James clavell

"Thanks bu—"

"Good night, tai-pan," Dianne Chen said, coming up to him, her son Kevin—a short, heavyset youth with dark curly hair and full lips—in tow.

Dunross introduced them. "Where's Phillip?"

"He was going to come but he phoned to say he was delayed. Well, good night..." Dianne smiled and so did Kevin and they headed for the door, Casey and Orlanda wide-eyed at Dianne's jewellery.

"Well, I must be off too," Dunross said.

"How was your table?"

"Rather trying," Dunross said with his infectious laugh. He had eaten with the MPs—with Gornt, Shi-ten and his wife at the Number One table—and there had been sporadic angry outbursts above the clatter of plates. "Robin Grey's rather outspoken, and ill-informed, and some of us were having at him. For once Gornt and I were on the same side. I must confess our table got served first so poor old Shi-teh and his wife could flee. He took off like a dose of salts fifteen minutes ago."

They all laughed with him. Dunross was watching Marlowe. He wondered if Marlowe knew that Grey was his brother-in-law. "Grey seems to know you quite well, Mr. Marlowe."

"He has a good memory, tai-pan, though his manners are off."

"I don't know about that, but if he has his way in Parliament God help Hong Kong. Well, I just wanted to say hello to all of you." He smiled at Bartlett and Casey. "How about lunch tomorrow?"

"Fine," Casey said. "How about coming to the V and A?" She noticed Gornt get up to leave on the opposite side of the room and she wondered again who would win. "Just before dinner Andrew was say—"

Then, with all of them, she heard faint screams. There was a sudden hush, everyone listening. "Fire!"

"Christ, look!" They all stared at the dumbwaiter. Smoke was pouring out. Then a small tongue of flame.

A split second of disbelief, then every one jumped up. Those nearest the main staircase rushed for the doorway, crowding it, as others took up the shout. Bartlett leapt to his feet and dragged Casey with him. Mata and some of the guests began to run for the bottleneck. "Hold it!" Dunross roared above the noise. Everyone stopped. "There's plenty of time. Don't hurry!" he ordered. "There's no need to run, take your time! There's no danger yet!" His admonition helped those who were overly frightened. They started easing out of the crammed doorway. But below, on the staircases, the shouts and hysteria had increased.

Not everyone had run at the first cry of danger. Gornt hadn't moved. He puffed his cigar, all his senses concentrated. Havergill and his wife had walked over to the windows to look out. Others joined them. They could see crowds milling around the main entrance two decks below. "I don't think we need to worry, my dear," Havergill said. "Once the main lot are out we can follow at leisure."

Lady Joanna, beside them, said, "Did you see Biltzmann rush off? What a berk!" She looked around and saw Bartlett and Casey across the room, waiting beside Dunross. "Oh, I'd've thought they'd've fled too."

Havergill said, "Oh come on, Joanna, not all Yankees are cowards!"

A sudden shaft of flame and thick black smoke poured out of the dumbwaiter. The shouting to hurry up began again.

On the far side of the room nearer the fire, Bartlett said hastily, "Ian, is there another exit?"

"I don't know," Dunross said. "Take a look outside. I'll hold the fort here." Bartlett took off quickly for the exit door to the half deck and Dunross turned to the rest of them. "Nothing to worry about," he said, calming them and gauging them quickly. Fleur Marlowe was white but in control, Casey stared in shock at the people jamming the doorway, Orlanda petrified, near breaking. "Orlanda! It's all right," he said, "there's no danger..."

On the other side of the room Gornt got up and went nearer to the door. He could see the crush and knew that the stairs below would be jammed.

Shrieks and some screams added to the fear here but Sir Charles Pennyworth was beside the doorway trying to get an orderly withdrawal down the stairs. More smoke billowed out and Gornt thought, Christ almighty, a bloody fire, half a hundred people and one exit. Then he noticed the unattended bar. He went to it and, outwardly calm, poured himself a whiskey and soda, but the sweat was running down his back.

Below on the crowded second-deck landing Lando Mata stumbled and brought a whole group down, Dianne Chen and Kevin with them, creating a blockage in this, the only escape route. Men and women shrieked impotently, crushed against the floor as others fell or stumbled over them in a headlong dash for safety. Above on the staircase, Pugmire held on to the bannister and just managed to keep his feet, using his great strength to shove his back against the people and prevent more from falling. Julian Broadhurst was beside him, frightened too but equally controlled, using his height and weight with Pugmire. Together they held the breach momentarily, but gradually the weight of those behind overcame them. Pugmire felt his grip slipping. Ten steps below, Mata fought to his feet, trampled on a few people in his haste, then shoved on downstairs, his coat half torn from him. Dianne Chen clawed her way to her feet, dragging Kevin with her. In the shoving, milling mass of humanity she did not notice a woman grab her diamond pendant neatly and pocket it, then jostle away down the stairs. Smoke billowing up from the lower deck added to the horror. Pugmire's hold was broken. He was half-shoved into the wall by the human flood and Broadhurst missed his footing. Another small avalanche of people began. Now the stairs on both levels were clogged.

Four Finger Wu with Venus Poon had been on the first landing when the shout had gone up and he had darted down the last staircase and shoved his way out onto the drawbridge that led to the wharf, Venus Poon a few terrorised steps behind him. Safe on the wharf, he turned and looked back, his heart pounding, his breathing heavy. Men and women were stumbling out of the huge ornate doorway onto the jetty, some flames coming out of portholes near the waterline. A policeman who had been patrolling nearby ran up, watched aghast for a moment, then took to his heels for the nearest telephone. Wu was still trying to catch his breath when he saw Richard Kwang and his wife rush out pell-mell. He began to laugh and felt much better. Venus Poon thought the people looked very funny too. Onlookers were collecting in safety, no one doing anything to help, just gawking—which is only right, Wu thought in passing. One must never interfere with the decisions of the gods. The gods have their own rules and they decide a human's joss. It's my joss to escape and to enjoy this whore tonight. All gods help me to maintain my Imperial Iron until she screams for mercy.

"Come along, Little Mealy Mouth," Four Fingers said with a cackle, "we can safely leave them to their joss. Time's wasting."

"No, Father," she said quickly. "Any moment the TV cameras and press will arrive—we must think of our image, heya?"

"Image? It's the pillow and the Gorgeous G—"

"Later!" she said imperiously and he bit back the curse he was going to add. "Don't you want to be hailed as a hero?" she said sharply. "Perhaps even a knighthood like Shitee, heya?" Quickly she dirtied her hands and her face and carefully ripped one of the straps above her breast and went near to the gangway where she could see and be seen. Four Fingers watched her blankly. A quai loh honour like Shitee? he thought astounded. Eeeeee, why not! He followed her warily, taking great care not to get too close to any danger.

They saw a tongue of flame sweep out of the chimney on the top deck and frightened people looking down from the three decks of windows. People were collecting on the wharf. Others were stumbling out to safety in hysterics, many coughing from the smoke that was beginning to possess the whole restaurant. There was another shouting crush in the doorway, a few went down and some scuttled from under the milling feet, those behind shrieking at those in front to hurry, and again Four Fingers and other onlookers laughed.

On the top deck Bartlett leaned over the railings and looked down at the hull and the jetty below. He could see crowds on the wharf and milling, hysterical people fighting out of the entrance. There was no other staircase, ladder or escape possibility on either side. His heart was hammering but he was not afraid. There's no real danger, yet, he thought. We can jump into the water below. Easy. It's what, thirty, forty feet—no sweat if you don't belly flop. He ran back along the deck that used up half the length of the boat. Black smoke, sparks and a little flame surged out of the funnels. He opened the top-deck door and closed it quickly in order not to create any added draught. The smoke was much worse and the flames coming out of the dumbwaiter were continuous now. The smoke smell on the air was acrid and carried the stench of burning meat. Almost everyone was crowded around the far doorway. Gornt was standing apart by himself watching them, sipping a drink. Bartlett thought, Jesus, there's one cold-blooded bastard! He skirted the dumbwaiter carefully, his eyes smarting from the smoke, and almost knocked over Christian Toxe who was hunched over the telephone shouting into it above the noise, "... I don't give a shit, get a photographer out here right now, and then phone the fire department!" Angrily Toxe slammed down the phone and muttering, "Stupid bastards," went back to his wife, a matronly Chinese woman who stared at him blankly. Bartlett hurried toward Dunross. The tai-pan stood motionless beside Peter and Fleur Marlowe, Orlanda and Casey, whistling tonelessly.

"Nothing, Ian," he said quietly, noticing his voice sounded strange, "not a goddamn thing. No ladders, nothing. But we can jump, easy, if necessary."

"Yes. We're lucky being on this deck. The others may not be so lucky." Dunross watched the smoke and fire spurting from the dumbwaiter that was near the exit door. "We'll have to decide pretty soon which way to go," he said gently. "That fire could cut us off from the outside. If we go out we may never get back in and we'll have to jump. If we stay in, we can only use the stairs."

"Jesus," Casey muttered. She was trying to calm her racing heart and the feeling of claustrophobia that was welling up. Her skin felt clammy and her eyes were darting from the exit to the doorway and back again. Bartlett put an arm around her. "It's no sweat, we can jump anytime."

"Yes, sure, Linc." Casey was holding on grimly. "You can swim, Casey?" Dunross asked. "Yes. I... was caught in a fire once. Ever since then I've been frightened to death of them." It was a few years before when her little house in the Hollywood Hills of Los Angeles was in the path of one of the sudden summer conflagrations and she had been bottled in, the winding canyon road already burning below. She had turned on all the water sprinklers and begun to hose the roof. The clawing heat of the fire had reached out at her. Then the fire had crested, jumping from the top of one valley to the opposite side, to begin burning down both sides toward the valley floor, whipped by hundred-mile-an-hour gusts self-generated by the fire. The roaring flames obliterated trees and houses, came closer and there was no way out. In terror, she kept the hose on her roof. Cats and dogs from the homes above fled past her and one wild-eyed Alsatian cowered in the lee of her house. The heat and the smoke and the terror surrounded her and it went on and on but this part of the fire stopped fifty feet from her boundary. For no reason. Above, all the houses on her street had gone. Most of the canyon. A swath almost half a mile wide and two long burned for three days in the hills that bisected the city of Los Angeles.

"I'm all right, Linc," she said shakily. "I... I think I'd rather be outside than here. Let's get the hell out of here. A swim'd be great."

"I can't swim!" Orlanda was trembling. Then her control snapped and she got up to rush for the stairs.

Bartlett grabbed her. "Everything's going to be all right. Jesus, you'll never make it that way. Listen to the poor bastards down there, they're in real trouble. Stay put, huh? The stairs're no good." She hung on to him, petrified. "You'll be all right," Casey said compassionately. "Yes," Dunross said, his eyes on the fire and billowing smoke. Marlowe said, "We, er, we're really in very good shape, tai-pan, aren't we? Yes. The fire's got to be from the kitchens. They'll get it under control. Fleur, pet, there'll be no need to go over the side."

"It's no sweat," Bartlett assured him. "There's plenty of sampans to pick us up!"

"Oh yes, but she can't swim either."

Fleur put her hand on her husband's arm. "You always said I should learn, Peter."

Dunross wasn't listening. He was consumed with fear and trying to dominate it. His nostrils were filled with the stench of burning meat that he knew oh so well and he was near vomiting. He was back in his burning Spitfire, shot out of the sky by a Messerschmitt 109 over the Channel, the cliffs of Dover too far away, and he knew the fire would consume him before he could tear the jammed and damaged cockpit canopy free and bail out, the horror-smell of scorching flesh, his own, surrounding him. In terror he smashed his fist impotently against the Perspex, his other beating at the flames around his feet and knees, choking from the acrid smoke in his lungs, half blinded. Then there was a sudden frantic roar as the cowl ripped away, an inferno of flames surged up and surrounded him and somehow he was out and falling away from the flames, not knowing if his face was gone, the skin of his hands and feet, his boots and flying overalls still smoking. Then the shuddering nauseating jerk as his chute opened, then the dark silhouette of the enemy plane hurtled toward him out of the sun and he saw the machine guns sparking and a tracer blew part of his calf away. He remembered none of the rest except the smell of burning flesh that was the same then as now.

"What do you think, tai-pan?"

"What?"

"Shall we stay or leave?" Marlowe repeated.

Casey smiled at him hesitantly. "These fires happen often?"

"Not here, but they do in Hong Kong, I'm afraid. Our Chinese friends don't care much about fire regulations..."

It was still only a few minutes since the first violent gust of fire had swirled up in the kitchen but now the fire had a full hold there and, through the access of the dumbwaiter, a strong hold on the central sections of the three decks above. The fire in the kitchen blocked half the room from the only staircase. Twenty terrified men were trapped on the wrong side. The rest of the staff had fled long since to join the heaving mass of people on the deck above. There were half a dozen portholes but these were small and rusted up. In panic one of the cooks rushed at the flaming barrier, screamed as the flames engulfed him, almost made it through but slipped and kept on screaming for a long while. A petrified moan burst from the others. There was no other escape possibility.

The head chef was trapped too. He was a portly man and he had been in many kitchen fires so he was not panicked. His mind ranged all the other fires, desperately seeking a clue. Then he remembered. "Hurry," he shouted, "get bags of rice flour... rice... hurry!" The others stared at him without moving, their terror numbing them, so he lashed out and smashed some of them into the storeroom, grabbed a fifty-pound sack himself and tore the top off. "Fornicate all fires hurry but wait till I tell you," he gasped, the smoke choking and almost blinding him. One of the portholes shattered and the sudden draught whooshed the flames at them. Terrified they grabbed a sack each, coughing as the smoke billowed.

"Now!" the head chef roared and hurled the sack at the flaming corridor between the stoves. The sack burst open and the clouds of flour doused some of the flames. Other sacks followed in the same area and more flames were swallowed. Another barrage of flour went over the flaming benches, snuffing them out. The passage was momentarily clear. At once the head chef led the charge through the remaining flames and they all followed him pell-mell, leaping over the two charred bodies, and gained the stairs at the far side before the flames gushed back and closed the path. The men fought their way up the narrow staircase and into the partial air of the landing, joining the milling mob that pushed and shoved and screamed and coughed their way through the black smoke into the open.

Tears streamed from most faces. The smoke was very heavy now in the lower levels. Then the wall behind the first landing where the shaft of the dumbwaiter was began to twist and blacken. Abruptly it burst open, scattering gargoyles, and flames gushed out. Those on the stairs below shoved forward in panic and those on the landing reeled back. Then, seeing they were so close to safety, the first ranks darted forward, skirting the inferno, jumping the stairs two at a time. Hugh Guthrie, one of the MPs, saw a woman fall. He held on to the bannister and stopped to help her but those behind toppled him and he fell with others. He picked himself up, cursing, and fought a path clear for just enough time to drag the woman up before he was engulfed again and shoved down the last few stairs to gain the entrance safely.

Half the landing between the lower deck and the second deck was still free of flames though the fire had an unassailable hold and was fueling itself. The crowds were thinning now though more than a hundred still clogged the upper staircases and doorways. Those above were milling and cursing, not being able to see ahead.

"What's the holdup for chrissake...."

"Are the stairs still clear...?"

"For chrissake get on with it...."

"It's getting bloody hot up here..."

"What a sodding carve-up...."

Grey was one of those trapped on the second-deck staircase. He could see the flames gushing out of the wall ahead and knew the nearby wall would go any moment. He could not decide whether to retreat or to advance. Then he saw a child cowering against the steps under the bannister. He managed to pull the little boy into his arms then pressed on, cursing those in front, darted around the fire, the way to safety below still jammed.

On the top deck Gornt and others were listening to the pandemonium below. There were only thirty or so people still here. He finished his drink, set the glass down and walked over to the group surrounding Dunross—Orlanda was still sitting, twisting her handkerchief in her hands, Fleur and Peter Marlowe still outwardly calm, and Dunross, as always, in control. Good, he thought, blessing his own heritage and training. It was part of British tradition that in danger, however petrified you are, you lose face by showing it. Then, too, he reminded himself, most of us have been bombed most of our lives, shot at, sunk, slammed into POW jails or been in the Services. Gornt's sister had been in the Women's Royal Naval Service—his mother an air raid warden, his father in the army, his uncle killed at Monte Cassino, and he himself had served with the Australians in New Guinea after escaping from Shanghai, and had fought his way into and through Burma to Singapore.

"Ian," he said, keeping his voice suitably nonchalant, "it sounds as though the fire's on the first landing now. I suggest a swim."

Dunross glanced back at the fire near the exit door. "Some of the ladies don't swim. Let's give it a couple of minutes."

"Very well. I think those who don't mind jumping should go on deck. That particular fire's really very boring."

Casey said, "I don't find it very boring at all."

They all laughed. "It's just an expression," Peter Marlowe explained.

An explosion below decks rocked the boat slightly. The momentary silence was eerie.

In the kitchen the fire had spread to the storage rooms and was surrounding the four remaining hundred-gallon drums of oil. The one that had blown up had torn a gaping hole in the floor and buckled the side of the boat. Burning embers and burning oil and some seawater poured into the scuppers. The force of the explosion had ruptured some of the great timbers of the flat-bottomed hull and water was seeping through the seams. Hordes of rats scrambled out of the way seeking an escape route.

Another of the thick metal drums blew up and ripped a vast hole in the side of the boat just below the waterline, scattering fire in all directions. The people on the wharf gasped and some reeled back though there was no danger. Others laughed nervously. Still another drum exploded and another shaft of flames sprayed everywhere. The ceiling supports and joists were seriously weakened and, oil soaked, began to burn. Above on the first deck, the feet of the frenzied escapees pounded dangerously.

Just above the first landing Grey still had the child in his arms. He held on to the bannister with one hand, frightened, shoving people behind and in front of him. He waited his turn, then shielding the child as best he could, ducked around the flames on the landing and darted down the stairs, the way mostly clear. The carpet by the threshold was beginning to smoke and one heavyset man stumbled, the whole floor shaky.

"Come on," Grey shouted desperately to those behind. He made the threshold, others close behind and in front. Just as he reached the drawbridge the last two drums exploded, the whole floor behind him disappeared and he and the child and others were hurled forward like so much chaff.

Hugh Guthrie rushed out of the onlookers and pulled them to safety. "You all right, old chap?" he gasped.

Grey was half stunned, gasping for breath, his clothes smouldering, and Guthrie helped beat them out. "Yes... yes I think so..." he said half out of himself.

Guthrie gently lifted the unconscious child and peered at him. "Poor little bastard!"

"Is he dead?"

"I don't think so. Here..." Guthrie gave the little Chinese boy to an onlooker and both men charged back to the gateway to help the others who were still numbed by the explosion and helpless. "Christ all bloody mighty," he gasped as he saw that now the whole entrance was impassable. Above the uproar, they heard the wail of approaching sirens.

The fire on the top deck near the exit was building nastily. Frightened, coughing people were streaming back into the room, forced back up the stairs by the fire that now owned the lower deck. Pandemonium and the stench of fear were heavy on the air.

"Ian, we'd better get the hell out of here," Bartlett said.

"Yes. Quillan, would you please lead the way and take charge of the deck," Dunross said. "I'll hold this end."

Gornt turned and roared, "Everyone this way! You'll be safe on deck... one at a time...." He opened the door and positioned himself by it and tried to bring order to the hasty retreat—a few Chinese, the remainder mostly British. Once in the open everyone was much less frightened and grateful to be away from the smoke.

Bartlett, waiting in the room, felt excitement but still no fear for he knew he could smash any one of the windows and get Casey and himself out and into the sea. People stumbled past. Flames from the dumbwaiter increased and there was a dull explosion below.

"How you doing, Casey?"

"Okay."

"Out you go!"

"Sure." Bartlett grinned at her. The room was thinning. He helped Lady Joanna through the doorway, then Havergill, who was limping, and his wife.

Casey saw that Orlanda was still frozen to her chair. Poor girl, she thought compassionately, remembering her own absolute terror in her own fire. She went over to her. "Come on," she said gently and helped her up. The girl's knees were trembling. Casey kept her arm around her.