Patrick O’Brian 3-Book Adventure Collection: The Road to Samarcand, The Golden Ocean, The Unknown Shore. Patrick O’Brian
about hull-down at this minute. A gentleman by the name of Wu Sankwei, by the cut of his jib.’
There was the sound of a bell inside the destroyer, her screws whirled into violent life, and she shot off in a great curve, leaving the Wanderer rocking in her spreading wake.
‘Perambulating kitchen-stove,’ said Ross, who had just come up from the hold. ‘Why don’t they clean their flues, or at least lie to leeward of a real ship?’ He looked indignantly at the sails, grey from the destroyer’s smoke.
‘She brought us a message from Tchao-King,’ said Sullivan. ‘Professor Ayrton will be there until the end of the month.’
‘Well, perhaps there’s some good in the navy yet,’ said Ross, looking pleased. ‘Did you tell her about Wu Sankwei? He’s got a nerve, coming out after us with no more than a couple of brass nine-pounders: he must have lost what few wits he had.’
The message was particularly welcome. Sullivan had been fretting for weeks about the appointment, but now he knew that even if they made no better pace than they had for the last few days, they would reach the port in time. In the evening he harked back to a subject that he had already discussed quite often. ‘Now listen, Derrick,’ he said. ‘We want you to make a good impression on Professor Ayrton. Get Li Han to cut your hair in the morning.’
‘Okay,’ said Derrick.
‘And don’t say okay.’
‘Gee, Uncle Terry …’
‘And don’t say gee,’ said Ross.
‘We don’t want him to get the idea that we have made a barbarian of you. You must brush your nails, and you must not eat with your clasp-knife. Have you got any gum?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then toss it overboard. I know what they think of gum at Oxford. And try to look intelligent.’
‘Like this?’
‘No. Not like that. No, perhaps you had better forget that: we don’t want him to think you’re sickening for something.’
Just before dawn all the whistling for a wind had its effect, and by the time that Derrick was sitting in the galley having his hair cut, the Wanderer was racing along under all canvas, leaning from the wind so that with every thrust from the following sea her lee rails vanished under the flying spray. The chair slid on the canted deck, and the hair-cutting had proved a tedious and difficult operation.
‘Hope results of Western-style hair-dressing satisfactory,’ said Li Han, anxiously. ‘Should not have made bald patch or cut ear, however. Please excuse.’
‘Oh, it’s okay,’ said Derrick, mopping his bloody ear with his handkerchief. ‘You’re a swell barber, Li Han.’
‘Don’t say okay,’ roared a distant voice.
‘Why not say okay?’ whispered Li Han.
‘Because of my cousin, the one we are going to meet at Tchao-King. It seems that he wouldn’t like it. Li Han, do you know what an archaeologist is?’
‘Archaeology is disinterment of ancient fragments,’ replied Li Han, promptly, ‘and piecing of same together to form harmonious whole. Very learned pursuit.’
‘That’s what my cousin does. He’s a professor of it.’
‘Your cousin a professor?’ asked Li Han, in an unbelieving tone.
‘Yes, of course he is. Haven’t you heard them talking about Professor Ayrton?’
‘Is the same honourable person?’ Li Han dropped his scissors. ‘Excuse please. Would never have cut ear …’
He was obviously deeply impressed, and he at once opened a can of lichees for Derrick. ‘Such face,’ he murmured. ‘Such estimable learning. Such dignity.’
‘How would you make a good impression on an archaeologist?’ asked Derrick, after thinking for some time.
‘Display intelligent interest, and ask acute ancient questions.’
‘Could you give me an acute question to ask him, Li Han? Just one or two really swell questions that will show him that I’ve already had enough education.’
‘Not knowing, cannot say. Regret lamentable ignorance.’
‘Now you’re really useful, aren’t you, Li Han?’ said Derrick, bitterly. ‘You mean to say you don’t know a thing about archaeology, and you a sea-cook? Some of your hashes have been pretty ancient fragments, all right. You ought to know the subject backwards.’
‘If I had inestimable privilege of serving worthy learned gentleman,’ said Li Han, with a sigh, ‘or even of beholding erudite face, it would be different. But, alas, sea-cook confined to maritime tossing existence is condemned to dog-like ignorance.’
‘Olaf,’ said Derrick, going for’ard to where the Swede was sitting on the well-deck, tying a beautiful turk’s-head at the end of a short length of rope, ‘Olaf, if you wanted to impress an archaeologist, how would you set about it? I want some right good advice, now.’
The big Swede scratched his head and closed his eyes with the effort of thinking. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘Impress, eh? An archaeologist, huh? Well, Ay reckon Ay would strike him just behind the shoulder with a twenty-four pound harpoon. Strike hard and fast, not too far back, see? My old man, he chanced on one of them things north-east of Spitzbergen in the fall of, lemme t’ink, 1897 was it, or 1898? Yes, Ay reckon it was 1898. It chawed up his long-boat something horrible, but they got fifty-three barrels of oil out of it.’
‘Olaf, you’re wrong. An archaeologist is a person who digs for ancient things.’
‘No. Ay ain’t mistaken, son. It’s a fish, it is, rather smaller nor a fin-whale, but mighty dangerous, and you don’t want to strike it too far back.’
‘Well, I’ve got to make a good impression on one, anyway.’
‘Hum. You watch your step, then. This one Ay talk about, he chawed up a long-boat, like I told you. Chawed it up,’ he repeated, gnashing his jaws, ‘just like that.’
‘What’s that rope’s-end for, Olaf?’ asked Derrick, changing the subject.
‘That’s for you, son,’ said Olaf, with a happy smile. ‘The Old Man, he told me to pick out a nice whippy piece. “Put a right good knot in it, Olaf,” he says. “I’ll learn the young – to talk proper,” he says.’
‘Is that what Uncle Terry said, Olaf?’ asked Derrick, turning pale.
‘His very words. “I’ll larrup him,” he says. “I’ll learn him to talk barbarious,” he says. “And when I’m tired, you can take over, Olaf,” he says. He’s going to lay into you like blue murder every time you say gee or okay,’ said Olaf, heartlessly tightening the knot.
‘Why, gee, Olaf, what am I to say?’ cried Derrick, appalled.
‘Well, you can say dearie me, or land’s sake – no, not land’s sake; that’s low. But you could say cor stone the crows. That’s English. I shipped along with a whole crew of Limeys once, and they all said cor stone the crows. There was this German submarine, see? Surfaced off Ushant and shelled us. “Cor stone the crows,” said the Limeys, particularly the Old Man, who was hit by a splinter on the nose. Then Ay rammed the – and the Limeys all stood along the side and said, “Cor stone the crows, Olaf’s rammed the –.”’
‘I never knew you had rammed a submarine, Olaf.’
‘Oh, it was just luck that time,’ said Olaf, modestly. ‘The other ones was more difficult.’
‘You must have been quite a hero in the war, Olaf. Did they give you any medals?’
‘Oh, no. They wanted to make me an earl or a duke or something, but Ay never was one