“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 relied 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?”