better get to your boat, lad. They’re waiting for you.”
“The cure. Tell me how. I’ve me savings, sir.” Norden pulled out a filthy, knotted rag and offered it proudly, sweat streaking his face. “I’m thrifty and there be—there be five whole shillin’ an’ fourpence, sir, and it be all I have in the world, sir, and then there’s me pay, twenty shillin’ a month you can have. You can have it all, sir, I swear by the blessed Lord Jesus, sir!”
“I’ve never had the woman sickness, lad. Never,” Struan said again, his heart grinding at the memory of his childhood when wealth was pennies and shillings and half shillings and not bullion in tens of thousands of taels. And living again the never-to-be-forgotten horror of all his youth—of no-money and no-hope and no-food and no-warmth and no-roof and the bloated heaving stomachs of the children. Good sweet, Jesus, I can forget my own hunger, but never the children, never their cries on a starving wind in a cesspool of a street.
“I’ll do anything, anything, sir. Here. I can pay. I don’t want nuffink for nuffink. Here, sir.”
The master-at-arms was striding up the beach. “Norden!” he shouted angrily. “You’ll get fifty lashes for breaking ranks, by God!”
“Is your name Norden?”
“Yes, sir. Bert Norden. Please. I only want the cure. Help me, sir. Here. Take the money. It’s all yorn and there’ll be more. In Jesus Christ’s name, help me!”
“Norden!” the master-at-arms shouted from a hundred yards away, red with rage. “God’s blood, come here, you godrotting bastard!”
“Please, sir,” Norden said with growing desperation. “I heard you got cured by the heathen. You bought the cure from the heathen!”
“Then you heard a lie. There’s no Chinese cure that I know of. No cure. None. You’d better get back to your boat.”
“Course there’s a cure!” Norden shrieked. He jerked out his bayonet. “You tell me where to get it or I’ll cut your sodding gizzard open!”
The master-at-arms broke into a horrified run.
“Norden!”
A few on the beach turned around, startled: Cooper and Horatio and another. They began to run toward them.
Then Norden’s brain snapped, and gibbering and foaming, he hurled himself at Struan and slashed at him viciously, but Struan sidestepped and waited without fear, knowing that he could kill Norden at will.
It seemed to Norden that he was surrounded by devil-giants all with the same face, but he could never touch one of them. He felt the air explode from his lungs and the beach smash into his face, and he seemed to be suspended in painless agony. Then there was blackness.
The master-at-arms rolled off Norden’s back and hacked down with his fist again. He grabbed Norden and shook him like a rag doll and threw him down again. “What the devil happened to him?” he said, getting up, his face mottled with rage. “You all right, Mr. Struan?”
“Yes.”
Cooper and Horatio and some of the merchants hurried up. “What’s the matter?”
Struan carefully turned Norden over with his foot. “The poor fool’s got woman sickness.”
“Christ!” the master-at-arms said, nauseated.
“Better get away from him, Tai-Pan,” Cooper said. “If you breathe his flux you could catch it.”
“The poor fool thought I’d had the disease and got cured. By the Cross, if I knew the cure for that I’d be the richest man on the earth.”
“I’ll have the bugger put in irons, Mr. Struan,” the master-at-arms said. “Cap’n Glessing’ll make him wisht he never been born.”
“Just get a spade,” Struan said. “He’s dead.”
Cooper broke the silence. “First day, first blood. Bad joss.”
“Not according to Chinese custom,” Horatio said absently, sickened. “Now his ghost will watch over this place.”
“Good omen or bad,” Struan said, “the poor lad’s dead.”
No one answered him.
“The Lord have mercy on his soul,” Struan said. Then he turned west along the
“The cure. Tell me how. I’ve me savings, sir.” Norden pulled out a filthy, knotted rag and offered it proudly, sweat streaking his face. “I’m thrifty and there be—there be five whole shillin’ an’ fourpence, sir, and it be all I have in the world, sir, and then there’s me pay, twenty shillin’ a month you can have. You can have it all, sir, I swear by the blessed Lord Jesus, sir!”
“I’ve never had the woman sickness, lad. Never,” Struan said again, his heart grinding at the memory of his childhood when wealth was pennies and shillings and half shillings and not bullion in tens of thousands of taels. And living again the never-to-be-forgotten horror of all his youth—of no-money and no-hope and no-food and no-warmth and no-roof and the bloated heaving stomachs of the children. Good sweet, Jesus, I can forget my own hunger, but never the children, never their cries on a starving wind in a cesspool of a street.
“I’ll do anything, anything, sir. Here. I can pay. I don’t want nuffink for nuffink. Here, sir.”
The master-at-arms was striding up the beach. “Norden!” he shouted angrily. “You’ll get fifty lashes for breaking ranks, by God!”
“Is your name Norden?”
“Yes, sir. Bert Norden. Please. I only want the cure. Help me, sir. Here. Take the money. It’s all yorn and there’ll be more. In Jesus Christ’s name, help me!”
“Norden!” the master-at-arms shouted from a hundred yards away, red with rage. “God’s blood, come here, you godrotting bastard!”
“Please, sir,” Norden said with growing desperation. “I heard you got cured by the heathen. You bought the cure from the heathen!”
“Then you heard a lie. There’s no Chinese cure that I know of. No cure. None. You’d better get back to your boat.”
“Course there’s a cure!” Norden shrieked. He jerked out his bayonet. “You tell me where to get it or I’ll cut your sodding gizzard open!”
The master-at-arms broke into a horrified run.
“Norden!”
A few on the beach turned around, startled: Cooper and Horatio and another. They began to run toward them.
Then Norden’s brain snapped, and gibbering and foaming, he hurled himself at Struan and slashed at him viciously, but Struan sidestepped and waited without fear, knowing that he could kill Norden at will.
It seemed to Norden that he was surrounded by devil-giants all with the same face, but he could never touch one of them. He felt the air explode from his lungs and the beach smash into his face, and he seemed to be suspended in painless agony. Then there was blackness.
The master-at-arms rolled off Norden’s back and hacked down with his fist again. He grabbed Norden and shook him like a rag doll and threw him down again. “What the devil happened to him?” he said, getting up, his face mottled with rage. “You all right, Mr. Struan?”
“Yes.”
Cooper and Horatio and some of the merchants hurried up. “What’s the matter?”
Struan carefully turned Norden over with his foot. “The poor fool’s got woman sickness.”
“Christ!” the master-at-arms said, nauseated.
“Better get away from him, Tai-Pan,” Cooper said. “If you breathe his flux you could catch it.”
“The poor fool thought I’d had the disease and got cured. By the Cross, if I knew the cure for that I’d be the richest man on the earth.”
“I’ll have the bugger put in irons, Mr. Struan,” the master-at-arms said. “Cap’n Glessing’ll make him wisht he never been born.”
“Just get a spade,” Struan said. “He’s dead.”
Cooper broke the silence. “First day, first blood. Bad joss.”
“Not according to Chinese custom,” Horatio said absently, sickened. “Now his ghost will watch over this place.”
“Good omen or bad,” Struan said, “the poor lad’s dead.”
No one answered him.
“The Lord have mercy on his soul,” Struan said. Then he turned west along the
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