The Coming of the Whirlpool

by Andrew McGahan

  He was pushed forward again, and now he found himself standing alone in a cleared space at the centre of the room. All about him the Ship Kings pressed in their pomp and finery, but immediately before him spread a long table at which were seated the most important of the guests and dignitaries; the men magnificent in uniforms of black and gold and the women arrayed in dresses of red and silver, adorned with jewels. Dow felt clad in rags by comparison. Every way he turned he saw only proud faces staring at him disdainfully, and reproving mutters ran through the crowd in an almost angry hum.

  Then there came a loud rapping, for all the world like the rapping of Mother Gale’s cane, and the hum fell away. A man who stood at one end of the long table was banging a tall staff on the floorboards. ‘Dow Amber,’ announced this figure, as silence settled. ‘You stand in the presence of the appointed Governor of all New Island – His Grace, Balba of the Iron Wheel.’

  All eyes turned to a personage seated at the centre of the long table. He was – even to Dow’s humble gaze – perhaps not quite as imposing as his own title, being but a middle-aged man of no great size, and with a bland, fleshy face; but there was a menacing air to him nonetheless, if only because of his glittering uniform and the obedient attention of all those around him.

  The governor, in turn, was studying Dow. ‘A boy, I see,’ he said, in a cultivated Ship Kings accent. ‘The reports spoke rightly, it seems. All this talk through the town over little more than a boy.’

  Dow said nothing, knowing it was no time to dispute the word boy. And he noted finally the person seated at the governor’s right hand: Captain Vincente, plain and dour and all but lost amid the splendour.

  The governor too had turned to Vincente. ‘And it was truly this same lad, Captain, who trespassed upon this very ship?’

  ‘Aye, Your Grace,’ said Vincente calmly. ‘It’s the same lad. Although apparently he is not what I was led to believe.’

  ‘Oh? And what was that?’

  ‘A poor sailor.’

  The governor frowned. ‘That remains to be seen, Captain.’ He returned his attention to Dow. ‘It is a longstanding tradition, New Islander, whenever the fleet comes to Stone Port, that the captain of the flagship should host a banquet in the governor’s honour, and that the entertainment at that banquet should be provided by the governor in turn. For this banquet thus I have summoned you, as my court has been curious these recent days to lay eyes upon so notorious a boy. For their amusement, and indeed for the enlightenment of all Stone Port, you will now explain your actions, and we shall see if they were what some have claimed them to be – or whether appropriate charges should be laid. Chancellor, you may continue.’

  This last was directed to the man with the staff, who bowed graciously. And Dow felt his first serious stab of alarm. Charges? What charges could possibly be levelled against him due to the maelstrom?

  The chancellor addressed him sternly. ‘New Islander, what His Grace would like to know is this – did you deliberately sail your boat into the whirlpool, or did you, out of merest ignorance, become trapped within it?’

  Dow stared back at the man, not sure that he should even answer, so insulting was the question’s tone. But then his gaze alighted on two more faces, at that same end of the table. The first belonged to Lieutenant Diego of the Diamond, who was standing behind a chair and grinning openly at Dow’s discomfort. And seated in the chair itself was none other than the girl. Nell.

  Even at such an inopportune moment Dow found her presence compelling. She was no longer attired in men’s clothes, but rather in a dress, black and close fitting, and yet with long sleeves and a high neckline that exposed little of her shoulders or arms. Even so, the tracery of her scars shone faintly in the candlelight, shifting subtly about her neck as she spoke, for her head was tilted up to say something to Diego as he smiled. Dow hated that smile. And Mother Gale’s words rose hotly inside him. If you’re drawn to her, then it’s meant to be . . .

  He returned his gaze to the chancellor, and answered. ‘I did not deliberately sail into the whirlpool the first time I entered it, but having escaped, I deliberately went back in an effort to save my guardian.’

  ‘An effort,’ responded the chancellor loftily, ‘which conspicuously failed. Or should I say, suspiciously failed. Tell me, Dow Amber, is this the same guardian that you allowed to be flogged for a crime you committed? And yet, we are supposed to believe that you would then risk your life for his!’

  ‘I did risk it,’ said Dow, stung.

  ‘Did you? Did you indeed? It seemed to me, and to many other observers that day, that the old man’s boat would have circled safely about the great funnel for as long as the whirlpool raged, and not have fallen in. That is, until you intervened. Then suddenly both your boat and his were plunged beyond the funnel’s lip – and what took place within was hidden to us all. All we know is this: both of you went in, but only you emerged.’

  The implication was so outrageous that Dow was lost for words. He found himself looking to Vincente. The captain was surely no friend; it was he who had ordered that Nathaniel be lashed, after all – but even on that horrible day Dow had sensed a certain honour and honesty in the man. At the least, a mariner such as Vincente could not mistake what had really happened in the whirlpool, and would know the chancellor’s insinuation to be false.

  And indeed Vincente was leaning back in his chair, staring at the chancellor with obvious distaste. Yet he ignored Dow, and said nothing.

  The governor cleared his throat, then spoke in a tenor of pious regret, ‘A grave matter, Chancellor. And I wonder what the common folk of the town will say, when they hear a true telling of this sad story; that their new-found hero is suspected of foul play towards an innocent old man who had already suffered much for his sake. Foul play, or even perhaps foulest murder.’

  At last Dow understood the true nature of the proceedings. Their new-found hero, the governor had called him, the words oily with contempt. It was exactly as Boiler had warned it might be. The admiration of the Stone Port folk for Dow’s act had angered the Ship Kings. It would not do for a New Islander to be lauded in his own land – especially for a feat of sailing. And so with this concocted accusation, they would blacken his name and cast him in prison.

  Dow knew he should be afraid, but he wasn’t, his anger at the injustice of it was too great. And his indignation only burned the brighter when he glanced at the girl. She had turned to look at him finally, but with no more than a bored disgust, as if she believed without question the ludicrous falsehood being told about him. And behind her, the smiling Diego had raised a heavy crystal goblet to his lips, to sip on a red liquid within. Wine, Dow thought, pointlessly. He had heard that the rich and mighty drank a thing called wine.

  His anger boiled over. ‘Sir,’ he said squarely to the governor, ‘I alone here have dared the maelstrom, and seen what lies at its heart. And only a fool would think that anyone would venture into such a terrible place, merely to attack an old man who was already in the grip of death.’

  But the final part of this statement was barely heard. At the word fool, the room erupted in a storm of shouts and protest.

  ‘Infamy,’ cried the chancellor, hammering his staff upon the floor in an attempt to restore order. ‘Marines, remove this wretch from the governor’s presence. We will transport him to the keep tonight, and he will stand trial for insurrection on the morrow, as well as for murder.’

  There came more shouts, of approval now, the room in tumult. Two marines appeared at Dow’s side and took him by the arms.

  ‘It’s a lie!’ Dow cried, struggling.

  And almost in his fury he broke free. But as he fought, he turned his head just in time to behold, bizarrely, a shining thing whirling in mid-flight towards him. It was a crystal goblet, he realised. He even had an instant to marvel at how thick and solid it looked, and how hard it had been thrown; then it smashed into his forehead, and Dow’s world exploded into white pain.

  Everything was a jumb
le after that; the shouting, the arms pulling him, the ceiling wheeling above, the red film running across his eyes, blurring his vision, the taste of blood on his lips. But he must have been dragged from the great dining room, because suddenly it was much quieter, and a single voice was giving orders in firm but furious tones. Then a jangled blackness descended.

  When Dow came back to himself he was sitting dizzily on a stool in a dim cabin that contained several empty beds. His ears were ringing, and a bandage had been wrapped around his head. A portly man he did not know was seated in front of him, probing at the bandage with testing fingers, and speaking as he did so to someone over Dow’s shoulder. ‘It looks worse than it actually is, of course – scalp wounds always bleed such. I’ve stitched the lacerations. But there’s no doubt he has received a concussion. His eyes are dazed.’

  ‘Balba’s men will be wanting him,’ said the other, and then paused as if to note the sounds that came distantly from above, the hue and cry of the feast still ongoing. ‘Is he fit to travel?’

  The portly man shrugged. ‘They could carry him to the keep if they wanted, but I doubt he could walk there unaided. In any case, I’d like to hold him here. He should be watched overnight at least.’

  ‘They can wait till morning then.’

  ‘Aye. Doctor’s orders.’ Satisfied with the bandage, the man sat back. ‘It’ll give me something to do. There’s no one else on sick call – even with shore leave cancelled. Hard to believe it’s all because of this fellow.’

  ‘If you’re done for the moment,’ said the other, and Dow recognised the voice now, ‘I’d like a word with the lad in private.’

  The doctor nodded and rose. Dow swayed a little on his stool, aware suddenly of just how badly his head throbbed. When he opened his eyes again, Captain Vincente was sitting in the doctor’s seat, studying him.

  ‘You’re back with us, Mr Amber?’

  Dow nodded fractionally, unable to focus.

  ‘My apologies for your head. One of my guests, or perhaps one of my crew, lost control of his temper, it seems.’

  Diego, thought Dow. But said nothing.

  ‘I apologise, too, for the accusations levelled at you by the chancellor. Whatever else may be said, that was a brave riding of the maelstrom, and does not deserve to be denied or slandered so.’

  Dow squinted, trying to see Vincente clear. All very well, but why hadn’t the captain spoken up at the banquet?

  Vincente smiled regretfully. ‘However, in New Island matters I have no authority. This is not a question of trespass aboard my ship. You have drawn the ire of the governor, and his concern is not the justice of your case, but rather the peace and security of all New Island. You threaten that peace and security, Dow Amber, by the very courage of your deed. You have inspired reckless bravado among the townsfolk, so that we have been forced to withdraw our crews from the inns and back alleys, as a precaution lest violence break out.’

  Everything seemed to reach Dow through a blanket. ‘I did nothing wrong,’ he insisted.

  ‘I know, and I would not punish you unfairly for it. But I do not rule here. I am but a visiting captain, and will be gone within days.’

  ‘Then take me with you,’ said Dow, the idea exploding silently in his head and for a moment sweeping away the pain.

  Vincente was startled. ‘Take you?’

  ‘I have no place here anymore. I have no guardian, no home. If I am the cause of trouble, then take me away and the trouble will end.’ It all seemed so simple, so obvious, so right. He would sail away on the Chloe, and escape from prison, from trial, from Stromner, from fishing, from everything . . .

  But the captain was shaking his head. ‘You must be dazed indeed. It’s impossible, even if I wanted to. It’s against all law to take New Islanders aboard our ships, and in any case, the governor has claim to you now.’

  The fantasy withered all in an instant. Dow’s head throbbed nauseatingly, and sleep came stealing over him like a tide.

  Vincente leaned closer to examine him. ‘You are dazed. Enough of this, then. You will rest the night here, under guard of the doctor, then in the morning the governor’s men will take you and I will see you no more. Nevertheless, I feel there is something unanswered about you, Dow Amber. Something hidden. An orphan from the highlands, yet born to sailing it seems, and watched over with perilous care by your elders. Tell me this one thing at least. Why did the innkeeper lie to me that day, and claim that you had no stomach for boats or for the sea?’

  Dow felt so tired now the dangers of this question scarcely perturbed him, and his reply seemed to come from someone else – an invention, and yet, strangely, it may have been something of the truth. ‘The innkeeper is fond of me. His only son died in a fire, many years ago. I think he sees in me the son that died, and would have said anything that day to spare me from harm.’

  ‘Ah.’ A peculiar expression crossed Vincente’s face. ‘Yes, I see. That would explain much, the loss of a loved one before their time . . .’

  And the memory came to Dow, from deep within his fogged mind, that the captain’s wife had died young. For a moment, to his own dull astonishment, he even felt a pang of remorse. But then he was swaying on his seat, too drowsy to stay upright any longer, and Vincente was calling for the doctor.

  Dow woke, thinking he had heard something heavy splash very softly into deep water. For a time he stared at a low ceiling of wooden planks, not knowing where he was, but listening attentively for a further splash. There wasn’t one. There was only the subtle creak and groan of timber, coming from all around him – and from nearby, the sound of someone snoring lightly.

  How strange. He was in a bed, but where was the bed? And why did his head feel all muffled and numb? Of course – the Chloe, the feast, the goblet flying out of the crowd. He raised a hand to his brow and felt at the bandages. He could sense the gash in his skin there, and the stiches, but the awful throbbing was gone. Yes, he remembered now – the doctor had given him a bitter-tasting drink that he’d said would dull the ache . . .

  Dow sat up gingerly and looked about. He was still in the cabin to which they’d carried him after the debacle at the feast – but the feast itself must long have been over, judging by the quiet. It felt like deep night now, the dead hours before dawn. A lamp burned dim on the wall. Sprawled on one of the other beds was the doctor, his round belly rising and falling as he snored. Dow watched a moment, then swung his feet to the floor and stood experimentally. His body felt as light and empty as his head, but there was no dizziness.

  He was listening all the while, a kernel of alertness nagging at him. The splash, and now the silence – was it not quite silence? Was something happening somewhere, just beyond his hearing?

  Dreamlike, he went to the door, slipped the latch, and stepped out into a passage. It was lit by another dim lamp, and deserted. Dow had no recollection of where he was on the ship, but he set off without hesitation, some instinct guiding him. He came to a stairway and climbed to a further passage, at the end of which was another stairway. It ascended to the open air.

  Climbing up, Dow found himself emerging from the stern castle onto the Chloe’s main deck. It was very dark. The lanterns from the feast had all been extinguished, and the night itself had grown overcast. Ahead, Dow could make out two figures moving in the bow, outlined against the glow from the town; guards patrolling with muskets at their shoulders. But they were far away, and the deck was in deep shadow. They did not see him.

  Dow, dreamlike still, crossed quietly to the dock-side rail and looked over. Four more marines stood there by the gangway, all of them staring northward along the wharf as if something that way had caught their attention. Dow stared too, but saw nothing. The whole scene felt increasingly unreal. The silence, the sleeping town, the wharf lamps, the guards standing like statues.

  Was something happening, or wasn’t it?

  He crossed over to the opposite rail and studied the waters of the harbour. They were black and untroubled, glinting here
and there from the town’s lights. He stared straight down to the ship’s waterline, but saw only ripples there, lifting and sinking against the hull. He raised his eyes to the sky. All was darkness, although he fancied that far off on the north horizon there was the dimmest of glows, red and sombre, against the clouds. A wind stirred and faded away.

  What was it?

  He looked leftward at last, beyond the Chloe’s stern, to the long line of ships that extended away behind the battleship. They formed a shallow arc, following the wharf as it curved with the shoreline. His gaze came to rest on the furthermost ship, the Conquest. And as if only waiting for Dow to glance that way, a flame suddenly bloomed at the frigate’s side – a silent, golden flower that opened slowly and extended its shining tendrils across the hull.

  Whump, came a sound across the water.

  Dow stared uncomprehendingly. His first thought was that one of the Conquest’s cannons must have fired a shot for some reason, out into the harbour . . . but no, that was all wrong. The flame hadn’t projected outwards from the ship, it had ignited against the ship, down by the waterline, and now burning tongues were spreading up the frigate’s side. Dow stared an instant longer, then a hungry crackling sound reached him, and at last he understood.

  ‘Fire!’ he called. And even as he did so, ‘Fire!’ called the guards from the bow and from the wharf, and ‘Fire!’ came the call from multiple voices on other ships along the line, and alarm bells began to clang.

  On the Chloe there rose a clamour below decks as the crew stirred. Dow was about to turn away from the rail, but then there came another distinctive whump, and astoundingly a second ship was ablaze at the waterline, the vessel immediately in front of the Conquest, one of the merchantmen. Then, as Dow watched in disbelief, flame blossomed on the hull of yet a third ship – the next of the merchantmen – and another dull whump reached his ears.