"I'm not afraid of anyone," McFay said carefully. "We can't mount a successful raid without regular troops, Norbert, that's not possible. I want revenge more than any."
Greyforth made sure no one was listening.
"Since you brought it up tonight and we don't talk too often, we've heard there's going to be bad trouble here soon."
"The revolt?"
"Yes. Very bad trouble for us. There's been all sorts of signs. Our silk dealers have been acting right smelly the last month or two, upping the price of bulk raw, delaying deliveries, slow on payments and wanting extra credits. I'll bet it's the same with you."
"Yes." It was rare for the two men to talk business.
"Don't know much more than that, except many of the signs are the same as in America that led to civil war. If that happens here it's going to bugger us proper. Without the fleet and troops we're bitched and we can be wiped out."
After a pause, McFay said, "What do you propose?"
"We'll have to wait and see what happens. With Wee Willie's plan I don't hope for much, like you. The Russian was right about what should be done. Meanwhile..." Greyforth nodded out to sea where two of their clippers and merchantmen lay in the roads--clippers still much faster back to England than steamers, paddle-driven or screw-driven ... "we're keeping all our inner ledgers and specie aboard, we've increased our levels of gunpowder, shot, shrapnel and put in an order for two of the brand-new Yankee, 10-barrel Gatling machine guns as soon as they are available."
McFay laughed. "The hell you have--so did we!"
"We heard that too, which is why I made the order, and twice as many of the new rifles than your shipment."
"Who told you, eh? Who's your spy?"
"Old Mother Hubbard," Greyforth said dryly.
"Listen, we all know these inventions, along with metal cartridges, have changed the course of war --that's proved already by the casualties at the battles of Bull Run and Fredericksburg."
"Shocking, yes. Dmitri told me, said the South lost four thousand in one afternoon. Terrible.
So?"
"We could both sell these weapons to the Japanners by the ton, my thought is we agree to not, and together we make bloody sure no other bugger imports them or smuggles them in.
Selling Jappers steamers and the odd cannon's one thing, but not repeaters or machine guns.
Agreed?"
McFay was surprised by the offer. And suspicious. But he kept it off his face, sure that Norbert would never keep the bargain, and shook the offered hand. "Agreed."
"Good. What's the latest on young Struan?"
"When I saw him an hour or so ago he was poorly."
"Is he going to die?"
"No, the doctor assured me of that."
A cold smile. "What the hell do they know?
But if he did that could wreck the Noble House."
"Nothing will ever wreck the Noble House, Dirk Struan saw to that."
"Don't be too sure. Dirk's been dead more than twenty years, his son Culum's not far from his deathbed and if Malcolm dies who's to take over? Not his young brother who's only ten." His eyes glinted strangely.
"Old Man Brock may be seventy-three but he's as tough and clever as he ever was."
"But we're still the Noble House, Culum is still the tai-pan." McFay added, glad for the barb, "Old Man Brock's still not a Steward of the Jockey Club at Happy Valley and never will be."
"That'll come soon enough, Jamie, that and all the rest. Culum Struan won't control the Jockey Club vote much longer, and if his son and heir kicks the bucket too, well then, counting us and our friends we've the necessary votes."
"It won't happen."
Greyforth hardened. "Mayhaps Old Man Brock will honor us with a visit here soon-- along with Sir Morgan."
"Morgan's in Hong Kong?" McFay tried to stop his astonishment from showing. Sir Morgan Brock was Old Man Brock's eldest son who, very successfully, ran their London office. As far as Jamie knew Morgan had never been to Asia before. If Morgan's suddenly in Hong Kong... what new devilment are those two up to now? he asked himself uneasily. Morgan specialized in merchant banking and had skillfully spread the tentacles of Brock's into Europe, Russia, and North America, always harrying the Struan trade routes and customers. Since the American war began last year, McFay, along with other Directors of Struan's, had been getting worrying reports about failures amongst their extensive American interests, both North and South, where Culum Struan had invested heavily. "If Old Man Brock and son grace us with their presence, I've no doubt we would be honored to give them supper."
Greyforth laughed without humor. "I doubt they'll have time, except to inspect your books, when we take you over."
"You never will. If I have any news on the revolt I'll send word, please do likewise.
Good night now." Overpolitely McFay raised his hat and walked away.
Greyforth laughed to himself, delighted with the seeds he had planted. The Old Man will be happy to harvest them, he thought, tearing them out by the roots.
Dr. Babcott trudged wearily along a corridor in the semi-darkness of the Kanagawa Legation. He carried a small oil lamp and wore a dressing gown over woolen pajamas.
From somewhere downstairs a clock chimed two o'clock.
Absently he reached into his pocket and checked his fob watch, yawned, then knocked on a door. "Miss Angelique?"
After a moment she called out sleepily, "Yes?"
"You wanted to know when Mr. Struan woke up."
"Ah, thank you." A moment, then the door was unbarred and Angelique came out. Hair a little dishevelled and still drowsy, wearing a robe over her nightdress. "How is he?"
"A little sick, and woozy," Babcott said, leading her back along the corridor and downstairs to the surgery where the sickrooms were.
"His temperature and pulse rate are up a little, of course that's to be expected. I've given him a drug for the pain, but he's a fine, strong young man and everything should be all right."
The first time she had seen Malcolm she had been shocked by his lack of color, and appalled by the stench. She had never been in a hospital or surgery before, or in a real sickroom. Apart from reading in the Paris newspapers and journals about death and dying and illness and the waves of plague and killing diseases--measles, smallpox, typhus, cholera, pneumonia, meningitis, whooping cough, scarlet fever, childbed fever and the like--that swept Paris and Lyon and other cities and towns from time to time, she had had no close acquaintance with sickness. Her health had always been good, her aunt and uncle and brother equally blessed.
Shakily she had touched his forehead, moving the sweat-stained hair out of his face, but, repelled by the smell that surrounded the bed, hurried out.
In a room nearby Tyrer was sleeping comfortably. To her great relief there was no smell here. She thought he had a pleasant sleeping face where Malcolm Struan had been tormented.