“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.”