Struan went ashore to the temporary office he had had erected on their new marine site. Vargas was waiting for him.
“Let’s have all the bad news first, Vargas.”
“There’s a report from our agents, senhor, in Calcutta. It seems that
Gray Witch was three days ahead of
Blue Cloud, according to last reports.”
“Next?”
“Building costs are huge, senhor. With yesterday’s editorial, well, I’ve held up all work. Perhaps we should cut our losses.”
“Continue work immediately and double our labor force tomorrow.”
“Yes, senhor. The stock-market news from England is bad. The market is very jittery. The budget has not balanced again and financial troubles are expected.”
“That’s normal. Have you na some special disaster to relate?”
“None, senhor. Of course robberies are incredibly frequent. There have been three piracies since you left and a dozen were attempted. Two pirate junks were captured and all the crew were publicly hanged. Forty to fifty thieves, robbers, cutthroats are whipped every Wednesday. Hardly a night goes by without a home being burglarized. Distressing. Oh, by the way, Major Trent has ordered a curfew for all Chinese at sunset. That seems to be the only way to control them.”
“Where’s Mrs. Quance?”
“Still on the small hulk, senhor. She canceled her passage for England. Apparently there’s a rumor that Senhor Quance is still on Hong Kong.”
“Is he?”
“I would not like to feel we’ve lost the immortal Quance, senhor.”
“What’s Mr. Blore been up to?”
“He’s spending money as if the rocks of Hong Kong were made of gold. Of course, it’s not our money,” Vargas said, trying not to show his disapproval, “but ‘Jockey Club funds.’ I understand the Club is to be nonprofit-making, any profits going to benefit the racecourse, horses, and so on.” He dried his hands on a handkerchief. The day was very humid. “I hear Senhor Blore has arranged a cockfight. Under Jockey Club auspices.”
Struan brightened. “Good. When’s it to be?”
“I don’t know, senhor.”
“What’s Glessing doing?”
“Everything a harbor master should. But I hear he’s furious with Longstaff for not allowing him to go to Macao. There’s a rumor he’s going to be sent home.”
“Mauss?”
“Ah, the Reverend Mauss. He’s returned from Canton and has rooms in the hotel.”
“Why the ‘ah,’ Vargas?”
“Nothing, senhor. Just another rumor,” Vargas replied, annoyed that he had been loose-tongued. “Well, it seems—of course we Catholics disapprove of him and are sad that all Protestants do not believe as we do, for the salvation of their own souls. In any event, he has a cherished follower, a baptized Hakka called Hung Hsiu-ch’uan.”
“Would Hung Hsiu-ch’uan have anything to do with Hung Mun—the Triads?”
“Oh no, senhor. The name is a common one.”
“Aye, I remember him. A tall curious-looking man. Go on.”
“Well, there’s not much to tell. It’s just that he’s begun preaching among the Chinese at Canton. Unbeknownst to the Reverend Mauss, calling himself the brother of Jesus Christ, saying that he talks to his father—God—nightly. That he’s the new Messiah, that he’s going to clean out the temples like his brother did, and a lot of garbled idolatrous nonsense. Obviously he’s mad. If it weren’t so sacrilegious, it would be very amusing.”
Struan thought about Mauss. He liked him as a man and pitied him. Then he remembered Sarah’s words again. Aye, he told himself, you’ve used Wolfgang in many ways. But in return you gave him what
he wanted—the chance to convert the heathen. Without you he’d have been dead long ago. Without you . . . let it rest. Mauss has his own salvation to find. The ways of God are passing strange.
“Who knows, Vargas? Perhaps Hung Hsiu-ch’uan is what he claims. In any event,” he added, seeing Vargas bridle, “I agree. It is na amusing. I’ll talk to Wolfgang. Thank you for telling me.”
Vargas cleared his throat. “Do you think I could have next week off? This heat and—well, it would be nice to see my family.”
“Aye. Take two weeks, Vargas. And I think it would be good for the Portuguese community to have its own club. I’m starting a subscription. You’re appointed temporary treasurer and secretary.” He scribbled on a pad and tore off the sheet. “You can cash this at once.” It was a sight draft for a thousand guineas.
Vargas was overwhelmed. “Thank you, senhor.”
“Nae thanks,” Struan said. “Wi’out the support of the Portuguese community we’d na have any community.”
“But surely, senhor, this news—this editorial! Hong Kong is finished. The Crown has repudiated the treaty. Double the labor force? A thousand guineas? I don’t understand.”
“Hong Kong’s alive as long as one trader stands on it, and one naval vessel is in the harbor. Dinna worry. Any messages for me?”
“Mr. Skinner left word. He’d like to see you at your convenience. Mr. Gordon Chen too.”
“Send word to Skinner that I’ll stop by the newspaper this evening. And to Gordon that I’ll meet him aboard
Resting Cloud at eight o’clock.”
“Yes, senhor. Oh, by the way, one other thing. You remember Ramsey? The sailor who deserted? Well he’s been living in the hills all this time in a cave, like a hermit. On the Peak. He survived by stealing food from the fishing village at Aberdeen. It seems he raped several women there and the Chinese tied him up and gave him to the authorities. Yesterday he was tried. A hundred lashes and two years penal servitude.”
“They might as well have hanged him,” Struan said. “He’ll never last two years.” Jails were death traps, indescribably brutal.
“Yes. Terrible. Thank you again, senhor. Our community will be most appreciative,” Vargas said.
He left, but returned almost instantly. “Excuse me, Tai-Pan. One of your seamen’s here. The Chinese, Fong.”
“Send him in.”
Fong bowed himself in silently.
Struan studied the thickset, pockmarked Chinese. In the three months that he had been aboard he had changed in many ways. Now he wore European seaman’s clothes easily, his queue coiled neatly under a knitted cap. His English was passable. An excellent sailor. Obedient, soft-spoken, quick to learn.
“What are you doing off ship?”
“Captain say can go shore, Tai-Pan. My watch go shore.”
“What do you want, Fong?”
Fong offered a crumpled piece of paper. The writing on it was childlike. “Aberdeen. Same place, matey. Eight bells, midwatch. Come alone.” It was signed “Bert and Fred’s Dad.”
“Where’d you get this?”
“Coolie stop me. Give me.”
“Do you know what it says?”
“I read, yes. Not read easy. Very hard, never mind.”
Struan considered the scrap of paper. “The sky. Have you seen it?”
“Yes, Tai-Pan.”
“What did it tell you?”
Fong knew that he was being tested. “Tai-fung,” he said.
“How long?”
“Doan knowah. Three day, four day, more, less. Tai-fung, never mind.”
The sun was already below the horizon, the light dying fast. Lanterns were dotting the foreshore and the building sites.