“An’ where’s thy banker’s draft?” Brock said suspiciously.
“We decided to pay cash,” Struan said.
The seamen dragged the collapsed tent away. Almost concealing the bulk of empty barrels were neat walls of silver bricks. Hundreds upon hundreds of silver bricks, glinting under the bleak sun. Brock stared at them transfixed, and there was a monstrous silence over Hong Kong.
“The Noble House decided to pay cash,” Struan said offhandedly. He lit a match and put it to the roll of sight drafts. He took out three cheroots, offered one to Robb and to Culum, and lit them with the burning paper. “It’s all been weighed. But there’s a scale if you wish to check the amount.”
The blood rushed to Brock’s face. “God rot you to hell!”
Struan dropped the charred paper and ground it into the sand. “Thank you, Mr. Cudahy. Take the men aboard
Thunder Cloud.”
“Aye, aye, sorr.” Cudahy and the men took a last, sweating look at the bullion and dashed to their boats.
“Well, that’s finished,” Struan said to Robb and Culum. “Now we can deal with the land.”
“A rare occasion indeed, Dirk,” Robb said. “That was a masterly idea.”
Culum scanned the beach. He saw the greed and envy, and the eyes that watched them covertly. Thank you, oh God, he said silently, for letting me be part of The Noble House. Thank you for letting me be Thy instrument.
Brock came out of his shock. “Gorth, get thy bullyboys ashore and on the double.”
“What?”
“On godrotting double,” he said, his voice low and violent. “Armed. We be having every heathen pirate in Asia on our necks inside minutes.”
Gorth took to his heels.
Brock pulled out his pistols and gave them to Nagrek. “If any comes within five yards, blow their heads off.” He stamped over to Longstaff. “Can I borrow them sodjers, Yor Excellency? Else we be havin’ a passel of trouble on our hands.”
“Eh? Soldiers? Soldiers?” Longstaff blinked at the bullion. “Goddamme, is that all real silver? All of it? Goddamme, eight hundred thousand pounds’ worth, did you say?”
“A little more,” Brock said impatiently. “Them sodjers. Marines, sailors. Any wot is armed. To guard it, by God!”
“Oh, armed! Of course. Admiral, would you arrange it, please?”
“Belay, there!” the admiral shouted, whipped into fury by the avarice on every face, including officers of the Royal Navy. Marines and soldiers and sailors came on the double. “Form a circle fifty paces from this treasure. No one’s allowed near. Understand?” He glared at Brock. “I’ll be responsible for its safety for one hour. Then I leave it where it is.”
“Thankee kindly, Admiral,” Brock said, repressing an oath. He glanced seaward. Gorth’s cutter was pulling strongly for the
White Witch. An hour be enough, he thought, cursing Struan and the bullion. How in the name of God can I unload so much bullion? Whose paper dare I takes? With war acoming and maybe no trade, eh? If there be trade, then it’d pay for all the season’s tea. But unless trade be guaranteed, why, all the companies’ paper be worthless. Except the godrotting Noble House.
No bank an’ no vault and no safety until it be off’n yor hands. Yor life’s on rack. You should’ve thort, by God. You should’ve thort this were wot that belly-fornicating-bugger’d do. He trap you right proper.
Brock tore his mind off the bullion and looked at Struan. He saw the mocking smile, and rage rose in him. “The day’s not over yet, by God.”
“Quite right, Tyler,” Struan answered. “One more thing to settle.”
“Yus, by God.” Brock shoved through the silent crowd toward the dais.
Abruptly Culum’s anxiety returned, more excruciating than before. “Listen, Father,” he said in a rush, his voice held down, “Uncle Robb’s right. Brock’ll leave you when the bidding’s reached—”
“Na again, laddie, for the love of God. The knoll belongs to The Noble House.”
Culum stared at his father helplessly. Then he walked away.
“What the devil’s the matter with him?” Struan asked Robb.
“I don’t know. He’s been as nervous as a bitch in heat all day.”
Then Struan noticed Sarah standing on the edge of the crowd—Karen beside her—white-faced, statuelike. He took Robb’s arm and began to guide him toward them. “You’ve na told Sarah yet, have you, Robb? About staying?”
“No.”
“Now’s a good time. Now that you’re rich again.”
They came up to Sarah but she did not notice them.
“Hello, Uncle Dirk.” Karen said. “Can I play with your pretty bricks?”
“Are they truly real, Dirk?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, Sarah,” Robb answered.
“God only knows how you did it, Dirk, but thank you.” She winced as the child kicked in her womb, and took out her smelling salts. “This means—this means we’re saved, doesn’t it?”
“Aye,” Struan said.
“Can I play with one of those, Mummy?” Karen said shrilly.
“No, dear. Run along and play,” Sarah said. She went up to Struan and kissed him, her tears streaming. “Thank you.”
“Dinna thank me, Sarah. The price of so much metal comes high.” Struan touched his hat and left them.
“What did he mean, Robb?”
Robb told her.
“I’m still leaving,” she said. “As soon as I can. Soon as the baby’s born.”
“Yes. It’s best.”
“I pray you never find
her.”
“Oh, don’t start that again, Sarah. Please. It’s a beautiful day. We’re rich again. You can have everything in the world you want.”
“Perhaps I just want a man for a husband.” Sarah walked heavily toward the longboat, and when Robb began to follow, she snapped, “Thank you, but I can get aboard myself. Come along, Karen dear.”
“Just as you wish,” Robb said, and he stalked up the beach again. He couldn’t see Struan among the crowd for a while. Then, as he neared the dais, he noticed him chatting with Aristotle Quance. He joined them.
“Hello, Robb, my dear fellow,” Quance said expansively. “Marvelous gesture, I was just saying to the Tai-Pan. Marvelous. Worthy of the The Noble House.” Then to Struan, his ugly face dancing with joy, “By the way, you owe me fifty guineas.”
“I dinna such thing!”
“The portrait of Culum. It’s ready for delivery. Surely you didn’t forget?”
“It was thirty guineas, and I gave you ten in advance, by God!”
“You did? I’ll be damned! Are you sure?”
“Where’s Shevaun?”
“She has the flux, so I hear, poor lady.” Quance took some snuff. “Princely, that’s what you are, my lad. Can I have a loan? It’s in a good cause.”
“What sort of flux?”
Quance looked around and dropped his voice, “Lovesick.”
“Who?”
Quance hesitated. “You, lad.”
“Oh, go to hell, Aristotle!” Struan said sourly.
“Believe it or believe it not. I can tell. She’s asked after you several times.”
“During sittings?”
“What sittings?” Quance said innocently.
“You know what sittings.”
“Lovesick, my lad.” The little man laughed. “And now that you’re rich again, except to be swept off your feet and into the hay! Immortal testicles of Jove! She’d surely be magnificent. Only fifty guineas, and I won’t bother you for a month.”