“Aye, aye, sorr,” the helmsman said, straining his eyes to see the nickering light of the binnacle and maintain a steady course, the wheel fighting him.
“Take over, Cap’n Orlov!”
“It’s about time, Green Eyes.”
“Perhaps you can get more speed,” Struan said. “I’d like to be in Macao forthwith!” He went below.
Orlov thanked God that he had been prepared, as always, for instant departure. He had known the moment he saw the Tai-Pan’s face that
China Cloud had better be out of harbor in record time or he would be without a ship. And though his seaman’s caution told him so much sail at night in such shoal and rock-filled seas was dangerous, he shouted exultantly, “Let go reefs fore-royal and upper top ta’ gallants,” and reveled in the freedom of being at sea and in command again after so many days at anchor. He inched the ship a point starboard and let go more reefs and drove her relentlessly. “Get the for’ard cutter ready, Mr. Cudahy! God knows, it better be ready when he comes on deck—and get the pilot’s lantern aloft!”
“Aye, aye, sorr.”
“Belay the pilot’s lantern! We’ll not get one at this time of night,” Orlov said, correcting himself. “I’ll not wait for dawn and any shark-guts pilot. I’ll take her in myself. We’ve urgent cargo aboard.”
Cudahy bent down and put his lips near Orlov’s ear. “Is she the one, sir? The one that he was after buying for her weight in gold? Did you see her face?”
“Get for’ard or I’ll have your guts for the felt of my trousers! And keep your mouth shut and spread that word, by the blood of Christ! Everyone’s confined to ship when we reach Macao!”
“Aye, aye, me foine Captain sorr,” Cudahy said with a laugh and stood to his full height, towering over the little man he liked and admired. “Our mouths are clams, by the beard of St. Patrick. No fear of that!” He leaped down the quarterdeck gangway and went forward.
Orlov strode the quarterdeck, wondering what all the mystery was about, and what was amiss with the tiny, shrouded girl the Tai-Pan had brought aboard in his arms. He saw the thickset Chinese, Fong, following Cudahy like a patient dog, and he wondered again why the man had been sent aboard to be trained in the ways of a captain, and why the Tai-Pan had put one of the heathen aboard each of his clippers.
I’d like to have seen the girl’s face, he told himself. Her weight in gold, yes, so the story goes. I wish—oh, how I wish I was not as I am, that I could look into a man’s face or a woman’s face and not see revulsion, and not have to prove that I’m a man like any, and better than any afloat. I’m tired of being Stride Orlov
the hunchback. Is that why I was afeared when the Tai-Pan said, “In October you’ll go north, alone”?
He looked moodily over the gunnel, at the black waves rushing past. You are what you are and the sea’s waiting. And you’re captain of the finest ship in the world. And once in your life you looked into a face and saw the green eyes studying you just as
a man. Ah, Green Eyes, he thought, his misery leaving him, I’ll go into hell for the moment you gave me.
“Avast there, you swabs! Bend smartly on the top ta’ gallants ho!” he shouted.
And his order sent the men scurrying aloft again to grasp more power from the wind. And then, when he saw the lights of Macao on the horizon, he ordered the sails reefed and eased his ship cautiously—but always with the maximum speed—into the shallow harbor of Macao, the leadsman calling the fathoms.
“Fine seamanship, Cap’n,” Struan said.
Orlov spun around, startled. “Oh, didn’t see you. You sneak up on a man like a ghost. Cutter’s ready to go alongside.” Then he added nonchalantly, “Thought I might as well take her in as wait till dawn and a pilot.”
“You’re a mind reader, Captain.” Struan looked at the lights and at the unseen city, low on the water but rising to a crest. “Anchor at our usual mooring. Guard my cabin yoursel’. You’re na to go in—or any. Everyone’s confined to the ship. With a tight mouth.”
“I’ve already given those orders.”
“When the Portuguese authorities come aboard, apologize for not waiting for the pilot and pay the usual dues. And the squeeze to the Chinese. Say I’m ashore.”
Orlov knew better than to ask how long the Tai-Pan would be gone.
Dawn was nudging the horizon when
China Cloud moored half a mile from the still undiscernible wharves on the southwest harbor. This was as close as she could safely come; the bay was dangerously shallow and therefore almost useless—another reason Hong Kong was an economic necessity. As he hastened the cutter to shore, Struan noticed the riding lights of another clipper to the south:
White Witch. A few smaller European ships were at anchor, and hundreds of sampans and junks plied their silent way.
Struan hurried along the jetty still rented by The Noble House. He saw that there were no lights on in their vast company residence which was also leased from the Portuguese. It was a colonnaded mansion, four-storied, on the far side of the tree-lined
praia. He turned north and walked along the
praia, skirting the Chinese customshouse. He cut through a wide street and began climbing the slight hill toward the church of Sao Francisco.
He was glad to be back in Macao, back in civilization amid cobbled streets and stately cathedrals and gracious Mediterranean houses and fountained
pragas and spacious gardens—sweet-smelling with their abundance of flowers.
Hong Kong will one day be like this, he told himself . . . with joss. Then he recalled Skinner and Whalen and malaria, and May-may aboard
China Cloud, so frail and so weak and another fever due in two or three days. And what about
Blue Cloud? She should be home soon. Will she beat
Gray Witch? Or is she a thousand miles astern at the bottom of the sea? What about all the other clippers? How many do I lose this season? Let
Blue Cloud be first! How is Winifred? And is Culum all right, and where’s Gorth, and will it be today that there will be a reckoning?
The city was still asleep in the dawn. But he could feel Chinese eyes watching him. He crested the hill and crossed the beautiful Praça de São Francisco.
Beyond the
pra
ça northward, at the highest point of the isthmus, were the battlements of the ancient fort of São Paulo de Monte. And beyond this was the Chinese section of Macao: narrow alleys, and hovels built on hovels, crusting the north slope of the hill and falling away.
For half a mile farther there was flat land and the isthmus narrowed to barely a hundred and fifty yards. There were gardens and walks and the emerald of the small racecourse and the cricket ground that the English had developed and sponsored over the centuries. The Portuguese did not approve of racing and did not play cricket.
A hundred yards beyond the cricket ground was the wall where Macao ended and China began.
The wall was twenty feet high and ten feet thick and stretched from shore to shore. Only after the wall was built three centuries ago had the emperor agreed to lease the isthmus to the Portuguese and allow them to settle on the land.