“Without income from here,” she rushed on shakily. “Father can’t afford to be a senator. Uncle’s the oldest brother, and if Uncle dies, Jeff can buy out the Tillman interests at a nominal sum and then—”
“Come on, Shevaun,” Cooper interrupted sharply. “That has nothing to do with my love for you. What do you think I am?”
“Be honest, Jeff. It is true, isn’t it? About the nominal sum?”
“Yes,” Cooper replied after a grim pause. “I can buy out the Tillman interests under those circumstances. But I haven’t made such a deal. I’m not buying a chattel. I love you. I want you to be my wife.”
“And if I’m not, will you
not buy Uncle out?”
“I don’t know. I’ll decide that when the time comes. Your uncle could buy my shares if I were to die before him.”
Shevaun turned back to Struan. “Please buy me, Tai-Pan.”
“I canna, lass. But I dinna think Jeff’s buying you either. I know he’s in love with you.”
“Please buy me,” she said brokenly.
“I canna, lassie. It’s against the law.”
“It’s not. It’s not.” She wept uncontrollably.
Cooper put his arms around her, tormented.
When Struan returned to
Resting Cloud, May-may was still sleeping fitfully.
As he watched over her he wondered dully what to do about Gorth and about Culum. He knew that he should go to Macao at once. But na until May-may’s cured—oh God, let her be cured. Do I send
China Cloud and Orlov—perhaps Mauss? Or do I wait? I’ve told Culum to guard himsel’—but will he? Oh Jesus Christ, help May-may.
At midnight there was a knock on the door.
“Aye?”
Lim Din came in softly. He glanced at May-may and sighed. “Big Fat Mass’er come Tai-Pan see, can? Heya?”
Struan’s back and shoulders ached and his head felt heavy as he climbed the gangway to his quarters on the next deck.
“Sorry to come uninvited and so late, Tai-Pan,” Morley Skinner said, heaving his greasy, sweating bulk out of a chair. “It’s a little important.”
“Always pleased to see the press, Mr. Skinner. Take a seat. Drink?” He tried to turn his mind off May-may and forced himself to concentrate, knowing this was no casual visit.
“Thank you. Whiskey.” Skinner took in the rich interior of the large cabin: green Chinese carpets on well-scrubbed decks; chairs and sofas and the fragrance of clean oiled leather, salt and hemp; and the faint sweet oily smell of opium from the holds below. Well-trimmed oil lamps gave a warm pure light and shadowed the main-deck beams. He contrasted it with the hovel he had on Hong Kong—a threadbare and dirty and stench-ridden room over the large room that housed the printing press. “It’s nice of you to see me so late,” he said.
Struan raised his glass. “Health!”
“Yes, ‘health.’ That’s a good toast in these evil days. What with the malaria and all.” The little pig eyes sharpened. “I hear you’ve a friend who’s got malaria.”
“Do you know where to find cinchona?”
Skinner shook his head. “No, Tai-Pan. Everything I’ve read says that that’s a will-o’-the-wisp. Legend.” He pulled out a proof copy of the weekly
Oriental Times and handed it to Struan. “Thought you’d like to see the editorial about today’s races. I’m putting out a special edition tomorrow.”
“Thank you. Is that what you wanted to see me about?”
“No, sir.” Skinner gulped whiskey thirstily and looked at the empty glass.
“Help yoursel’ if you’d like another.”
“Thank you.” Skinner lumbered to the decanter, his elephantine buttocks jiggling. “Wisht I had your figure, Mr. Struan.”
“Then dinna eat so much.”
Skinner laughed. “Eating’s nothing to do with fatness. You’re fat or you aren’t. One of those things that the good Lord fixes at birth. I’ve always been heavy.” He filled his glass and walked back. “A piece of information came into my hands last night. I can’t reveal the source, but I wanted to discuss it with you before I print it.”
Which skeleton have you smelled out, my fine friend? Struan thought. There’re so many to choose from. I only hope it’s the right one. “I own the
Oriental Times, aye. As far as I know, only you and I are the ones that know. But I’ve never told you what to print or what na to print. You’re editor and publisher. You’re totally responsible, and if what you print’s libelous, then you’ll be sued. By whoever’s libeled.”
“Yes, Mr. Struan. And I appreciate the freedom you give me.” The eyes seemed to sink farther into the rolls of jelly. “Freedom necessitates responsibility—to oneself, to the paper, to society. Not necessarily in that order. But this is different, the—how shall I put it?—the ‘potentials’ are far-reaching.” He pulled out a scrap of paper. It was covered with speed-written hieroglyphics which only he could read. He looked up. “The Treaty of Chuenpi’s been repudiated by the Crown, and Hong Kong along with it.”
“Is this a funny story, Mr. Skinner?” Struan wondered how convincing Blore had been. Did you gamble correctly, laddie? he asked himself. The lad’s a fine sense of humor:
The stallion took the bit. Cart horse would be more apt.
“No, sir,” Skinner said. “Perhaps I’d better read it.” And he read out, almost word for word, what Sir Charles Crosse had written, what Struan had told Blore to whisper secretly in Skinner’s ear. Struan had decided that Skinner was the one to stir up the traders into a complex of fury so that they would all, in their individual ways, refuse to allow Hong Kong to perish; so that they would agitate as they had agitated so many years ago and had at length dominated the East India Company.
“I dinna believe it.”
“I think perhaps you should, Tai-Pan.” Skinner drained his glass. “May I?”
“Of course. Bring back the decanter. It’ll save you going back and forth. Who gave you the information?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“And if I insist?”
“I still won’t tell you. That would destroy my future as a newspaperman. There are very important ethics involved.”
Struan tested him. “A newspaperman must have a newspaper,” he said bluntly.
“True. That’s the gamble I’m taking—talking to you. But if you put it that way, I still won’t tell you.”
“Are you sure it’s true?”
“No. But I believe it is.”
“What’s the date of the dispatch?” Struan asked.
“April 27th.”
“You seriously believe that it could get here so fast? Ridiculous!”
“I said the same. I still think it’s true information.”
“If it’s true, then we’re all ruined.”
“Probably.” Skinner said.
“Na’ probably—certainly.”
“You forget the power of the press and the collective power of the traders.”
“We’ve nae power against the Foreign Secretary. And time’s against us. Are you going to print it?”
“Yes. At the correct time.”
Struan moved the glass and watched the lights flickering from its beveled edges. “I’d say when you do there’ll be a monumental panic. And Longstaff will carpet you right smartly.”