Tai-Pan (37 page)

“Orlov said there was a message from the flagship. For me to come aboard. Can I leave now? I want to see Longstaff about the final details of the land sale. I’d like this job to be well done.”

“Aye,” Struan said after a pause. “I would na’ fire Orlov if I was you.”

Culum flushed. “Oh, he told you, did he? I don’t like him. He makes my flesh crawl.”

“Accept him as the finest captain afloat—be patient with him. He could be a valuable ally.”

“He says he has second sight.”

“He has. Sometimes. Many people have. ‘Blood on your hands’ could mean anything or nothing. Dinna worry, laddie.”

“I won’t, Father. Can I go aboard the flagship now?”

“Aye. As soon as Brock’s left.”

“You don’t think I can keep a still tongue in my head?”

“Some men have a knack of extracting information just by looking at a face. Orlov for one. Brock for another. You’ve changed since you saw the bullion.”

“No I haven’t.”

Struan picked up his shaving brush. “Breakfast’ll be served in twenty minutes or so.”

“How have I changed?”

“There’s a great difference between a young lad who knows he’s bankrupt, and a young lad who knows he’s not. You’ve a wind under your tail, lad, and you can see it from four cables.” Struan began lathering his face. “Have you ever had a mistress, Culum?”

“No,” Culum answered uneasily. “I’ve been to a whorehouse, if that’s what you mean. Why?”

“Most men out here have mistresses.”

“Chinee?”

“
Chinese.
 Or Eurasian.”

“Have you?”

“Of course.” Struan picked up his razor. “There are whorehouses in Macao. Oriental and European. But very few are safe, most diseased. So the custom—do you know about ‘woman disease,’ the French pox or Spanish pox, call it what you will?”

“Yes. Of course. Yes.”

Struan began to shave. “They say that it was first introduced into Europe by Columbus and his seamen, who caught it from the American West Indians. It’s ironic that we call it the French or Spanish pox, the French call it the Spanish pox or English pox, the Spanish call it the French pox. When we’re all to blame. I’m told it’s been in India and Asia forever. You know there’s nae cure for it?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll know the only way to catch it is from a woman?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know about ‘protections’?”

“Yes—yes, of course.”

“Nothing to be shy about. I’m sorry that I was away so much. I would have liked to tell you about—about life—myself. Perhaps you know, perhaps you’re just shy. So I’ll tell you anyway. It’s very necessary to wear a sheath. The best are made of silk—they come from France. There’s a new type made out of some sort of fishskin. I’ll see you get a supply.”

“I don’t think I’ll need—”

“I agree,” Struan interrupted. “But there’s nae harm in having them. In case. I’m na trying to interfere in your life or to suggest you become a rake. I just want to be sure you know certain ordinary things—and that you’re safe. A sheath will prevent the pox. And prevent the girl getting with child, thus avoiding trouble for her and embarrassment for you.”

“That’s against all the laws of God, isn’t it? I mean, using—well, it’s a sin, isn’t it? Doesn’t it destroy the whole point of lovemaking? The whole reason is to have children.”

“The Catholics think so, aye, and the very religious Protestants, aye.”

“You question the Holy Book?” Culum was appalled.

“Nay, lad. Only some of the—what’s the word?—interpretations.”

“I thought I was an advanced thinker, but you—well, what you say is heresy.”

“To some men. But the House of God is very important to me—it has precedence over me, you, everyone, even The Noble House.” Struan continued to shave. “It’s custom out here to have your own girl. For yoursel’ alone. You keep her, pay her bills, provide her with food and clothes, a servant and so on. When you nae longer want her, you give her some money and dismiss her.”

“Isn’t that pretty callous?”

“Yes—if it’s done without face. Usually the little money, on our standards, you give her is more than enough to provide the girl with a dowry and find her a fine husband. The selecting of the girl is done very gracefully. You do it through a ‘broker’—a matchmaker—and it’s all according to ancient Chinese custom.”

“Isn’t that slavery? Of the worst kind?”

“If your idea is to buy a slave, aye, and you treat her like a slave. What do you do when you indenture a servant? Pay some money and buy them for a number of years. It’s the same thing.” Struan felt his chin and then began to relather the patches that were still rough. “We’ll go to Macao. I’ll arrange it for you, if you wish.”

“Thank you, Father, but”—he was going to say, but buying a woman, whore or slave or mistress, is disgusting and a sin—“I, well, thank you, but it’s not necessary.”

“If you change your mind, tell me, lad. Dinna be shy about it. I think it’s quite normal to have ‘appetites’ and nae sin. But beware of houses. Never go to one drunk. Never bed a girl unprotected. Never be forward out here with the wife or daughter of a European—particularly a Portuguese—or you’ll end up very dead, very quickly, and rightly so. Never call a man a son of a bitch, unless you’re prepared to back the words with steel or a bullet. And never, never go to a house that is na recommended by a man you can trust. If you dinna want to ask me or Robb, ask Aristotle. You can trust him.”

Very unsettled, Culum watched his father as he finished shaving with firm, definite strokes. He seems so sure of everything, Culum thought. But he’s wrong—about many things. Wrong. The Scriptures are quite clear—the lusts of the flesh are devil-sent. Love is God-sent, and lovemaking without wanting the child is lust. And a sin. I wish I had a wife. And could forget lust. Or a mistress. But that’s unlawful and against the Holy Word.

“You bought your mistress?” he asked.

“Aye.”

“How much did you pay for her?”

“I’d say that was none of your business, lad,” Struan said gently.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude—to be inquisitive or . . .” Culum flushed.

“I know. But that’s nae question to ask another man.”

“Yes. I meant what does a woman cost? To buy?”

“That’d depend on your taste. From as little as a tael to anything.” Struan was not sorry he had begun this line of talk. Better you do it yoursel’, he told himself, than let others do it for you. “By the way, Culum. We’ve never settled your salary. You start at fifty guineas a month. That’ll be almost pocket money, for everything will be found.”

“That’s very, very generous,” Culum burst out. “Thank you.”

“In five months we’ll considerably improve the amount. As soon as we own the land, we’ll begin to build. Warehouses, the Great House—and a house for you.”

“That’d be wonderful. I’ve never had a house—I mean I’ve never had even rooms of my very own. Not even at university.”

“A man should have a place of his own, however small. Privacy is very important to a clear head.”

“Fifty guineas a month is a lot of money,” Culum said.

“You’ll earn it.”

That’s enough to marry on, Culum was thinking. Easily. No whorehouses or stinking natives for him. He remembered with repugnance the three occasions he had gone to the house that the university students favored and could afford. He had had to be half grogged to act like a man and enter the stink-filled room. A shilling to tumble in a sweat-rancid bed with a cowlike hag twice his age. To get rid of the aches, devil-sent, that plague a man. And always the weeks of terror afterward, waiting for the pox to arrive. God guard me from sinning again, he thought.

“You feeling all right, Culum?”

“Yes, thank you. Well, I think I’ll shave before breakfast. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, well—I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“I know.”

“Brock be alongside, sorr,” the seaman said.

“Guide him below,” Struan said. He did not look up from the catalog of lots that Robb had given him.

Culum and Robb felt the tension in the cabin mount as they waited.

Brock stamped in. He smiled broadly. “Ah, it be thee right enough, Dirk. I thought thee be aboard!”

“Grog?”

“Thankee. Morning, Robb. Morning, Culum.”

“Morning,” Culum said, hating the fear that seized him.

“Them clotheses suit thee right proper. Be you becomin’ a seafaring man now? Like your da’?”

“No.”

Brock sat in the sea chair. “Last time I seed yor da’, Culum, he were listing terrible. Sinking he were. Terrible indeed. That be a horrid occurrence—the accident.” He accepted a mug of rum from Struan. “Thankee. By the time I’d doused that godrotting fire wot sprung out of the night like a bolt from the deep and were ready to help him, why, he’d vanished. Spent all night and best part of next day asearching.”

“That was considerate of you, Tyler,” Struan told him.

“I send Gorth last night to inquire after thee. Right proper strange, eh, Culum?”

“What’s strange, Mr. Brock?”

“Why, that that devil midget doan knowed yor da’s aboard. An’ no one be allowed aboard till noon, so I hears. An’ anchoring under the guns o’ flagship—right proper strange.”

“Did Gorth touch the flagpole?” Struan asked.

“Aye. He were proper sad. He sayed it were like putting another nail in yor coffin. He were turrible reluctant.”

Struan passed over a banker’s order—twenty thousand guineas.

“Thankee, Dirk,” Brock said without touching it or looking at it. “But it baint mine. Mayhaps thee’d best give it to Gorth. Or send it aboard. It baint payment to me.”

“As you wish, Tyler. He’ll be at the land sale?”

“Oh, yes.”

Struan picked up the catalog. “The choice marine lots are 7 and 8 to the west of the valley, 16 and 17 in the center, 22 and 23 to the east. Which do you want?”

“You be giving me a free pick, Dirk?”

“There’s enough for both of us. You choose which you want. We’ll na bid against you. Nor you against us.”

“I’d the same thort. That be fair. An’ wise. 16 and 17 of the marine lots and 6 and 7 of the suburban lots.”

“We’ll take marine lots 7 and 8. Suburban lots 3 and 4.”

“Done. And that leave the knoll. You be planning on bidding, eh?”

“Aye.”

Brock swallowed some rum. He could sense Culum’s unease. “The fleet be leaving tomorrow, Dirk. Did thee hear?”

“No. Leaving for where?”

“North. To fight the war,” Brock said sardonically.

“I’d forgotten about the war,” Struan said with a short laugh. “To stab at Peking again? In winter?”

“Yes. Our leaders be ordering ’em north. Yor lackey’s cannon balls in his head. I beared the admiral screamed, but Longstaff just ranted, ‘North, by God, you be ordered north! We’ll teach the heathen treaty-breaking scum! Teach ’em a proper lesson!’”

“They will na go north.”

“With thee back, mayhaps not. It be a sorry state when the likes o’ Longstaff’s Tai-Pan. Ridikilus. An’ when the likes o’ you’ve his godrotting ear. When we’ve to rely on thee t’save our fleet.” He cleared his throat noisily, then sniffed the air. “There be a right proper strange smell aboard.”

“Oh?”

“Smells like bullion. Aye, bullion to be sure.” Brock shot a glance at Culum. “So you baint bankrupt, be you, lad?”

Culum said nothing, but the blood soared into his face.

Brock grunted. “I smelled it when thee anchored, Dirk. Why, even when thee come into harbor. So thee doan sink and thee’ve brass to pay and I be beat again.”

“When are the notes due?”

“Today, as thee well knowed.”

“Do you want to extend the time?”

“Weren’t for the lad’s face, an’ all aboard, I’d ask meself if you was bluffing. That mayhaps the bullion weren’t in yor hold. But I knowed better. It be writ in every face on board ’cepting yourn—and Robb’s. I’ll take yor banker’s draft today, by God. No credit.”

“After the land sale, we’ll settle.”

“Before. Aye, before. Thee’d better be clean o’ debts afore you bid,” he said, his eye glittering, his anger surfaced. “Thee beat me again, God curse you and the devil you serve to hell! But the knoll be mine. It be mine.”

“It belongs to The Noble House. Na to the second-best.”

Brock got up, his fists clenched. “I’ll spit on yor grave yet, by God.”

“I’ll spit on your house from my knoll, by God, before sunset!”

“Mayhaps there hain’t enough treasure in Asia to pay the price, by God! Good day to you.”

Brock stormed off, the sound of his seaboots clattering up the gangway.

Culum wiped the sweat off his hands.

“The knoll’s trapped you, Dirk. He’ll stop bidding and ruin us,” Robb said.

“Yes, Father. I know he will.”

Struan opened the cabin door. “Steward!”

“Yus, sorr!”

“Mr. Cudahy on the double!”

“Yus, sorr.”

“Listen, Dirk,” Robb said. “Here’s your chance. Do to him what’s he’ll do to you. Stop bidding suddenly. Leave him holding the mess. Then he’s ruined. 
He
 is! Not 
us!”

Struan said nothing. There was a knock and Cudahy hurried in.

“Yes, sirr?”

“Get the cutter alongside. Tell the bosun to take Mr. Robb and Mr. Culum to 
Thunder Cloud.
 Wait for Mr. Culum and take him to the flagship. Then report back here. All hands on deck and aft!”

Cudahy closed the door again.

“Father, Uncle’s right. For the love of God, don’t you see that that damn pirate has you trapped?”

“Then we’ll have to see if the love of God will get us out of the trap. It’s a matter of face!”

“Dirk,” Robb pleaded, “will you not listen to reason?”

“Sarah wants you aboard. Nae word of the bullion yet. And, Culum, lad, if Longstaff asks about me, just say I’m aboard. Nothing more.”

“Dirk, here’s your one chance—”

“You’d better hurry, Robb. Give my best wishes to Sarah and the children.” He returned to the pile of papers on his desk.

Robb knew it was useless to argue further and left without another word. Culum followed, sick at heart. He knew nothing would change his father—or Brock; that The Noble House was committed to a worthless hillock on a worthless rock. Stupid, he shouted to himself. Why is Father so damned stupid?