“I do no more than others, by God. Just because thee be having weak-gutted newfangled notions doan mean others be wrong. The lash keeps scum in line. Scum!”
“You live by the lash and you’ll die by it.”
“Thee be wantin’ to settle our score now? Lash against lash? Knife to knife? Now, by God! Or be thee still coward?”
“I told you once and I’ll tell you a last time. One day I’ll come after you with a lash—perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the next day. But, by God, one day I’ll come after you. And I’ll tell you another thing. If by chance you die before I’m ready, I’ll go after Gorth and Morgan and I’ll wreck your company.”
Brock’s knife was out. “Maybe, lad, I cut thy throat now.”
Struan poured more champagne. Now the bottle was empty. “Open another bottle. There’s plenty more.”
Brock laughed. “Ah, Dirk lad, you be a rare ’un. You be busted an’ you still pretends. You be finished, you hear, lad? Yor Noble House be on its uppers. An’ you be coward!”
“Oh, I’m na a coward, Tyler. You know that.”
“You knowed the hillock where yor Great House’s to go?” Brock asked, his eye glittering.
“Aye.”
“It’s mine, lad. I be buyin’ it. Wotever you bid, I bid more.”
Struan felt the blood rush to his head, for he knew that he did not have the bullion to compete with Brock now. Na unless he made the deal with Ti-sen. Na unless he sold Hong Kong out. “God rot you to hell!”
“It be mine, lad. An’ all this stinking rock.” Brock drained his glass and belched again. “After yor company’s broked, I’m hounding you an’ yors outa these seas.” He took out a purse and counted out twenty gold guineas. Then he tossed them on the floor of the tent. “Buy thyself a coffin.”
He swaggered out.
“Beggin’ yor pardon, sorr,” McKay said.
Struan came out of his reverie. “Aye?”
“Mr. Culum’s ashore. He wants to see you.”
Struan was startled to see that the watery moon was high in the sky and the night deep.
“I’ll see him.”
“Others came, sorr. That Chinee, Gordon Chen. Miss Sinclair. A couple I don’t know. Old Quance. I said you’d see ’em tomorrer. Hope I did right not to let Mr. Culum come without asking.” McKay saw the golden guineas on the floor, but said nothing.
“As long as you obey orders you’re never wrong, McKay.”
Culum was at the tent door. “Am I disturbing you, Father?”
“Nay, lad. Sit down.”
Culum saw the sovereigns on the floor and started to pick them up.
“Leave them where they are.”
“Why?”
“Because I want them left there.”
Culum sat down. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“I’m na in a mood to talk, lad.”
“Were you serious about making me a partner?”
“Aye.”
“I don’t want to be a partner. I don’t want to stay in the Orient. I want to go home.”
“I know better than you, Culum. Give it time.”
“Time won’t make any difference.”
“You’re young, lad. There’s plenty of time for you. Be patient with me. And with China. Did Robb tell you how to go about the land sale?”
“Yes.” Damn Uncle Robb, Culum thought. If only he hadn’t exploded with Father and said that he was leaving. Damn, damn, damn. Blast that cursed bank. Ruined everything. Poor Father. “I think I’ll be able to do it.”
“You’ll have nae trouble so long as it’s run fairly. The highest bidder gets the land.”
“Yes, of course.” Culum stared at the guineas. “Why do you want the coins left there?”
“They’re my coffin money.”
“I don’t understand.”
Struan told him what had happened with Brock. “Better you know about him, Culum. Watch your back because he’ll come after you like I’m going after Gorth.”
“The sins of the father are not the fault of the son.”
“Gorth Brock’s a pattern of his father.”
“Doesn’t Christ teach forgiveness?”
“Aye, lad. But I canna forgive them. They’re everything that’s rotten on earth. They’re tyrants and they believe the lash answers all questions. A fact of life, on earth: Money is power—whether you’re king or laird or chieftain or merchant or crofter. Without power you canna protect what you have nor improve the lot of others.”
“Then you’re saying that the teachings of Christ are wrong?”
“Na wrong, lad. I’m saying that some men are saints. Some are happy being meek and humble and unambitious. Some men are born content to be second-best—I canna be. Nor Brock. Are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ll be put to the test sometime. Then you’ll know about yoursel’.”
“Then you mean that money is everything?”
“I’m saying that without power you canna be a saint in this day and age. Power for its own sake is a sin. Money for its own sake is a sin.”
“Is it so important to have money and power?”
“Nay, laddie,” Struan said with an ironic grin. “The lack of money’s what’s important.”
“Why do you want power?”
“Why do you, Culum?”
“Perhaps I don’t.”
“Aye. Perhaps. You’d like a drink, lad?”
“I’ll have a little champagne.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes, thank you. I don’t know very much about myself yet,” Culum said.
“There’s time, laddie. I’m so glad you’re here. Very glad.”
Culum looked back at the coins. “It really doesn’t matter, does it? About the partnership and everything. The company’s finished. What are you going to do?”
“We’re na finished for twenty-nine days. If joss is against us, this version of The Noble House dies. Then we start again.” Dinna fool yoursel’, he thought, you can never start again.
“A never-ending battle?”
“What do you think life’s supposed to be, lad?”
“Can I resign as a partner if it doesn’t please me, or if I think I’m no good and not worth it? At my whim?”
“Aye. But na if you’re ever Tai-Pan. The Tai-Pan can never resign until he’s sure that the house is in good hands. He
must be sure. That’s his final responsibility.”
“If we’re owed so much by the Chinese merchants, can’t we collect it? Then we’ve the money to pay Brock.”
“They’ve na got it.” Devil take it, Struan told himself, you’re trapped. Make up your mind. It’s Ti-sen or nothing.
“What about His Excellency? Can’t he give us an advance? From the ransom money?”
“It belongs to the Crown. Maybe Parliament’ll honor his paper, maybe it’ll repudiate it. The bullion will na pass hands for almost a year.”
“But we’ll get it. Surely Brock’ll take your surety?”
Struan’s voice harshened. “I’ve already told you the measure of Brock’s charity. I’d na give him twenty guineas if I had him trapped equally. God damn him and his Goddamned whelps.”
Culum shifted uneasily in his chair. His shoe moved one of the guineas and it glittered suddenly. “His Excellency’s not very—well, isn’t he rather simple?”