The moral qualities of the Celt are poor, being characterized by idleness and resignation. Towards foreigners he is clannish and habitually secretive, preferring to converse in his own primitive tongue (instance: Manx) though he may be perfectly capable of speaking in English.
In conclusion, the Celt has his place at the lowest station within the European Division. This is indicated not only by his physical and moral qualities but also in his dismal history, which is typified by disorder, disunity and decline. It may be assumed that within the womb the development of the Celtic embryo is arrested after no more than thirty-six weeks, or a full three weeks sooner than the Saxon.
The Norman Type
The Norman (instance: priesthood, aristocracy and monarchy of England) is similar in physique to the Saxon, though on close examination he will be found to be slighter and altogether lacking in the latter’s rugged hardiness. His complexion is pale, and his hair often inclines to reddishness. His facial shape is typically long and narrow, indicating arrogance. Cranial type: D.
The character of the Norman is one of decline. He has ever relied on inherited advantage, a state of affairs dating back to the lucky accident of conquest. He is idle and lacking in any spirit of industry or application. Likewise he is prone to weaknesses from which sturdier types would not suffer (instance: seasickness). He is entirely without creative talents.
The morality of the Norman is poor, being typified by concealed selfishness. His dominating characteristic is cunning. He strives to maintain himself at an exalted station within society through scheming manipulation with others of his race. Any display of moral purpose will be fabrication. The Norman is, most of all, of a parasitical nature, feeding upon the simple kindliness of nobler types.
In conclusion, the Norman place is hardly higher than the Celt within the European Division. The development of the Norman embryo can be assumed to be arrested after thirty-seven weeks, or two weeks fewer than the Saxon. The Norman’s enduring control of that triple curse of Aristocracy, Priesthood and Monarchy can be ascribed not to his ability but to the great abhorrence, among his Saxon subjects, of any form of disorder.
Timothy Renshaw AUGUST 1857
SO THERE WE WERE, stood on the deck in the hot sun, waiting for the wondrous joy of Wilson’s sermon. The one consolation was that at least there would be something to keep my eyes occupied while the old goat stuttered on. The lookout had called out the news just an hour or two before, with a great shout of ‘‘Land ho.’’ It was hard to see what he was crowing about at first, the day being so hazy, and only when I screwed up my eyes tight could I make out a faint line just above where the horizon should be. With time, though, the line grew darker and easier to catch until, quite suddenly, it turned itself into a good-sized piece of land, not even very far away, with cliffs and hills.
It might not sound much to anyone spoilt for solid ground, I dare say, but after all those weeks without anything to look upon except wind and water and seabirds, it was as welcome as could be. Others may like the thought of sitting aboard some ship for months at a time, but not me, and I would have given more than a little to be magicked to Haymarket, for a drop of fine liquor and perhaps a little intimate company from the wrong kind of female.
The company I had could hardly have been more different. It seemed ever to be my fate to be surrounded by people who thought they knew every answer. My parents, and my brother Jeremy too, were always ready to deliver a disapproving lecture upon the virtue of hard work and my need to improve myself, while my fellow expedition members delighted in exactly the same game. The one point upon which they seemed agreed, indeed, was that I was lazy and foolish and should be treated as their junior. Wilson was the worst, and was forever making scornful remarks as to my reluctance to raise myself from sleep at the hour of dawn.
It was not as if I had even wanted to come on this voyage.
‘‘A little hardship should knock some sense into you,’’ my father had promised kindly.
My mother was not to be outdone. ‘‘It is our hope that it may also help you gain a greater sense of the spiritual.’’
All I had gained till now was a greater sense of boredom. Six weeks we had been sailing, and still we were hardly started. I had long read the few books I had brought, and read them once again. I would have borrowed more, but Wilson had only the driest tomes, either theological or geological, while Potter had brought no books at all, seeming content to scribble his endless notes. I even tried to pass time by making friends with the Manxmen, but with no great success. They might join me in smoking a pipe or two, but they would always keep themselves a little distant, and would suddenly break into Manx among themselves, as if to discourage me from remaining too long.
Land was a welcome enough sight, certainly. I wondered how many days I would have still to wait before I might stride into Kingston, and be free of my tiresome colleagues.
‘‘So which of the Indies is this?’’ I asked the Captain as we regarded the new shore. I was hoping it might be Jamaica itself
Kewley, rather to my surprise, seemed not greatly interested. ‘‘One of them, I dare say.’’
‘‘D’you think we shall make land today?’’ asked the vicar.
‘‘I very much doubt it.’’
Wilson looked even pleased. All he seemed to care about was that nothing should interfere with his sermonizing. All day he had been busy thinking up new ways to make a nuisance of himself clucking and fussing. His chief demand had been that a temporary stand be created on the quarterdeck, so he could play the giant parson at everyone. As if he were not bothersome enough already. ‘‘I’m simply concerned,’’ he told Kewley, pressing his hands tight together as if he were trying to squeeze out some kind of juice, ‘‘that the men may not be able to hear me clearly.’’
The Captain, to be fair, did not give up without a fight. ‘‘They hear me well enough.’’
‘‘It would seem hardly fitting for the word of God to be bellowed out like some shipboard order,’’ answered Wilson, twittering at his little joke. ‘‘Surely it would be possible to devise some temporary arrangement, perhaps made from a few of the cases containing our stores?’’ Next he gave his toothy smile, which, in my experience indicated he was getting ready to stab. Nor was I mistaken. ‘‘Unless, that is, you feel your men should not benefit from a little Christian instruction.’’
There it was, the vicar’s killing thrust. Kewley could hardly protest further without making himself look like some Antichrist. He frowned at the sea, knowing himself beaten, then grumbled assent.
Wilson beamed. ‘‘I’ll just need four of your men. It won’t take them a moment.’’
Potter had sat himself on a coil of rope just below the quarterdeck, writing in his notebook and I supposed this was where he planned to remain. The spot was almost out of view from the temporary pulpit, so Wilson would not be able to see if he was listening, while the doctor could never be accused of hiding away and playing heathen. I was surprised to see him making even this careful concession, in truth, so bad had matters become between the two. There had been times when I had hoped I would have proper hitting fight to watch, especially on that morning when Wilson sat next to the doctor in the dining cabin and started praying for ‘‘all men’’ to ‘‘overcome their petty hatreds and listen to the words of wisdom of their brothers.’’ Potter’s face looked dark with rage. Mind you, he’d given as good as he got, especially at the start, when Wilson had been seasick and Potter had driven him half mad with goading. That was purest Potter. If Wilson would annoy to death with his pushing and twittering, Potter was all quiet danger.
‘‘Oh no, I’m afraid that one won’t do at all. What about one of the cases of champagne?’’ Wilson said this with a touch of sadness, quite as if it were he who would be heaving and sweating crates up the stairs. A champagne case was duly brought and laid beside the others on the quarterdeck, but still he was not satisfied, peering at it from different angles, then having it moved from one si
de to another, only to shake his head again. ‘‘Perhaps one of the ones with cutlery?’’ Finally, though, even he could think of no reasons for fussing and he declared his platform ready.
The Manxmen seemed divided over the question of his service. Some, such as the Captain himself looked none too pleased at this sudden interference in their Sunday, which had previously been a preserve of lounging and pipe smoking. Others, though, appeared content enough, and gathered themselves beneath the quarterdeck, bright-eyed at the treat ahead. I had never seen Wilson at work before and, rather to my surprise, he showed himself to be quite a player, acting out his drama. First he raised his hands in the air to make everyone hushed. Then, when there was no sound except the wind, the birds and the light flapping of the sails, he suddenly changed his mind, shook his head and stepped back down from his platform. For a moment he stood at the rail, cupping his chin in his hand and frowning at the ocean, so we could all observe his state of contemplation, and then, just as some in the congregation were beginning to fidget, at once he clapped his hands together, as if he had found the answer to whatever question that had been annoying him, and he jumped back to his place.
‘‘As you all will know,’’ he declared, ‘‘there is no greater mystery than the sea.’’ Now he leant forward onto an upturned case of portable soup that acted as his lectern, so he could stare at us more thoroughly. ‘‘The sea! The sea! That great wilderness which…’’
It was bad luck for him, there was no denying. Just when he had caught the moment nicely there was a cry from the topmast, ringing out clear in the light breeze. ‘‘Sail. Sail to the northwest.’’
The Captain looked pleased at this chance for a little belittling, and strode straight up onto the vicar’s platform, all but pushing him to one side. ‘‘Teare, bring my telescope.’’ Wilson himself had to smile and look as if he never minded.
This new ship must have emerged from behind a headland of the island, as it was not very far off being easily near enough to be seen from the deck. It was a large schooner, with two triangular sails, both coloured grey. As for direction, it was pursuing a course parallel to our own. His telescope brought, the Captain retired to the rear of the quarterdeck to take a good look.
This time Wilson did not trouble us with another miming act but simply leant forward onto the lectern. ‘‘As all of you will know, there is no greater mystery than the sea. The sea! The sea! That great wilderness which appears to possess…’’
It was not his day. All at once the Captain strode back onto the platform looking fierce, and, without so much as a by-your-leave, bellowed out an order in Manx. Whatever this was, it could hardly have been better calculated to wreck the proceedings. In an instant every member of Wilson’s congregation was dispersed, some scampering up the rigging, others gathering about the base of the mainmast unfastening the ends of ropes. I could not help but wonder if this were a case of deliberate wrecking, a suspicion evidently shared by Wilson himself
‘‘Captain, is this really necessary?’’
‘‘It may be and it may not, but I’m taking no chances with a ship like that.’’ With this mystery Kewley handed his telescope to the vicar.
‘‘It seems an ordinary enough vessel.’’
‘‘She’d be more ordinary still,’’ said Kewley, with too much patience, ‘‘if she carried a flag or two from her masts and had a name and port painted on her prow.’’
Shielding my eyes, I could just make out that the mast was bare and the prow was black and nameless.
Wilson seemed still unimpressed. ‘‘There’s probably some quite harmless explanation.’’
Kewley shrugged. ‘‘Let’s hope so.’’
By now the crew had begun to pull the yards about and China Clucas was turning the wheel spokes, bringing the ship slowly round, until she was veering away from the other vessel. All eyes looked aft. For a moment all seemed well, but then the two grey sails began gradually to change shape, until she was once again aligned behind and parallel to us: a narrow strip of dark woodwork with a great expanse of grey sailcloth stretching out above. For a second or two we all remained silent. Then Brew bellowed to the crew, and they jumped into activity, unfurling more canvas.
‘‘It looks a poor sort of vessel,’’ Potter declared, almost petulantly. ‘‘I’m sure we will outrun her.’’
It was a pleasing thought, but, as matters turned out, well wide of the mark: as I watched, it was soon evident that they were gaining upon us, if slowly, in the light wind. How strange it felt to be stood thus at the rail, among the smells of pitch and wood and damp that were now grown so commonplace, knowing that just a mile or so distant was a vessel filled with strangers, who were hoping to rob, or even murder, us all. It was no catastrophe I had imagined. Nightmares of storms and shipwreck I had had, but never had I thought we might find ourselves pursued by some form of freebooter pirates. I felt my pulse quicken, and yet I found myself also somehow unmoved. I wondered, with some shock, if I was simply numbed, or if I even cared what fate might be awaiting me. Potter also seemed subdued, quite slumping over the rail, and only Wilson had lost none of his spirit.
‘‘Have no fear,’’ he called out to any who would listen. ‘‘I will use all powers to intercede with them. I will beg them to treat us mercifully. I will tell them of our Christian purpose. God will help us.’’
I was, in truth, far from sure his mediation would improve our prospects. Captain Kewley was engaged in more practical measures. He had the crew form a human chain, lowering buckets over the side and then passing them along the deck and up into the rigging, so seawater could be hurled against the sails.
‘‘It helps the canvas catch the wind,’’ Brew explained. ‘‘In a light breeze like this it could make a good difference.’’
How effective an advantage this might be, sadly we never discovered, as within only a few moments our pursuers could be observed doing exactly the same. Their advance upon us seemed undiminished. Borrowing the Captain’s telescope, I could now see their vessel in some little detail, its deck crowded with dark figures. These, a little to my surprise, showed no signs of shouting or working themselves into some frenzy, simply standing thus, unnervingly still. Among them there was a constant glinting, as the sunlight caught bright metal strips by the dozen. Cutlasses?
‘‘D’you think they may be freed slaves?’’ I wondered.
‘‘They cannot be,’’ insisted Potter, suddenly animated. ‘‘Slaves would never show such resourcefulness.’’
Captain Kewley shrugged grimly. ‘‘I can’t see it much matters what their profession was.’’
‘‘Perhaps we should lower a couple of boats and try and haul ourselves out of trouble,’’ suggested the chief mate, Brew.
Kewley shook his head. ‘‘By the time we’ve cleared out the creatures they’d be on us. Besides, the wind looks like it’s freshening again.’’ This was true enough. As he spoke, another gust came, flapping the sails into greater life. Kewley frowned. ‘‘Can we get that cannon going?’’
‘‘We’ve no shot,’’ Brew answered grimly.
‘‘How are we for guns, then?’’
‘‘There’s a couple of old muskets in the stores locker, but I’m not sure they’ll fire.’’
My only surprise was that nobody had thought of it sooner. I suppose we had been so preoccupied with escape that we had hardly been thinking of anything else. ‘‘What about the rifles?’’ I asked.
Suddenly we were all hurrying. It was not until this moment, curiously enough, when something could finally be done, that I felt something like panic. All at once I felt myself seized by a curious clumsiness, bumping my way down the stairway quite as if I were drunk. The case was heavy as a coffin but eventually Potter, two Manxmen and I managed to haul it up to the deck. Kinvig, the little second mate, ripped open the lid with a hook, and we found ourselves staring at six gleaming rifles and a revolving pistol.
Potter frowned at a cartridge as it sat, trembling slightly, between
his fingers. ‘‘I’m sure there was some trick with these. Let me see…’’ He ripped at the greasy paper with his teeth and black powder poured out. When the paper was torn further, the grey nose of a bullet became visible. ‘‘But that can’t be right. The bullet is pointing at the charge.’’
‘‘Perhaps it was made wrongly,’’ I wondered. I tried a cartridge each, fumbling with the paper, but it was just the same. If it was dropped down the barrel powder-first, as it must be for firing, then the bullet would be shot out pointing backwards, which would hardly do. There’s little worse than trying to think through clever puzzles when time’s running short and your mind’s full of fears of being murdered, and it was sorely tempting just to despair and think everything impossible. Glancing back, I could see the men on the sloop’s deck quite clearly now, as they stood regarding us, so still. Most were holding cutlasses, but some had what looked like grappling hooks.
It was Wilson, of all people, who had the answer. ‘‘Wasn’t there something about pouring the powder out and then turning the bullet round?’’
‘‘That was it.’’ Potter emptied the powder into the barrel of his gun, then tried the bullet, which was still wrapped in its cartridge paper. It fitted nicely. Using the spindly ram to press it well home, he raised the gun and aimed it, for some reason, at the mizzenmast. All at once there was a violent report—causing squeals of alarm from the pigs and sheep— and a small cloud of smoke filled the air. As for the mizzenmast, this now had a mightiest hole smashed into it, quite as if it had been punched by some metal fist.
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