English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  It was too easy. Fire stick was stuck in the ground, but stupidly, so gum tree leaves were not far above. I looked but others weren’t watching. For a time I just stood there, pondering. Then gently I moved that branch till fire took it.

  That was all it did need.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Timothy Renshaw AUGUST–SEPTEMBER 1857

  THE SURPRISE of nearly being murdered by pirates had a quietening effect on all aboard the Sincerity, myself included, and for a time even Dr. Potter and Mr. Wilson treated each other with something approaching civility. It did not last, needless to say. Once we crossed the equator our vicar began to look restless, and it was then he started praying aloud at first light, which he called ‘‘dawn godliness.’’ That drove me halfway to distraction, as his moaning came straight through the holes in the partition wall, while Potter didn’t look pleased at all. Soon after that there was the business of the mug of tea that was found on the vicar’s Bible, which was answered in turn by a new and longer list of parson’s laws. Even that wasn’t enough for Wilson, and in his next Sunday sermon he insisted on lecturing us about how we must look deep into our hearts and cast out all envy and wickedness, hurling, as he spoke, little saintly smiles in the doctor’s direction. When the sermon moved next to praising the virtue of deference, and saying how it was the God-given duty of those ‘‘of junior station’’ to obey their ‘‘natural betters,’’ Potter’s face turned quite clenched.

  It was that sermon that decided the next course of their little war. The moment it was finished the doctor marched across to Captain Kewley, while Wilson—who had seen his rage—followed just behind. I went too, being curious. Their feud was the nearest thing there was aboard the Sincerity to something happening, while, finding each party quite as annoying as the other, as I did, I suppose it afforded me some faint satisfaction to watch them assail one another.

  ‘‘It occurs to me,’’ Potter began, ‘‘that it might be of interest to the crew if I delivered a few educational lectures, perhaps on scientific matters.’’

  Wilson cut in before Kewley had a chance to answer. ‘‘What a generous thought, Doctor. Though I should say that such a thing would hardly be suitable for the Sabbath, when we prefer to reflect upon the spiritual.’’

  His thinking, I supposed, was that Kewley would not want lectures cluttering up the ship’s workdays, and so Potter’s proposal would be squeezed nicely into oblivion. He was probably right, too. Where he made his mistake was in being so very pushing. A weary look passed across Kewley’s face. ‘‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t have room for his talk as well as yours, Vicar. After all, the doctor’s science is also part of the good Lord’s world, is it not?’’

  Wilson wriggled his best but, I was pleased to see, the Captain would have none of his bullying. So it was that the ship became quite a library of scribbling, as my two colleagues worked upon their discourses like swordsmen sharpening their blades, each casting his face into the most serious expression, as if to demonstrate the superiority of his work over the other’s.

  It was early that same week that the weather began to change. The wind had been blowing strongly until then, propelling us swiftly southwards, and already the sun had begun to lose a little of its strength, its light turning subtly whiter, reminding us that we were venturing towards a part of the world where the season was still late wintertime. On the Thursday the wind backed round from the southwest, feeling suddenly chilly, and troubling the crew with a good work with the sails. Then on the Saturday morning it dropped away to nothing and we found ourselves becalmed, and that night the fog came. By Sunday morning the vessel was encased tighter than a hand in a glove. The light was so dim and the air so still that it felt almost as if we were not at sea at all, but were inside some kind of murky room. When one looked out over the side, the water was visible only for a few yards, while upwards the masts and sails vanished into the whiteness.

  It was around noon that we heard a loud splash off the port bow, sudden and shocking in the stillness. We all hurried to the rail, though we could see nothing but fog. Captain Kewley even called out, ‘‘Ahoy there,’’ but there came no answer. Only when we stood, carefully listening, did we become aware of a sound from the same direction, faint and rhythmic, deep and low.

  ‘‘It’s creatures,’’ said Kewley in a whisper.

  It seemed there were a good number of them, and as we listened their breathing grew slowly louder, until it extended all about the vessel, as if we were in the middle of some huge ocean dormitory. The beasts none of them ventured close enough to be seen, and I could only presume they must be some form of whale or grampus. It may seem foolish and yet I found their invisible presence unsettling, while even the Manxmen, who I would have expected to be used to such oddities, went about their work with furtive looks, speaking in lowered voices, quite as if the huge animals were listening.

  Our two Sunday lecturers, by contrast, seemed little interested, being both far more concerned with the discourses they were to give, leafing hurriedly through their notes, or disagreeing with one another over the construction of the temporary pulpit. Dr. Potter was to speak first. He forwent Wilson’s dramatic preamble, simply marching onto the platform, from where he peered down at us with a serious look. ‘‘My lecture today concerns the process of animal magnetism, that is also known as mesmerism,’’ he declared solemnly, pausing for a moment as one of the creatures produced a faint blowing sound, eerie through the fog, ‘‘and will be concluded with a practical demonstration of this most important process, in which I hope to reveal great secrets of the soul of man.’’

  His intention was, I supposed, to outshine Wilson’s sermonizing, and perhaps to deliver a few stabs along the way. To this end his choice seemed clever enough, mesmerism being a phenomenon of great popularity, which had filled more than a few music halls with eager watchers, delighted by the spectacle of some poor fool believing himself a donkey or bereft of a leg. I was quite intrigued myself, in fact, having never guessed the doctor was a practitioner of such an art. Rather to my surprise, however, the Manxmen seemed little pleased. For a moment I assumed they were still troubled by the presence of the sea creatures, but no, from their looks they seemed to be regarding the doctor with real dislike. I could only imagine they feared some form of joke might be played upon them. Wilson, who was sitting on a coil of rope well away from the proceedings—having insisted that ‘‘sadly’’ he could not listen as he must attend to his sermon—had also observed the crew’s displeasure, and was visibly smirking.

  Potter himself pressed on regardless. The first part of his discourse dealt with something he termed ‘‘the geography of the mind.’’ It was a subject I knew little about, and I found it interesting enough in its way. He asserted that the brain was divided into many segments, almost in the manner of an orange, each of which contained one ‘‘impulse,’’ many of these being a moral quality. These varied no less than human character itself extending from wisdom to a fondness for sweet food, and from anger to a fear of heights. The power of each impetus would alter from one man to the next, and their strength or weakness would, when combined together, define the moral character of each individual. Thus a man with pronounced impulses of bravery and loyalty would make an excellent soldier, while another, who was weak in honesty and strong in greed, would likely fall into thieving. Between different races of men, as the doctor told us, variety was far greater still, as the very structure of the brain would alter. Thus we learned that the Chinese possessed a unique impulse of delight in bright colours, while among savages of Africa there was a complete absence of the impulse of civilization.

  ‘‘It is mesmerism that can unlock these wonders of the mind,’’ Potter explained. ‘‘Each impulse of the brain extends to the skull, and so, once a man is brought into the correct state of entrancement, the different elements of his brain can be made to reveal themselves simply by touches of the operator’s fingers, in a fashion remarkable to behold. It is, indeed, quite as if
one is playing upon the keys of an organ. Press upon the segment of fear and the subject will at once show signs of great alarm, perhaps believing that a fearful chasm has opened up in front of him. Try deceitfulness and his every utterance will be untrue. Touch confession and he will admit to all manner of secrets. Ten minutes of mesmerism can reveal a man far more truthfully than months studying his apparent nature.’’

  Some of the crewmen, I noticed, were showing signs of restlessness, tapping their feet upon the deck.

  ‘‘Mesmerism pays no heed to titles or other grand frippery. Enchant a pauper and you may discover him to be wiser than a lord,’’ Potter continued, undeterred. He cast a sudden glance towards the vicar: ‘‘And a simple butcher’s boy may be found richer in virtue than a priest.’’

  So there was his first stab. Wilson’s smirk vanished and he buried himself in his notes.

  Pleased with this little piece of violence, Potter stepped to the front of the temporary pulpit and peered down through the fog. ‘‘This, I hope, will have made clear the theory behind this most important process. The moment has now come to offer a practical demonstration, so you may see for yourselves, and for this I must ask for the assistance of a volunteer.’’

  I had expected that this might prove awkward and I was not wrong. Potter smiled, and waited, only to find himself answered with a wall of silence. Soon the creaking timbers and water lapping against the ship’s side seemed loud indeed. The doctor looked quite taken aback.

  ‘‘Surely there is somebody?’’ Just as he was beginning to look a touch alarmed, the chief mate raised his hand. Potter broke into a smile. ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Brew.’’

  ‘‘Ah, but I’m not offering,’’ Brew declared, grinning in a way that looked hardly reassuring. ‘‘I’m just asking what’ll happen to the lucky body that does. Will you have him strip himself naked thinking he’s a bunny rabbit?’’

  The crew let go a faint ripple of snickering.

  Potter looked troubled. The very last thing he wanted was for his lecture to be turned into some kind of joke. He attempted to retrieve the mood of seriousness as best he could, assuring us all, with an awkward smile, ‘‘I have not the slightest interest in theatrical games. The fact is that mesmerism, besides being an invaluable tool of science, is also a most natural state in which to enter, being wonderfully calming to the nerves. While some persons are more susceptible than others, I do believe that there is hardly a single man or woman who cannot safely be brought into such a condition.’’

  The Manxmen did not laugh at this little speech, it was true, but none of them volunteered either. So it was that the doctor made the mistake of trying to reassure us further. ‘‘It is; indeed, a process quite as normal and healthy as sleep. Why, there are numerous recorded instances even of animals becoming mesmerized, while in some cases that I…’’

  He got no further. Up went Brew’s hand like a semaphore arm. ‘‘Animals, did you say?’’ He tilted his head to one side, all dangerous innocence. ‘‘Well, there’s a thing, is there not? I wonder, Doctor, could you mesmerize one of the swineys for us then? You know, just so we can see how it’s done.’’

  This brought more than just looks and snickering. Mylchreest, the steward, uttered a curious squeaking giggle and this was enough to unleash all the rest. I will admit I laughed myself, while Wilson turned about on his coil of rope, clearly delighting in the spectacle. As for Potter, he was beginning to look greatly disconcerted. He had intended this occasion to be one when he would revenge himself on his enemy, and instead found himself humiliated before the whole ship, caught in that purgatory between feigned seriousness and open ridicule. It was quite a sight, especially in one who, until now, I had never seen lose command of himself.

  ‘‘I’m not sure that would be useful,’’ he declared, with the stiffest of smiles.

  He would have been wiser just to say a very plain no. As it was, Brew pretended to take his words as some form of encouragement, nodding his head as if in agreement. ‘‘Wouldn’t we all love to see it, though, Doctor?’’ He glanced about him, stirring the rest into agreement.

  ‘‘But I have no experience of any such thing,’’ Potter declared weakly.

  ‘‘Ah, you’re doing yourself down,’’ said Brew, now maliciously supportive. ‘‘A clever fellow like you would manage it easier than kicking.’’

  I believe the doctor would have wriggled his way free even then had it not been for Captain Kewley. Until this moment he had kept aloof from the whole matter, but now he gave the surgeon a sly look. ‘‘Come along, Doctor,’’ he called out in a cheerful voice. ‘‘We ’re far too interested to be put off now. Mesmerize a swiney for us, there’s a good fellow.’’

  Potter threw the Captain a desperate glance, I suppose hoping he might show pity and make a joke of his suggestion, but it was in vain. The rest of the crew were already urging him on with shouts and cheers, and so, with as much enthusiasm as a condemned man strolling to his gibbet, he began making his way forwards through the fog. Wilson left his coil of rope to follow, as did I. Reaching the boat that served as the pigsty, the doctor looked crushed. Why, I would have felt quite sorry for him if I had not had to suffer his company through all those long weeks.

  The reason that a pig had been proposed rather than any other creature was simple enough. We had eaten almost all the rest. All the bullocks were gone, and the chickens too, while of the sheep only one sorry specimen survived. Pigs were usually kept till last, being regarded as the best sailors, and three of the four animals still remained, all berthed in the main boat. As Potter and his audience gathered around this, the poor beasts showed some alarm, cowering and snorting, which was hardly surprising seeing as they had witnessed so many of their fellow animals being taken, one by one, to the front of the vessel and noisily dispatched from this world.

  ‘‘Don’t you go crowding them,’’ the cook, Quayle, protested, seeming the only one displeased by the turn of events. ‘‘I won’t have them upset.’’

  Of the three beasts, two were sows while the third was a male, huge and sagging, with the most disquieting eyes: mournfully alert, as if he understood only too plainly the temporary nature of his situation. Potter stroked his beard, seeming now resigned to attempting the task forced upon him.

  ‘‘The method I will use,’’ he announced cautiously, ‘‘is the same as I have employed upon men, though there is no certainty that it will prove as effective on animals.’’

  It was the male he picked, I suppose because this seemed the most humanlike of the three. He reached out towards the creature, looking it firmly in the eye, and then began passing his hands about its head in a kind of stroking movement, though without ever quite touching its skin. Whether this was part of his technique, or simple avoidance of the mud and worse with which the animal was caked, was hard to know. As for the pig itself it flinched away at first, but then gradually seemed to grow calmer, and after a time appeared even to be quite enjoying the process, meeting the doctor’s mesmerizing stare with a dozy look of its own. Gradually the movements of Potter’s hands extended, until they reached halfway down the creature’s back and he was leaning right into the boat. Then, peering determinedly at the beast, he drew back.

  ‘‘The animal,’’ he announced, suddenly proud, ‘‘is now entranced.’’

  This won a hush of respect, and surprise too. Before the doctor could proceed any further, though, the creature uttered a loud snort and began sniffing among the pieces of muck and old food at the bottom of the boat. Potter ignored the sniggers that followed, now looking serious. It seemed the exercise had now caught his curiosity, causing him to forget his earlier reluctance. ‘‘There is another method that I can try which may prove more suitable to animals,’’ he declared. ‘‘This involves the subject intently staring at an object until entranced.’’

  My curiosity was how the pig would know that he was supposed to stare at anything. In the event, I never discovered. Potter’s mistake, as I see it now, was that he
did not arrange matters before he started. He was too impatient to place the creature once again into a receptive state— which he did with the same stroking and staring as before—and it was only when the animal began to respond, looking dozy, that he troubled himself with what mesmerizing object he would use.

  ‘‘What I now need,’’ he said in a soft voice, never turning from the pig’s small, doleful eyes, ‘‘is something bright and reflective. Anything of polished metal will do.’’

  For a moment the Manxmen looked at one another, uncertain. Then the chief mate, Brew, reached to his waistband. It is possible, of course, that his choice was just accident, but considering the man’s character this seemed unlikely. He passed the object into the outstretched hand and then, as Potter brought this before him, both he and the pig found themselves looking at a long, shining knife.

  The doctor saw the danger at once, pulling the blade back to hide it from the animal’s sight, but it was too late. I had no idea that a pig could make so great a noise. All at once the air became filled with a hideous squealing: a sound of pure, rawest fear. At the same instant he began plunging irresistibly about the longboat, quite like some steam locomotive, with the sows following just behind, their pen rocking violently from side to side, hay spilling into the air like coal dust, and the metal tubs that held their food banging and crashing as they were hurled back and forth. The Manxmen did their best to retrieve the situation, leaning forward with outstretched arms, but the fact is that three pigs in full flight are not easily stopped, especially when they are slippery with mud and dung. The wiser policy might well have been simply to leave the poor creatures be, as every grabbing hand encouraged their panic. Finally, though, the sows were halted, and then China Clucas, the ship’s giant, managed to catch the main beast by its tail, and though all three screeched dreadfully, the scene in the pen began to show signs of greater calm.