Read Online Tai-Pan by James Clavell - Free Book Online Page A

to be a Hung Mun. Death to the Ch’ings. He blessed his joss that he had been born in this era in history, in this part of China, with this father, for he knew that the time was almost ripe for all China to revolt.
    And he blessed the Tai-Pan, for he had given the Hung Mun a pearl beyond price: Hong Kong. At long last the society had a base safe from the perpetual oppression of the mandarins. Hong Kong would be under barbarian control, and here on this little island he knew that the society would flourish. From Hong Kong, safe and secret, they would probe the mainland and harass the Ch’ings until the Day. And with joss, he thought, with joss I can use the power of The Noble House in the cause.
    “Hop it, you bloody heathen!”
    Gordon Chen looked up, startled. A squat, tough little sailor was glaring at him. He had a haunch of suckling pig in his hands and he was ripping at it with broken teeth.
    “Hop it, or I’ll twist yor pigtail around yor bleedin’ neck!”
    Bosun McKay hurried over and shoved the sailor aside. “Hold yor tongue, Ramsey, you poxy sod,” he said. “He don’t mean no harm, Mr. Chen.”
    “Yes. Thank you, Mr. McKay.”
    “You want grub?” McKay stabbed a chicken with his knife and offered it.
    Gordon Chen carefully broke off the end bone of the chicken wing, appalled by McKay’s barbarian manners. “Thank you.”
    “That all you’ll have?”
    “Yes. It’s the most delicate part.” Chen bowed. “Thank you again.” He walked off.
    McKay went over to the sailor. “You all right, mate?”
    “I oughta cut yor bugger heart out. Is he yor Chinee doxy, McKay?”
    “Keep yor voice down, mon. That Chinee’s to be left alone. If you want to pick on a heathen bastard, there’s plenty others. But not him, by God. He’s the Tai-Pan’s bastard, that’s what.”
    “Then why don’t he wear a bleeding sign—or cut his bleeding hair?” Ramsey dropped his voice and leered. “I hear tell they’s different—Chinee doxies. Built different.”
    “I don’t know. Never be’d near one of th’ scum. There’s enough of our own kind in Macao.”
     
    Struan was watching a sampan anchored offshore. It was a small boat with a snug cabin fashioned from thin mats of woven rattan stretched over bamboo hoops. The fisherman and his family were Hoklos, boat people who lived all their lives afloat and rarely, if ever, went ashore. He could see that there were four adults and eight children in the sampan. Some of the infants were tied to the boat by ropes around their waists. These would be sons. Daughters were not tied, for they were of no value.
    “When do you think we can return to Macao, Mr. Struan?”
    He turned around and smiled at Horatio. “I imagine tomorrow, laddie. But I suppose His Excellency will need you for the meeting with Ti-sen. There’ll be more documents to translate.”
    “When’s the meeting?”
    “In three days, I believe.”
    “If you have a ship going to Macao, would you give my sister passage? Poor Mary’s been aboard for two months.”
    “Glad to.” Struan wondered what Horatio would do when he found out about Mary. Struan had learned the truth about her a little over three years ago . . .
     
    He had been in a crowded marketplace at Macao, and a Chinese had suddenly pushed a piece of paper into his hand and darted away. It was a note written in Chinese. He had shown the paper to Wolfgang Mauss.
    “They’re directions to a house, Mr. Struan. And a message: “ ‘The Tai-Pan of The Noble House needs special information for the sake of his house. Come secretly to the side entrance at the Hour of the Monkey.’ ”
    “When’s the Hour of the Monkey?”
    “Three o’clock in the afternoon.”
    “Where’s the house?”
    Wolfgang told him and then added, “Don’t go. It’s a trap, 
hein
? Remember there’s a hundred thousand taels’ reward on your head.”
    “The house is na in the Chinese quarter,” Struan had said. “In daylight it’d na be a trap. Get