed talked to Brock or to Gorth. “Where did you go?”
“What other things need decisions?”
Culum collected his thoughts with an effort. “There’s a lot of mail, both for you and Uncle Robb. I didn’t know what to do about it, so I put it all in the safe. Then Vargas and Chen Sheng estimated our Happy Valley costs and I—well—I signed for the bullion. Longstaff’s paid everyone, like you said. I signed for it and counted it. And yesterday a man arrived from England on Zergeyev’s ship. Roger Blore. He said he picked her up in Singapore. He wants to see you urgently. He won’t tell me what he wants but, well—anyway I put him on the small hulk. Who is he?”
“I dinna ken, lad,” Struan said thoughtfully. He rang the bell on the desk and the steward came in. Struan ordered a cutter sent for Blore.
“What else, lad?”
“Orders for building materials and ships’ supplies are piling up. We have to order new stocks of opium—a thousand things.”
Struan played with his mug of tea. “Has Brock given you an answer yet?”
“Today’s the last day. He asked me aboard the White Witch tonight.”
“Tess has na indicated her father’s decision?”
“No.”
“Gorth?”
Again Culum shook his head. “They’re leaving for Macao tomorrow. Except Brock. I’ve been invited to go with them.”
“Are you going?”
“Now that you’re back, I would like to. For a week—if he says we can marry soon.” Culum drank some tea. “There’d be furniture to buy and—well, that sort of thing.”
“Did you see Sousa?”
“Oh yes, we did. The land is wonderful, and the plans are already drawn. We can’t thank you enough. We were thinking—well, Sousa told us about the separate room for the bath and toilet you designed for your house. We—well, we asked him to build us one.”
Struan offered a cheroot, and lit it. “How long would you have waited, Culum?”
“I don’t understand.”
“For me to come back. The sea might have swallowed me.”
“Not you, Tai-Pan.”
“One day she might—one day she will.” Struan blew out a thread of smoke and watched it float. “If I ever leave again without telling you where I’m going, wait forty days. Nae more. I’m either dead or never coming back.”
“Very well.” Culum wondered what his father was getting at. “Why did you leave like that?”
“Why do you talk to Tess?”
“That’s no answer.”
“What else has happened since I left?”
Culum was desperately trying to understand, but he could not. He had greater respect than before for his father, yet he still felt no filial love. He had talked for hours with Tess and had found an uncanny depth to her. And they had discussed their fathers, trying to fathom the two that they loved and feared and sometimes hated most on earth, yet ran to at the breath of danger. “The frigates returned from Quemoy.”
“And?”
“They laid waste fifty to a hundred junks. Big and small. And three pirate nests ashore. Perhaps they sank Wu Kwok, perhaps they didn’t.”
“I think we’ll know soon enough.”
“The day before yesterday I checked your house in Happy Valley. The watchmen—well, you know no one will stay at night—I’m afraid it was broken into and looted badly.”
Struan wondered if the secret safe had been tampered with. “Is there na any good news?”
“Aristotle Quance escaped from Hong Kong.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Mrs. Quance doesn’t believe it, but everyone—at least almost everyone—saw him on the ship, the same that took Aunt Sarah home. The poor woman believes he’s still in Hong Kong. Did you know about George and Mary Sinclair? They’re going to be married. That’s good, even though Horatio is terribly upset about it. But that’s not all good either. We’ve just heard Mary’s very sick.”
“Malaria?”
“No. A flux of some kind in Macao. It’s very strange. George got a letter yesterday from the mother superior of the Catholic Nursing Order. Poor fellow’s worried to death! You can never trust those Papists.”
“What did the mother superior say?”
“Only that she felt she should inform Mary’s next of kin. And that Mary had said to write to George.”
Struan frowned. “Why the devil did she na go to the Missionary Hospital? And why did she na inform Horatio?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you told Horatio?”
“No.”
“Would Glessing have told him?”
“I doubt it. They seem to hate each other now.”
“You’d better go with the Brocks and find out how she is.”
“I thought you’d want firsthand news, so I sent Vargas’ nephew, Jesús, by lorcha yesterday. Poor George couldn’t get leave of absence from Longstaff, and I wanted to help him as well.”
Struan poured more tea and then looked at Culum with new respect. “Very good.”
“Well, I know she’s almost like your ward.”
“Aye.”
“The only other thing is that the inquiry into the archduke’s accident was held a few days ago. The jury found that it was just an accident.”
“Do you think it was?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
“Have you visited Zergeyev?”
“At least once a day. He was at the inquiry, of course, and he—he said many nice things about you. How you helped him, saved his life, things like that. Zergeyev attached blame to no one and said that he had informed the tsar to that effect. He said openly that he thought he owed his life to you. Skinner brought out a special edition of the Oriental Times covering the inquiry. I have it for you.” Culum handed him the paper. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a royal commendation from the tsar personally.”
“How is Zergeyev?”
“He’s walking now, but his hip’s very stiff. I think he’s in great pain though he never mentions it. He says he’ll never ride again.”
“But he’s well?”
“As well as a man can be who lives to ride.”
Struan went to the sideboard and poured two sherries. The lad’s changed, he thought. Aye, very muc
h changed. I am proud of my son. Culum accepted the glass and stared at it. “Health, Culum. You’ve managed very well.”
“Health, Father.” Culum had chosen the word deliberately. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I want to be Tai-Pan of The Noble House. Very much. But I don’t want a dead man’s shoes.”
“I never thought you did,” Struan snapped.
“Yes, but I considered it. And I know in truth I don’t like that idea.”
Struan asked himself how his son could say such a thing, so calmly. “You’ve changed a lot in the last few weeks.”
“I’m learning about myself, perhaps. It’s Tess mostly—and being alone for seven days. I found I’m not ready to be alone yet.”
“Does Gorth share your opinion of dead men’s shoes?”
“I can’t answer for Gorth, Tai-Pan. Only for myself. I know that you’re mostly right, that I love Tess, that you’re going against everything you believe to help me.”
Again Struan remembered Sarah’s words.
He sipped his drink contemplatively.
Roger Blore was in his early twenties, his face as taut as his eyes. His clothes were expensive but threadbare, and his short frame spare and fatless. He had dark blond hair, and his blue eyes were deeply fatigued.
“Please sit down, Mr. Blore,” Struan said. “Now, what’s all the mystery? And why must you see me alone?”
Blore remained standing. “You’re Dirk Lochlin Struan, sir?”
Struan was surprised. Very few people knew his middle name. “Aye. And who might you be?” Neither the man’s face nor his name meant anything to Struan. But his accent was cultured—Eton or Harrow or Charterhouse.
“May I see your left foot, sir?” the youth asked politely.
“God’s death! You insolent puppy! Come to the point or get out!”
“You’re perfectly correct to be irritated, Mr. Struan. The odds that you’re the Tai-Pan are fifty to one on. A hundred to one on. But I must be sure you’re who you say you are.”
“Why?”
“Because I have information for Dirk Lochlin Struan, Tai-Pan of The Noble House, whose left foot is half shot away—information of the greatest importance.”
“From whom?”