And this year at long last, unlike any previous year, the Europeans were looking forward to summering in their own homes, on their own soil of Hong Kong.
Their families at Hong Kong had already moved from the cramped shipboard quarters to Happy Valley. Construction had boomed. Queen’s Town was already taking shape: streets, warehouses, jail, wharves, two hotels, taverns, and houses.
The taverns that catered to the soldiers were nesting near the tents by Glessing’s Point. Those that served the sailors were opposite the dockyard on Queen’s Road. Some of these were tents, crude, temporary structures. Others were more permanent.
Ships arrived from home bringing supplies and relatives and friends, and many strangers. And each tide brought more people from Macao—Portuguese, Chinese, Eurasian, European—
sailmakers, weavers, tailors, clerks, servants, businessmen, sellers and buyers, coolies, job seekers or those whose jobs now forced them to Hong Kong: all who served the China trade, all who lived upon it, or fed off it. Those who came included madams, girls, opium users, gin makers, gamblers and smugglers and pickpockets and kidnapers and thieves and beggars and pirates—
the dross of all nations. These too found dwellings, or began to build dwellings and places of business. Gin shops, brothels, opium cellars began to infest Queen’s Town and spot Queen’s Road. Crime increased violently, and the police force, such as it was, was engulfed. Wednesday became whipping day. To the enjoyment of the righteous, convicted felons were putilicly flogged outside the jail as a warning to the evil.
British justice, though quick and harsh, did not seem cruel to the Chinese. Public torture, and beatings to death, thumbscrews and mutilation and loss of eye or eyes or hand or hands or foot or feet, branding, flesh slicing, gar-roting, blinding, tongue ripping, genital crushing—
all were conventional Chinese punishments. The Chinese had no trial by jury. Since Hong Kong was beyond the pale of Chinese justice, all criminals on the mainland who could escape fled to the safety of Tai Ping Shan and scoffed at the weakness of barbarian law.
And as civilization flourished on the island, refuse began to collect. With the refuse came the flies.
Water began to stagnate in discarded barrels, in broken pots and pans. It was cupped in bamboo scaffoldings, in the beginnings of gardens, and in the thin marsh of the valley basin. These small putrid waters began to seethe with life: larvae, which became mosquitoes. They were tiny, fragile and very special—
and so delicate that they flew only when the sun was down: the Anopheles.
And the people in Happy Valley began to die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“For God’s sake, Culum, I dinna ken any more than you do. There’s a killer fever down in Queen’s Town. No one knows what causes it and now little Karen’s got it.” Struan was miserable. He had not heard from May-may for a week. He had been gone from Hong Kong for almost two months, except for a hurried visit of two days, some weeks ago, when his need to see May-may overpowered him. She was blossoming, her pregnancy was without sickness, and they were more content with each other than they had ever been. “Thank the Lord our last ship’s gone and we’re leaving the Settlement tomorrow!”
“Uncle Robb says it’s malaria,” Culum said heatedly, brandishing Robb’s letter that had just arrived. He was frantic with worry over Tess. Only yesterday he had received a letter from her saying that she and her sister and mother had moved off the ship into Brock’s partially completed factory. But no mention had been made of malaria. “What’s the cure for malaria?”
“There is na one that I know. I’m no doctor. And Robb says only a few of the doctors think it’s malaria.” Struan waved the fly whisk irritably. “ ‘Malaria’ is Latin for ‘bad air.’ That’s all I know—anyone knows. Mother of God, if the air of Happy Valley’s bad, we’re ruined!”
“I told you not to build there,” Culum raged. “I hated that valley the first time I saw it!”
“By the blood of Christ, are you saying you knew in advance the air was rotten?”
“No. I didn’t mean that. I mean—well, I hated the place, that’s all.”
Struan slammed the window shut against the stench from the Settlement square and fanned more flies away. He prayed that the fever wasn’t malaria. If it was, the plague could touch anyone who slept in Happy Valley. It was common knowledge that the earth in certain areas in the world were malaria-poisoned and for some reason gave off lethal gases by night.
According to Robb, the fever had begun mysteriously four weeks ago. First it had struck the Chinese laborers.
Then it had afflicted others—a European trader here, a child there. But only in Happy Valley. Nowhere else on Hong Kong. Now four or five hundred Chinese were infected, and twenty or thirty Europeans. The Chinese were superstitiously afraid, certain that the gods were punishing them for working on Hong Kong against the emperor’s decree. Only increased wages had persuaded them to return.
And now little Karen was smitten. Robb had ended the letter: “Sarah and I are desperate. The course of the sickness is insidious. First a ghastly fever for half a day, then a recovery, then a more severe recurrence of the fever in two or three days. The cycle is repeated again and again, each attack worse than before. The doctors have given Karen as strong a calomel purgative as they dare. They’ve bled the poor child but we don’t hope for much. The coolies have been dying after the third or fourth attack. And Karen is so weak after the purgative and leeching, so very weak. God help us, I think Karen’s lost.”
Struan strode for the door. Good God, first the baby, now Karen! Sarah had given birth to a son, Lochlin Ross, the day after the ball, but the child had been born sickly, his left arm damaged. Her labor had been very hard and she had almost died. But she had escaped the dreaded childbirth sickness, and though her milk had turned sour and her hair had grayed, her strength had gradually returned. When Struan had gone back to see May-may, he had visited Sarah. The lines of anguish and bitterness had etched themselves deep into her face, and she looked like an old woman. Struan had been further saddened when he had seen the babe: useless left arm, sickly, crying piteously, not expected to live. I wonder if babe’s dead, Struan thought as he jerked the door open; Robb does na mention him.
“Vargas!”
“Yes, senhor?”
“Have you ever had malaria in Macao?”
“No, senhor.” Vargas whitened. His son and nephew worked for The Noble House and now they lived on Hong Kong. “Are they sure it’s malaria?”
“No. Only some of the doctors think so. Na all of them. Find Mauss. Tell him I want to see Jin-qua right smartly. With him.”
“Yes, senhor. His Excellency wants you to dine with him and the archduke tonight at nine o’clock.”
“Accept for me.”
“Yes, senhor.”
Struan closed the door and grimly sat down. He wore a light shirt without cravat, and light trousers and light boots. The other Europeans thought him mad to risk the devilish chills that all knew were borne by the summer winds.