“Aye, aye, sorr!”
So the three men made peace with each other. But they all knew in the secret depths of their minds that everything had changed between them. Too much had been said. Soon they would go their separate ways. Alone.
“Thank God you opened the letter afterward, Dirk,” Robb said. “Thank God for the letter. I was feeling terrible. Terrible.”
“And I,” Culum said. “Read it out, Father.”
Struan settled himself in the deep leather sea chair and read the letter to them. It was in Gaelic, dated four months ago, a month after Culum had sailed from Glasgow.
Parlan Struan wrote that Winifred’s life had hung in the balance for two weeks and then she had begun to mend. The doctors could give no reason, other than to shrug their shoulders and say, “The will of God.” She was living with him in the little croft that Struan had bought for him many years ago.
“She’ll be happy there,” Culum said. “But there are only gillies and goats to talk to. Where’s she going to go to school?”
“First let her get very well. Then we can worry about that,” Robb said. “Go on, Dirk.”
Then the letter gave news of the family. Parlan Struan had had two brothers and three sisters and they had all married, and now their children were married and they had children. And too, his own children, Dirk and Flora by his first marriage, and Robb, Uthenia and Susan by his second, had families.
Many of his descendants had emigrated: to the Canadian colonies, to the United States of America. A few were scattered over the Indies and Spanish South America.
Parlan Struan wrote that Alastair McCloud, who had married Robb’s sister Susan, had come back from London with his son Hector to live again in Scotland—the loss of Susan and his daughter Clair from the cholera weighed heavily on him and had almost broken him; that he had received a letter from the Kerns—Flora, Dirk’s sister, had married Farran Ken and last year they had sailed for Norfolk, Virginia. They had arrived safely and the voyage had been good, and they and their three children were fit and happy.
The letter continued: “Tell Robb Roddy went off to university yesterday. I put him on the stagecoach for Edinburgh with six shillings in his pocket and food for four days. Your cousin Dougall Struan has written that he will take him in in his holidays and be his guardian until Robb comes home. I took the liberty of sending a sight draft in Robb’s name for fifty guineas to pay for a year’s room and board and a shilling a week for pocket money. I also gave him a Bible and warned him against loose women and drunkenness and gambling and read out the piece of Will Shakespeare’s Hamlet about ‘neither a borrower nor a lender be’ and made the lad write it down and put it in the cover of the Good Book. He writes with a good hand.
“Your dear Ronalda and the children are buried in one of the plague pits. I am sorry, Dirk laddie, but the law said that all that died had to be buried thus with burning and then with quicklime for the safety of the living. But the burial was consecrated according to our faith and the land set aside as hallowed ground. God rest their souls.
“Do not worry about Winnie. The lassie is truly bonny now and here by Loch Lomond where the foot of God has lain, she will grow into a fine, Godfearing woman. Take heed now: Do not let the barbarian heathen in Indian Cathay take your soul awa’ and lock your door carefully against the evil that breeds in those devil lands. Will you not come home soon? My health is very fine and the good Lord has blessed me. Only seven more years for my three score and ten which the Lord promised but one in four hundred sees these evil days. I am very well. There were bad riots in Glasgow and in Birmingham and Edinburgh, so the papers say. More Chartists’ riots. The factory workers are demanding more money for their labors. There was a good hanging two days ago in Glasgow for sheep stealing. Damn the English! What a world we are living in when a good Scotsman’s hanged for just stealing an English sheep, by a Scots judge. Terrible. At the same assize hundreds were transported to Australian Van Diemen’s land for rioting and striking, and for burning down a factory. Culum’s friend, Bartholomew Angus, was sentenced to ten years’ transportation, to New South Wales, for leading a Chartist riot in Edinburgh. Folk are …”
“Oh my God!” Culum said.
“Who’s Bartholomew, Culum?” Struan said.
“We shared chambers at university. Poor old Bart.”
Struan said sharply, “Did you know he was a Chartist?”
“Of course.” Culum went to the window and gazed at the wake of the ship.
“Are you a Chartist, Culum?”
“You said yourself that the Charter was good.”
“Aye. But I also gave you my views on insurrection. Are you an active Chartist?”
“If I were home I would be. Most university students are in favor of the Charter.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re out here, by God. If Bartholomew led a riot then he deserved ten years. We’ve good laws and the finest parliamentary system on earth. Insurrection, rioting and striking are na the ways to get changes made.”
“What else does the letter say, Father?”
Struan watched his son’s back for a moment, hearing an echo of Ronalda’s tone of voice. He made a mental note to look more carefully into Chartist affairs in the future. Then he began to read again: “Folk are still arriving daily in Glasgow from the Highlands where the lairds are still enclosing the clan lands and taking away the clansmen’s birthright. That blackhearted fiend, the Earl of Struan, may the Lord strike him dead, is raising a regiment to fight in the Indian colonies. Men are flocking to his banner sucked in by promises of loot and land. There’s a rumor that we will have to go to war again with the cursed Americans over the Canadian colonies, and there are stories that war has broken out between those devils the French and the Russians over the Ottoman Turks. Those cursed Frenchmen. As if we haven’t suffered enough over that archfiend Bonaparte.
“It is a sorry state we live in, laddie. Oh, I forgot to mention that plans have been laid for a railway to join Glasgow and Edinburgh within five years. Will that not be grand? Then mayhaps we Scots can band together and throw out the devil English and have our own king. I embrace you and your brother and hug Culum for me. Your respectful father, Parlan Struan.”
Struan looked up with a wry smile. “Still as bloodthirsty as ever.”
“If the earl raises a regiment for India, it may come out here,” Robb said.
“Aye. I had the same thought. Well, lad, if he ever reaches the domain of The Noble House, that regiment will go home headless, so help me God.”
“So help me God,” Culum echoed.
There was a knock on the door and the steward hurried in with the champagne and glasses and tea. “Cap’n Orlov thanks you on behalf of the crew, sorr.”
“Ask him and Wolfgang to join us at the end of the watch.”
“Aye, aye, sorr.”
After the wine and tea had been poured, Struan raised his glass. “A toast. To Winifred, who has returned from the dead!”
They drank and Robb said, “Another toast. Here’s to The Noble House. Maybe we’ll never think or do evil to one another ever again.”
“Aye.”
They drank again.
“Robb, when we get to Hong Kong, write to our agents. Tell them to find out who the directors of our bank were and who was responsible for overex-tending credit.”
“All right, Dirk.”
“And then, Father?” Culum asked.
“Then we’ll destroy those responsible,” Struan said. “And their families.”
Culum felt chilled by the implacable finality of the sentence. “Why their families?”
“What did their greed do to ours? To us? To our future? We’ve to pay for years for their greed. So they’ll pay in like measure. All of them.”
Culum got up and walked for the door.
“What do you want, laddie?”
“The latrine. I mean the ‘head.’” The door closed after him.
“Sorry about what I said.” S
truan sighed. “It had to be done that way.”
“I know. I’m sorry too. But you’re right about Parliament. More and more power will pass to Parliament, and that’s where the big trading deals will be settled. I’ll watch the financing and we can both watch Culum and help him. Isn’t it wonderful about Winifred?”
“Aye.”
“Culum’s got very definite ideas about some things, hasn’t he?”
“He’s very young. Ronalda brought them up—well, she took the Scriptures literally, as you well know. Culum’ll have to grow up sometime.”
“What are you going to do about Gordon Chen?”
“You mean about him and Culum?” Struan watched the sea gulls mewing. “That has to be dealt with as soon as we get back to Hong Kong.”
“Poor Culum. Growing up’s not easy, is it?”
Struan shook his head. “It’s never easy.”
After a moment Robb said, “Remember my lassie, Ming Soo?”
“Aye.”
“I often wonder what happened to her and the bairn.”
“The money you gave her would set her up like a princess and find her a wonderful husband, Robb. She’s a mandarin’s wife somewhere. No need to worry about them.”
“Little Isabel would be ten now.” Robb let himself drift back into the everpleasant memory of her laughter, and the gratification Ming Soo had given him. So much, he thought. She had given him more love and kindness and gentleness and compassion in one day than Sarah had given him in all their marriage. “You should marry again, Dirk.”
“There’s time to think about that.” Struan absently checked the barometer. It read 30.1 inches, fair weather. “Ride Culum very hard, Robb, when you’re Tai-Pan.”
“I will,” Robb said.
As Culum came on deck, China Cloud heeled over and broke out of the channel that the small offshore island of Tung Ku Chau formed with Hong Kong. The ship came swiftly out of the neck of the mountain-dominated passageway into open sea and turned southwest. Another larger island, Pokliu Chau, was two miles to port. A stiff northeast monsoon flecked the waves, and above was the dull blanket of clouds.
Culum picked his way forward, carefully avoiding the neat circles of ropes and hawsers. He skirted the gleaming rows of cannon and marveled at the cleanliness of everything. He had been aboard other merchantmen in Hong Kong harbor and they were all squalid.
The port head was occupied by two seamen, so he clambered over the side into the starboard one. He hung on to the lifelines and, with great difficulty, pulled down his trousers and squatted precariously on the netting.
A young, redheaded sailor wandered up and swung neatly over the gunnel into the head, and took down his pants. He was barefoot and did not hold on to the ropes as he squatted.
“Top o’ the morning, sorr,” the sailor said.
“And to you,” Culum said, holding grimly on to the lines.
The sailor was done quickly. He leaned forward to the gunnel and took a square of newspaper from a box and wiped himself, then carefully tossed the paper below and retied his pants around his waist.
“What’re you doing?” Culum asked.
“Eh? Oh, the paper, sorr? God rot me if I knows, sorr. It be the Tai-Pan’s orders. Wipe yor arse wiv paper or lose two month pay and ten days in the bleedin’ brig.” The sailor laughed. “The Tai-Pan be a right one, beggin’ yor pardon. But she be ’is ship, so you wipes yor bleedin’ arse.” He leaped aboard easily and dunked his hands in a pail of seawater and slopped it over his feet. “Wash yor bleeding ’ands too, by God, then yor feets, or in the bleedin’ brig you goes! Right proper strange. Stark raving … beggin’ yor pardon, sorr. But wot wiv wiping yor bleedin’ ands an’ wiping yor bleedin’ arse an’ bathin’ once a bleedin’ week an’ fresh clothes once a bleedin’ week, life’s a proper bleeder.”
“Bleeder nuffink,” another sailor said, leaning on the gunnel, chomping on a tobacco quid. “Pay in good silver? When it be bleedin’ due, by God! Grub like a bleeder prince? Prize money to boot. Wot more you want, Charlie?” Then to Culum, “I ain’t about to know ’ows the Tai-Pan do it, sorr, but ’is ships got less pox an’ less scurvy’n any on the ’igh seas.” He spat tobacco juice to windward. “So I wipes me arse and ’appy to do it. Beggin’ yor pardon, sorr, if I wuz you, sorr, I’d do the same. The Tai-Pan be terrible fond o’ ’aving ’is orders obeyed!”
“Reef tops’ls and top ta’gallants,” Captain Orlov shouted from the quarterdeck, his voice huge for so small a man.
The sailors touched their forelocks to Culum and joined the men who were climbing into the shrouds.
Culum used the paper and washed his hands and went below and waited for the opportunity to break into their conversation.
“What’s the point of using paper?”
“Eh?” Struan said.
“In the head. Use paper or ten days in the brig.”
“Oh. I forgot to tell you, laddie. The Chinese think there’s some connection between dung and disease.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Culum scoffed.
“The Chinese dinna think so. Neither do I.” Struan turned to Robb. “I’ve tried it for three months on China Cloud. Sickness is down.”
“Even compared with Thunder Cloud?” Robb asked.
“Aye.”
“It’s a coincidence,” Culum said.
Robb grunted. “You’ll find a lot of coincidences in our ships, Culum. It’s only fifty-odd years since Captain Cook found that limes and fresh vegetables cured scurvy. Maybe dung does have something to do with disease.”
“When did you last bathe, Culum?” Struan said.
“I don’t know—a month—no, I remember. Captain Perry insisted that I bathe with the crew once a week in Thunder Cloud. Nearly caught my death of cold. Why?”
“When did you last wash your clothes?”
Culum blinked at his father and looked down at his heavy brown woolen trousers and frock coat. “They’ve never been washed! Why should they be washed?”
Struan’s eyes glinted. “From now on, ashore or afloat, you bathe your whole body once a week. You use paper and wash your hands. You have your clothes washed once a week. You drink nae water, only tea. And you brush your teeth daily.”
“Why? No water? That’s madness. Wash my clothes? Why, that’ll make them shrink and spoil the cut and goodness knows what!”
“That’s what you’ll do. This is the Orient. I want you alive. And well. And healthy.”
“I will not. I’m not a child or one of your seamen!”
“You’d better do as your father says,” Robb said. “I fought him too. Every new idea he tried. Until he proved that these things worked. Why, no one knows. But where people have died like flies, we’re fit.”
“You’re not at all,” Culum said. “You told me you’re sick all the time.”
“Yes. But that goes back years. I never believed your father about water, so I kept drinking it. Now my guts bleed and they’ll always bleed. It’s too late for me, but, by God, I wish I’d tried. Perhaps I’d be without gutrot. Dirk never drinks water. Only tea.”
“That’s what’s the Chinese do, lad.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Well, while you’re finding out the truth or na,” Struan snapped, “you’ll obey those orders. Those are orders.”
Culum’s chin jutted. “Just because of some heathen Chinese customs, I have to change my whole way of life. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m prepared to learn from them. Aye. I’ll try anything to keep my health, and so will you, by God.” Struan let out a bellow. “Steward!”
The door opened. “Aye, aye, sorr.”
“Get a bath ready for Mr. Culum. In my cabin. And fresh clothes.”
“Aye, aye, sorr.”
Struan walked across the cabin, towering over Culum. He examined his son’s head. “You’ve lice in your hair.”
“I don’t understand you at all!” Culum burst out. “Everyone’s got lice. Lice are
with us whether we like it or not. You scratch a little and that’s an end to it.”
“I dinna have lice, nor does Robb.”
“Then you’re peculiar. Unique.” Culum took an irritable swallow of champagne. “Bathing is a stupid risk to health, as everyone knows.”
“You stink, Culum.”
“So does everyone,” Culum said impatiently. “Why else do we always carry pomades? Stinking is a way of life, too Lice are a curse of people, and that’s the end of it.”
“I dinna stink, nor does Robb and his family, nor do my men, and our health’s the best in the Orient. You’ll do as you’re told. Lice are na necessary and neither is stink.”
“Best you go to London, Father. That’s the biggest stink in the world. If people hear you go on about lice and stink, they’ll think you mad.”
Father and son glared at each other. “You’ll obey orders. You’ll clean yoursel’, by God, or I’ll get the bosun to do it for you. On deck!”
“Do it, Culum,” Robb interceded. He could feel Culum’s resentment and Struan’s inflexibility. “What does it matter? Compromise. Try it for five months, eh? If you don’t feel better yourself by that time, then go back to the usual way.”
“And if I refuse?”
Struan glowered down at him implacably. “I cherish you, Culum, beyond my own life. But certain things you’ll do. Else I’ll treat you like a disobedient seaman.”
“How’s that?”
“I’ll tow you behind the ship for ten minutes and wash you that way.”
“Instead of giving orders,” Culum burst out indignantly, “why don’t you just say ‘please’ occasionally?”
Struan laughed outright. “By God, you’re right, lad.” He thumped Culum on the back. “Will you please do what I ask? By God, you’re right. I’ll say ‘please’ more often. And dinna worry about clothes. We’ll get you the best tailor in Asia. You need more clothes anyway.” Struan glanced at Robb. “Your tailor, Robb?”
“Yes. As soon as we’re settled in Hong Kong.”
“We’ll send for him tomorrow to come from Macao, with his staff. Unless he’s already in Hong Kong. For five months, lad?”
“All right. But I still think it’s peculiar.” Struan refilled their glasses.
Tai-Pan Page 25
