by Oisin McGann
She could have been a leaky gondola for all Jim cared. As long as her crew had water and food aboard and got him out of the sea, he’d kiss their feet for the rest of his life if they wanted. The ship’s lookouts spotted the floating field of debris from the Odin two days after the storm. Jim’s voice was failing him by the time the ship drew near enough to hear him. His arms ached from clutching the sea-chest, his body exhausted, his mind confused by salted, water-dazzled eyes and shimmering hallucinations.
Still, he didn’t stop hoarsely calling out until he saw the longboat being lowered and rowed towards him. They handed him a flask of water even as he was hauled into the boat. He drank too much at first, his thirst-shrunken stomach throwing most of it back up.
The day was bright, the sun casting warmth out of a washed-out blue sky, but Jim shivered uncontrollably when he was brought up on the deck of the ship and wrapped in blankets. He was half led, half carried down to the surgeon, who pronounced him ‘remarkably healthy, given the circumstances.”
The captain and second lieutenant joined him in the sick bay, sitting on chairs across from him and introducing themselves as Captain James Wyndham and Lieutenant William Dempsey. They were both dressed in their immaculate Royal Navy uniforms; dark blue jackets with epaulets on the shoulders, worn over white trousers. Their turnout was a stark contrast to the rough and ready clothes worn aboard the whaler. The men were eager to question Jim, but were decent enough to wait until he had drunk his fill of water and eaten two bowls of chicken broth. He was happy to make them wait.
“Best grub I’ve had in months,” he croaked at last in his Liverpool accent. Sitting back in the bunk, he looked up at the officers. “Been livin’ on salt horse and biscuits and tea with molasses for what seems like forever. Gets so you don’t even mind the weevils or cockroaches in ’em—adds a bit of variety.”
“You were on the Odin?” Captain Wyndham asked.
He was a competent-looking man in his fifties, with a pronged moustache and salt-and-pepper hair. His tone was businesslike, but not unkind.
“Aye, sir,” Jim grunted. “Ship went down with all ’ands but me. Twenty-eight good men.”
“You were lucky it was only a summer storm. In winter in these parts, the cold would kill you minutes after you entered the water.”
“Tell that to me gonads,” Jim sniffed. “It’ll be days before they unshrivel.”
“Mind your tongue, m’lad. We don’t stand for foul language on Her Majesty’s vessels. Had you been aboard the Odin long?”
“Me and a bunch o’ lads joined the crew at Boston in April, while the ship was in for repairs,” Jim said. “Thought they were settin’ out for a normal voyage, but Captain Bushnell had plans of his own. Out for revenge for the death of his son, so he was. I’d bet a month’s wages even the owners didn’t know.”
“So what happened?” Wyndham inquired.
Jim told them everything about the Odin’s last day, wondering if they would scoff at his description of the monster. They didn’t bat an eyelid. There were more than enough tales doing the rounds about colossal creatures from the depths—including this one off the New England coast.
“We’ve heard such stories before,” the captain said, nodding. “The loss of a ship is a tragedy under any circumstances, but to be attacked by this … this abomination … its existence is an affront to God. Perhaps, someday, Her Majesty’s Navy will turn its attentions to destroying the beast.”
Lieutenant Dempsey, a muscular-looking man in his forties or fifties with dark skin almost Mediterranean or even Arabic in complexion, framed by black hair and garnished with a clipped little moustache, nodded but said nothing. Jim noticed the man was studying him closely, as if his story was of only passing interest, to be set aside at the earliest opportunity. Captain Wyndham confirmed Jim’s suspicions.
“As it happens, we were in the area, searching for the Odin,” the captain told him. “We have been seconded to the North American Trading Company and have been tasked with finding a gentleman named Nathaniel Wildenstern, the Duke of Leinster. He went missing about three years ago. Our investigations led us to Boston, and we suspect he may have joined the Odin’s crew there. There is a reward for anyone who can help find him. Do you know him?”
Jim appeared to think for a moment, but then shrugged and shook his head.
“No, sir. Never ’eard of ’im.”
“He may well be traveling under an assumed name,” the second lieutenant spoke up. “In his current state, his dress and appearance might not be that of a gentleman. We have a picture of him here. Perhaps you could take a look at it.”
A sepia photograph was laid on the table in front of him. It showed a proud-looking young man with a somewhat long but handsome visage and fair hair cut in a dashing style. Jim regarded the image for some time. It was so unlike his own, his face burnt by the wind and sun, his hair and beard faded and bedraggled. He reached out to touch the picture for a moment, then pushed it back across the table.
“Sorry, no. Doesn’t ring any bells. Whaler captains aren’t picky, they’ll take on anyone who’ll work. But he looks a bit posh for a life in whalin’ if y’ask me.”
“We didn’t,” Wyndham replied as he stood up, quickly followed by Dempsey. “All right. Given that the ship we were after is now at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, it seems that our trail ends in Boston for now. We will return there and set you ashore. You will be provided with some fresh clothes and accommodated as a passenger until we reach port.”
“I’m ’appy to work me way,” Jim insisted.
“This is a ship-of-the-line of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy,” the captain informed him. “Every man here has his place and his duties. Your help is not required. We are three days from Boston, four at the most. Please take this opportunity to convalesce, make sure you are presentable whenever you leave your cabin and try to stay out of the way. Good day, Mr. Hawkins.”
The lieutenant nodded again and followed his captain out of the room. But there was something in Dempsey’s expression as he cast a look back at Jim before leaving; something like barely suppressed hatred.
Jim was quartered in the clerk’s cabin, a small, simple room that still felt like luxury after the cramped quarters on board the whaler. The clerk had been most understanding as he vacated his cabin, regarding Jim’s survival as nothing less than a miracle. Jim slept for most of the rest of the day, eventually rising in the evening to pull on the clothes the cabin boy had provided for him.
One look out the porthole told him the fine weather was holding, but there was enough wind to enable the ship to make good time. It was an excellent vessel, so big that he could barely feel the motion of the water beneath his feet. He should have felt safe here, but he didn’t. The sooner they got back to port, the better.
The rest had done him good, but his whole body still ached. His face, neck and arms were badly sunburnt, and the gashes in his back from his most recent flogging stung constantly. The edges of the cuts were white and swollen from being immersed for so long in the salt water. Jim left his shirt off, staring at himself in the small rectangular mirror propped on the cabin’s tiny desk. He read the worst events in his life, carved there in the scars on his skin. His new injuries would fade in a matter of days. He never had to suffer pain for very long: it was a quality that ran in his family.
“You should keep yourself covered up,” a voice said from behind him.
He turned to see Lieutenant Dempsey standing in the doorway. There was open hostility written on his dark-skinned face and it put Jim on edge. Something familiar in the officer’s posture, his looks, bothered Jim, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“The captain is a very able man,” Dempsey told him, stepping inside and pulling the curtain across the doorway. He spoke softly. “But he is blinded by his perception of class. We have a detailed description of the scars on your body—the one on you
r side and the one over your heart are particularly noticeable. And even though we know you’ve been working in manual labor and as a sailor since you left Africa, the captain still can’t imagine a gentleman ending up looking like the tramp he saw when you came aboard.”
Nathaniel Wildenstern glanced down at his own chest and then stared back at the officer. He didn’t answer immediately. He had not been recognized in over a year.
“No doubt he’ll have a change of heart when he sees how well I scrub up,” he said. “Or, if he is so sure that the clothes make the man, perhaps I’ll be able to persuade him I’m one of his crew if I slip on some blue and whites.”
“Wyndham’s no spark, but he’s no fool either,” Dempsey continued. “If he sees your scars, he’ll recognize you. Don’t shave off your beard until you leave the ship. And see if you can keep up the Liverpool accent—if that’s what it’s supposed to be.”
“What’s your game, then?” Nate asked. “Why aren’t you telling him?”
Dempsey scowled. Casting his eyes over his shoulder to check the curtain behind him, he moved closer to Nate.
“I have no great love for the Wildenstern family,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “My wife is dead because of them, and they have all but stolen my son. He lives with them now, and they chose my ship to send in search of you so as to keep me out of their way. I have been back once since my wife died and had to seek permission to see my own son. I’m happy to cause your family any distress I can.”
“Cathal,” Nate said, almost to himself, searching old, unpleasant memories. “You’re Cathal Dempsey’s father.”
“Not if the bloody Wildensterns have anything to say about it, I’m not.”
“And yet, if you brought me back, you would see your son again,” Nate said, moving backwards slightly so that he could lean on the desk, where his knife lay beneath his shirt. “Why don’t you want me to be found?”
“Because to Hell with them, that’s why!” Dempsey growled, clenching his teeth. “I’ll get my son back my way and make sure the thrice-damned, night-soiled cur who took him pays a heavy price.”
“Now I know where your son gets his charming bloody-mindedness,” Nate observed. “I seem to remember my young sister learning some delightful swearwords from him.”
“I know why you fled your family, Nathaniel Wildenstern,” the lieutenant went on. “And I can tell you, they have grown worse in your absence. Ireland is suffering because of their infernal schemes.”
“Really? Doesn’t sound like much has changed at all.”
The officer glared at him, and for a moment Nate thought he saw something of himself in the Navy man. The same loss, the same bottomless anger. Dempsey’s wife had been a Wildenstern. She had been exiled from the family and imprisoned in a mental institution before she met him. Years later, she had been killed for her Wildenstern blood—the same blood that made Cathal so valuable to the family. Dempsey had good reason to hate them. This would not be a good time for Nate to mention that it was he who had brought the man’s son to Wildenstern Hall. His fingers were close to the knife, but it was purely reflex; this man was no threat to him. Not yet, anyway.
“If you had any sense of duty, you would go back and join the struggle against them,” Dempsey said. “But I suppose any man who has spent the last three years running away from his demons, as you have, can hardly be expected to change his colors.”
“I have no colors left,” Nate retorted. “And my demons are all dead. Tell your captain who I am if you wish, or don’t tell him. It’s all the same to me. I’m past caring.”
“I don’t think you are,” Dempsey replied as he turned toward the doorway. “And your family are certainly not done with you. Whether that’s a good or bad thing, I’m not sure. All I know is they want you back and I can stop them from having you. That’s good enough for me … for now.” He stopped for a moment, turning back to look at Nate. “You’ll need money when you get ashore. There’s a tavern called the Peggy Sayer, in Charlestown in Boston. Look for a man named Ronan. He’ll pay good money for men with fighting skills. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten your family traditions—you might as well make use of them.”
With that, he left, drawing the curtain closed behind him. Nate watched the fabric settle and stayed staring at it. He picked up his shirt and pulled it on, buttoning it up over his scars. Pressing his hand to his belly, he felt the slight movement beneath his abdominal muscles, just above his belly button, as if part of his intestine was shifting position.
“It seems they refuse to be forgotten,” he muttered. “No matter how hard I try.”
II
A REFUGE FOR ESCAPED SLAVES
THE SCAFELL REACHED BOSTON on the morning of the fourth day. Nate had spent much of that time in troubled sleep, memories and dreams mingling in a sickening stew. He tossed and thrashed, trying to push away images of Tatiana, his beloved sister, and Daisy, whom he missed more than he would ever have believed. And Gerald. Goddamned Gerald. Only sometimes would Nate dream of the son he had left behind in Ireland. He longed for home and burned with shame at the way he had deserted those who needed him most. But he could not go back. The terrible visions that had driven him away to Africa had awakened something in him that he could never bring home. He moaned in his sleep, clawing for unconsciousness, but then he would wake screaming at the memories of his last view of his brother Berto’s face.
Disembarking from the Navy vessel, Nate thanked the captain and took his leave, climbing down into the longboat that would take him to shore. Dempsey went with him, but the two men did not speak to each other or to the sailors who rowed them to the dockside. Nate shook hands with them, stepped out of the boat and trotted up the stone steps. His body swayed unnaturally as his sea legs struggled to walk on solid ground for the first time in months. He hurried along the docks, losing himself in the throng of wagons, horses, fish stalls and the foul-mouthed stevedores loading and unloading the ships.
He didn’t feel safe until he had put a few piles of crates, barrels and cargo nets between him and the men from the Scafell. Boston was a good place to hide. With its deep harbor and thriving business community, it had become a center for trade in rum, fish, salt and tobacco among other goods. The oil from whale blubber was, of course, another major export.
Nate wondered if he could find another whaler with room for one more able seaman, but he quickly dismissed the idea. The family had dogged him this far and clearly would not give up until he was found. If they were sending whole ships after him, going to sea again would not help. He had to make himself scarce.
Perhaps he should have told the Navy men that Nathaniel Wildenstern had gone down with the Odin, but that would have meant admitting he’d known the man. As the last link to the missing man, Jim Hawkins would have been subject to an uncomfortable amount of attention. Somebody had traced him to the Odin’s crew, so that meant someone in Boston could identify him. He needed to get out of the city.
The captain had given him fifteen dollars to tide him over when he went ashore. Not far off the docks, on a street of tall, attractive red-brick buildings, Nate found an eating place where he treated himself to a large breakfast of gammon steak, eggs and pancakes with maple syrup.
At the next table, some Creole blacks were arguing in French about something, ending the argument with a joke and booming laughter. It was strange to sit in an American city and have black people sharing the same space, eating the same food as white folk. Boston had become a refuge for escaped slaves, and with the Civil War between North and South in full swing, slave-catchers from the plantations in the southern states had better things to be doing than searching a hostile city for their quarry.
Nate wondered how many of these people were truly free and how many were fugitives like himself. No, he thought—not like me. I was one of the slave-drivers, not one of the slaves.
He finished his food and left, heading i
nto the city, making sure to take a winding route. Not long after he’d started walking, a small tan and white basset hound came up to him with its tail wagging and he made the mistake of scratching it behind the ears. The dog gave a joyous bark and ran in circles around him. It then proceeded to follow him down the street, delighted with its new best friend. Nate snapped at it a few times in exasperation, but it forgave him for this on the grounds that they were just getting to know each other, and kept trailing him. Nate sighed and walked on, doing his best to ignore the animal.
He walked the day away. His route took him through some of the less salubrious parts of town. A dull morning brightened slowly into a sunnier afternoon, the sun’s momentum seeming too much for it as it tumbled down towards evening. Nate took his time, mixing with the growing crowds as he meandered through the muddy streets, past the grog-shops and dancing houses, the oyster cellars, pubs and bawdy-houses. He kept stopping to check behind him, gazing into windows, perusing the wares of various stalls, or simply fixing his bootlaces. Despite his efforts to blend in here, to look at ease, he was constantly alert, his senses heightened. His teeth were pressed together, but his limbs were loose and ready to react at a moments notice. The hound was never far away. But it was the dog’s owner who had Nate’s nerves on edge.
Somebody was following him, and he doubted that it was a representative of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. For one thing, they were too good at staying out of sight. And the dog made Nate very easy to spot. It was a clever trick, or would be until he decided to get rid of the dog. But for the moment he would let it serve its purpose.
The Irish had taken over in Boston much as they invaded everywhere else they settled; moving in with a good-natured work ethic and then breeding like rabbits until they ruled by sheer weight of numbers. Nate heard the accents all around him; mixed in with the Boston drawl, there were traces of Galway, Limerick, Kerry, the sing-song voices bringing on a sudden wave of homesickness. But he also passed signs advertising accommodation with the infamous ‘NINA’, or ‘No Irish Need Apply.”