“A hundred guineas apiece. A year to deliver.”
Take it or leave it, Cooper thought bitterly, knowing the tone of voice. “Done.” New code flags were raised, and Cooper handed the binoculars back.
The second message was a single word, “Zenith,” a code within the master code.
“If I were you,” Struan said to Cooper, “I’d unload your season’s cotton. In a hurry.”
“Why?”
Struan shrugged. “Just trying to be of service. You’ll excuse me?”
Cooper watched him leave to intercept Robb, who was approaching with the bosun. What’s in those goddam flags? he asked himself. And what did he mean about our cotton? And why the hell hasn’t the mail ship arrived?
This was what made trading so exciting. You bought and sold for a market four months ahead, knowing only the market position of four months ago. A mistake and the inside of a debtor’s prison you’d see. A calculated gamble that came off and you could retire and never know the Orient again. A wave of pain swept up from his bowels. Pain of the Orient that was always with him—with most of them—and a way of life. Was it a friendly tip of the Tai-Pan’s or a calculated ploy?
Captain Glessing, accompanied by Horatio, was eying
Thunder Cloud enviously. And also impatiently. She was a prize worth taking, and as the first ship of the year to make the voyage out from England and from Calcutta, her holds would be crammed with opium. Glessing wondered what the flags had meant. And why there was a black patch on the fore-royal.
“Beautiful ship,” Horatio said.
“Yes, she is.”
“Even though she’s a pirate?” Horatio asked ironically.
“Her cargo and owners make her a pirate. A ship’s a ship, and that’s one of the most gorgeous ladies who ever served man,” Glessing answered crisply, unamused by Horatio’s wit. “Speaking of ladies,” he said, trying not to be obvious, “would you and Miss Sinclair care to sup with me tonight? I’d like to show you around my ship.”
“That’s very nice of you, George. I would indeed. And I imagine Mary would be delighted. She’s never been on a frigate before.”
Perhaps tonight, Glessing told himself, there’ll be an opportunity to determine how Mary feels about me. “I’ll send a longboat for you. Would three bells—the last dogwatch—be all right?”
“Better make it eight bells,” Horatio said nonchalantly, just to show that he knew that three bells in this watch would be seven-thirty, but eight o’clock would be eight bells.
“Very well,” Glessing said. “Miss Sinclair will be the first lady I’ve entertained aboard.”
Good God, Horatio thought, could Glessing have more than a fleeting interest in Mary? Of course! The invitation was really for her, not me. What a nerve! Pompous ass! To think that Mary would even consider such a match. Or that I would allow her to marry yet!
A musket clattered to the stones and they glanced around. One of the marines had fainted and was lying on the beach.
“What the devil’s the matter with him?” Glessing said.
The master-at-arms turned the young marine over. “Don’t know, sorr. It’s Norden, sorr. He’s been acting strange like, for weeks. Perhaps he’s the fever.”
“Well, leave him where he is. Round up the sailors, marines to the boats! When everyone’s aboard, come back and fetch him.”
“Yes, sorr.” The master-at-arms picked up Norden’s musket and threw it to another marine and marched the men away.
When it was safe to move, Norden—who had only pretended to faint—slipped into the lee of some rocks and hid. Oh Lord Jesus, protect me till I can get to the Tai-Pan, he prayed desperately. I’ll never get an opportunity like this again. Protect me, oh Blessed Jesus and help me get to him afore they come back for me.
Brock was standing on the quarterdeck of his ship, his telescope trained on the flags. He had broken Struan’s code six months ago and understood the first message. Now, wot about ‘Zenith’? Wot do that mean? he asked himself. And wot be so important about Ottoman treaty that Struan’s’d risk telling about, open like, even in code, ’stead of in secret when they be aboard? Maybe they knowed I broke the code. Maybe they want me t’understand it and ‘Zenith’ means, private to them, the message be false. Crisis and war means price of tea and silk be going up. And cotton. Better buy heavily.
If it be true. And perhaps put my head in Struan’s trap. Where the hell be
Gray Witch? Not right for her to be beat. Damn that Gorth! He costed me a thousand guineas.
Gorth was his eldest son and the
Gray Witch’s captain. A son to be proud of. As big as he, as rough, as strong, as fine a seaman as ever sailed the seas. Yes, a son to follow you an’ worthy to be Tai-Pan in a year or two. Brock said a silent prayer for Gorth’s safety, then damned him again for being second to
Thunder Cloud.
He focused his telescope on the shore where Struan was meeting Robb, and wished that he could hear what they were saying.
“Excuse me, Mr. Brock.” Nagrek Thumb was captain of the
White Witch, a large, thickset Manxman with huge hands and a face the color of pickled oak.
“Yes, Nagrek?”
“There’s a rumor going around the fleet. I don’t put much stock in it, but you never know. Rumor says that the navy’s getting powers to stop us smuggling opium. That we can be took like pirates.”
Brock scoffed. “That be a rare one.”
“I laughed too, Mr. Brock. Until I heard that the order’s to be give out at four bells. And until I heard that Struan said to Longstaff we should all have six days’ grace to sell what stocks we have.”
“Be you sure?” Brock hardly had time to absorb the jolting news when he was distracted by a bustling on the gangway. Eliza Brock strode ponderously onto the deck. She was a big woman with thick arms and the power of a man; her iron-gray hair was worn in a loose bun. With her were their two daughters, Elizabeth and Tess.
“Morning, Mr. Brock,” Liza said, setting her feet squarely on the deck, her arms crossed over the hugeness of her bosom. “ ’Tis a nice day, by gum!”
“Where you beed, luv? Morning, Tess. Hello, Lillibet luv,” Brock said, his adoration of his daughters overwhelming him.
Elizabeth Brock was six and brown-haired. She ran over to Brock and curtsied and almost fell down, then jumped into his arms and hugged him, and he laughed.
“We were over t’ Mrs. Blair,” Liza said. “She be proper poorly.”
“Will she lose the baby?”
“No, the Lord willing,” Liza said. “Morning, Nagrek.”
“Morning, ma’am,” Thumb said, taking his eyes off Tess who was standing at the gunnel looking toward the island. Tess Brock was sixteen, tall and curved, her waist fashionably narrow. Her features were sharp and she was not pretty. But her face was strong and the life in it made her attractive. And very desirable.
“I’ll get some grub.” Liza made a note of the way Nagrek had looked at Tess. It’s time she were wed, she thought. But not to Nagrek Thumb, by God. “Come below, Tess. Get on with you, Lillibet,” she said as Elizabeth held out her arms to be carried.