by Paul Butler
The conversation has moved on. Captain Pym has brightened a little and is asking about Easton’s silk hangings.
“My ancestors did battle against the infidel during the Crusades,” says Easton, “and now I do trade with them.”
“Something your conscience permits, sir?” asks Baxter, some of his former indignation returning.
Easton smiles at George and Whitbourne as if the inexperience of the lieutenant were a joke to be shared between them.
“It is the Spanish, sir, who are the villains of our time,” he replies. “They are the ones who hoard the world’s gold and harvest African savages for their colonies.” He gazes off for a moment into the shadows, where the slave stands with a jug. “There is a barbarism on that continent you would scarcely believe,” he mumbles, “and the Spanish are pumping its revitalizing blood into their Empire.”
The boards creak. Easton’s intensity has brought silence to the room. He takes another sip of wine. “I am doing the King of our beloved country a profound service, gentlemen,” he resumes in the same quiet tones. “It is the dawning of a new age. An age of commerce. The world is out there for us to plunder. We must show the King what is to be gained and what can be lost if we let the Spanish roam freely while we sit in our country homes counting our bales of hay.”
“But the Crown recognizes the need for exploration and commerce, sir,” the lieutenant says stiffly. “Surely you have heard of the East India Company.”
Easton smiles again, as though humouring a rambunctious child. “Indeed, sir, I have. And a noble enterprise it is, no doubt. Perhaps there is hope for England, after all.”
“So why, sir, do you not ask for a commission from the Crown?” the young man pursues. “This would surely be the most logical option for one intent on expanding trade and serving his country?” George notices Captain Pym is trying to reach under the table to stop him.
Easton goes silent and sighs very slowly. The cabin sways in the darkness, hardly a creak invading the silence this time. “My dear young sir. Trading for cloth and silk would bore me. Let the shopkeepers and dewy-eyed lieutenants of England work for the East India Company and scrape and grovel before their Scottish King and patron for small commissions. I pick a more fearsome enemy. And in time, let me assure you, the King will come to me on my own terms. Even a king is not averse to gold.”
Lieutenant Baxter drops a knife. The clanging noise echoes through the silence. “Sir,” he says, jogging the table with his knees, “It is His Majesty King James I of England to whom you refer, if I am not mistaken?”
The table jolts again; it seems he has come within a whisker of standing.
George instinctively backs off a little from the table as does the admiral. Captain Pym closes his eyes and puts his palm to his forehead.
Easton glances around the table. He gives a tired and slightly bemused shrug. “Sir, you are not mistaken,” he says wearily.
“In which case, sir, I must ask for a retraction.”
Easton sighs, drops a napkin and, very slowly, stands. “My dear sirs,” he says with a formal bow. “I feel my young friend, the lieutenant, and I may have a few small matters to discuss. Would it be unconscionably rude of me to ask you to retire to your cabins where I will have your food and drink brought after you?”
George, Whitbourne and Captain Pym stand all at once, a pall of silence hanging over their movements. The lieutenant remains seated for a second, then stands awkwardly while the others head for the exit. George sees a flicker of terror pass over his face.
George, Whitbourne and Pym make their way onto the deck. The night wind blusters warm around George’s ears. The sails are at full stretch like the bellies of pregnant cattle. The slave walks before them in order to show Pym his cabin. They circle together in silence around the maze of cabins with the clear, starry night watching them from above. The slave leads Captain Pym into a doorway and soon after George and the admiral reach their entrance.
“What do we do now?” George asks quietly as they reach the shelter of the little vestibule.
“Our options are even more limited than before. We are now bound to stay on his side and argue in his favour. We have no choice. Pym will report that we carried his arms. He has to.”
They stand in front of their respective doorways, both weary and lost. It is a sad, unwholesome kind of defeat because it springs not from honest battle on their part, but from cold strategy which has failed. The strain of humiliation shows on the admiral’s face.
“Will he bring us back to our own harbour, do you think?” asks George.
“It’s where he has left more than half his own fleet and so he must return there himself. We have to trust he will, that’s all.”
George bids the admiral goodnight and goes into his cabin. He waits there, pacing, his heart beating faster than its usual pace; he is not at first sure why. Only when he hears approaching footsteps a few minutes later, does he recognize the reason for his anticipation. The door opens slowly after a soft knock. Without looking at him, the slave enters and places a tray with a plate, a jug and a goblet down on the side table. George finds himself frozen in the middle of the room like a statue, unable to move away yet helpless to speak to the one who has entered. The slave glances at him curiously as she leaves, her footfalls soft upon his rug then echoing in the vestibule beyond the room. Her leaving creates a tug somewhere deep in George’s chest.
George wakes up feeling vaguely ashamed though the reason for such an emotion is obscure to him. Daylight scatters over the bed linen and he realizes he has slept soundly for many hours. He now remembers that before lying down he enjoyed two full goblets of Easton’s excellent wine and much of the roast fowl. The hunger of recent self-deprivation, it seems, caught up with him quite suddenly, and he let go. But while his brain and body were relaxing his dreams were preparing to weave his enjoyment into images of self-reproach.
In his sleep he found himself on a shining deck made of gold. Rosalind was beside him, but her face was again ebony like the slave’s. The warmth of her body was pressed close against his and he could taste the sweet breath from her smiling mouth. A cannon on the main deck was turned inward; it seemed to be shaped like a giant curved mouth, the contours of its rim like human lips. Rosalind held a jug underneath this curious aperture and it spewed forth a steaming liquid the colour of blood. Rosalind filled a goblet with the jug’s contents and gave it to George to taste. The flavour had his senses in raptures, sparkling on his tongue with richness and zest intermingling. It was like the music of the finest minstrels translated magically into taste.
None of this troubled George while he was asleep. Indeed the sweet, oozing sensations of the dreams only added to the rich comfort of his slumber. But now with morning sun glinting on the silver tray and wine jug resting together on the side table, all his recent comforts begin to pick at his conscience. He thinks of young Baxter. What would the lieutenant say if he knew George had enjoyed Easton’s bounty so thoroughly? How indignant and self-righteous he would be! How he would stiffen and stand if George were to reveal the details of his strange dream! To the lieutenant, the fancies of his sleep would surely prove that George’s soul was descending swiftly into some chasm of corruption.
And of course he was right. Easton had been talking treason. He was a rogue. George had no right to be immersing himself in such comfort and luxury after a mere two nights on his ship. How quickly the brain and body adjust to such foulness and seek the compensation of the senses!
George wonders vaguely what happened between Easton and the lieutenant when they were left alone—what stiff accusations and tired denials were repeated. How long could such a fruitless argument last before each man must repair to his own bed exhausted? Why didn’t the fool of a lieutenant just celebrate his promised freedom and keep quiet until his release?
George turns and hauls off his bedsheets. He stands and goes over to the ready jug of water and washes his face. The sweet droplets run cool over his skin and h
e can almost taste the wine of his dream again, the tingle of effervescence on his tongue. He can feel from the movement of the cabin that the ship is still slicing through the water at a steady pace. There is a distant sound of hammering, no doubt the promised repairs to Pym’s ship, which must be travelling alongside.
He dresses and leaves the cabin. The deck of the Happy Adventure is a swarm of activity. Dozens of bronze and wiry seaman are scrubbing, hammering and climbing. George sees Pym’s ship, the Loyal Pandora, half a length behind. The rear mast is already mended and a group of Easton’s men are checking the rigging and sails while Pym’s own crew look on like a small deer herd smelling the wind, wondering if they are in danger.
The air is much warmer today, even though the sun has barely climbed above some low clouds on the horizon; the wind streams past like the breath of a benevolent Neptune and the ocean ripples gently from horizon to horizon. George scans the distant waters. Then, turning, he sees Captain Pym standing a couple of yards behind him. He steps forward to greet the captain but is halted by a curious expression on his face. Pym’s cheeks have taken on an even more lurid colouring than usual and his eyes are bulging. He appears to speak, but the wind carries his words away and he thrusts a handkerchief to his mouth as though he is about to be sick. George takes another step toward the captain and offers him a steadying hand.
“Are you ill, sir?” George cries above the wind.
But the captain pulls away and his shoulders dip like those of a bull before battle.
“No,” Pym grunts. “Our cabins. Mine and Baxter’s. Look.” He points behind him. George stares off toward the cluster of smartly appointed rooms. He follows the instruction without quite knowing why and walks slowly in that direction. Captain Pym stays where he is, coughing and retching. When George reaches the small staircase beneath the cabin entrance he turns around. Captain Pym, now by the deck rail, the handkerchief still in his face, nods and waves him on.
George climbs the staircase and, reaching the top, pushes open the unfastened door in front of him. Glancing back again he sees that Pym is now turned to the sea, gripping the deck rail. George goes through into a vestibule which is almost identical to the one that adjoins his own cabin. Only one detail distinguishes it. Attached to one of the cabin doors is an object George takes at first for a bizarre and rather tasteless decoration. It is a sculpture of a human head, in the exact likeness of the young lieutenant. Its chalky-white colour makes it somewhat like the Roman and Greek busts he has seen in the London exhibitions. But unlike those artifacts, the lips are of a different hue to the skin, the hair is lifelike—a plait of it is curled around a large nail on the door and tied into a knot—and there is an obscene and bloated slaughterhouse verity to the skin and the seams of the eyelids.
It takes no more than a second to realize that it is neither sculpture nor decoration. But that short time is pregnant with hopeful explanations, steering George away from the obvious. First he thinks it might be the result of some macabre joke of Easton’s by which clay or some similar substance can be made to look like human flesh. Then he considers how the slave or slaves who live below might have some way of creating such an illusion. The thing that finally confounds these explanations is the presence of a plump black housefly on the rug directly beneath the hideous object. The insect stands in the midst of a dark, drying puddle—a viscous, foul-smelling stain that can only be blood.
George takes a step backward. His heart hammers, sending echoes through his ears. Something warm rises from his stomach and he swallows it down. He has seen such things many times before, he tells himself in a vain attempt to calm down. He thinks of the heads stuck on poles above the entrance to London Bridge. He recalls his more recent experience of hanged men and rogues over whose execution he has even helped to preside. He has seen the helpless twitch and struggle of the dying. He has seen their remains change from pink, dripping carcasses to leather and bone. Why should this be so much more shocking?
He spins away from the vestibule, half backing out of the door. The wind enwraps him on the stairs and he tells himself it should not be so; he should not be so upset. Yet he is not convinced.
Images return like the spokes of a windmill: the candlelight of the previous evening; the sharp, bright buttons of the lieutenant’s tunic; Baxter’s glistening, indignant eyes; and most of all, Easton’s calm and tolerant smile. These things tumble back into his brain as partial answers as to why the gruesome discovery is uniquely disturbing. It is because this was so unexpected, because things are most definitely not what they seem with Easton. Most of all, it’s because the severed head, with its blanched white skin and closed eyes, could so easily have been his.
Chapter Six
“It was, I confess, quite unforgivable of me to let you find him like that.”
Easton addresses them all in quiet, even tones. His eyes are cast meditatively down at the table. The cabin creaks gently like a church pew under the weight of worshipers’ knees. The tunic Easton wears today is darker and less embroidered than usual. George has seen similar clothing in portraits of the pious King Philip II of Spain. He wonders if Easton has Catholic leanings.
No one has eaten, including Easton this time. Bread remains unbroken in a basket at the centre. The solemnity and the tension are almost unbearable.
At last the admiral stirs.
“Perhaps, sir,” he begins with a cough, “you could give us some indication as to the circumstances through which the young lieutenant came to meet his fate.” As he talks, the admiral glances at Captain Pym, who holds a handkerchief to his mouth and seems too unsettled, perhaps too angry, to say anything himself.
“Of course, sir,” Easton replies penitently. “That is the very least I owe you all. Oh, that such a disaster of inhospitality should have occurred on my ship!” Easton seems almost overtaken with grief for a moment. He takes a deep breath then rouses himself. Tipping his head to the side and gazing down at the oak grain patterns of the table, he begins. “You all saw, sirs, how the young lieutenant was when you retired,” he says quietly. “It was my ardent wish at that time to continue calming him with soft and patient answers until such a time that we might part from each other as friends.”
Easton’s dark eyes seem unusually sensitive in the midst of his embarrassment. Their very depth seems to attract all the scattered daylight in the cabin. “I took the blows most meekly,” he says, looking up and gazing directly at each of them in turn, begging that his sincerity be accepted. “Even the accusations of...treason,” he adds closing his eyes. The word “treason” comes in a sigh as though it turns his breath to flame.
A chair creaks slightly and the cabin falls into dead silence again. George feels the sympathy in the room is growing for Easton. Perhaps it is not quite sympathy. More like inevitability. More like a silent communal intelligence growing among them all. If Easton continues to make his case so persuasively, the silence seems to say, they will all have to give him the benefit of the doubt. They will have to because they are his prisoners and they are afraid.
“He charged me with murders foul and unprovoked,” Easton continues, “and with disloyalty to the country that I so adore.” He looks from face to face once again. Light and dark do battle in the deep pools of his irises. “All of this, sirs, I took most calmly and with a fortitude I flatter myself you would have honoured had you seen it yourself.”
Whitbourne gives the ghost of a nod, as though believing so much. Then he coughs. “Would it not, sir, have been better to have confined him until the time of the departure of the lieutenant and the good captain here? Then he might not have tempted your patience so.”
“But that’s the thing, sir,” Easton gasps with impressive humility. “I had been considering so much, for his safety. My own temper I can vouch for, but I was thinking about my crew, all men well-trained in matters of honour and chivalry. What if they were to overhear?”
“So what did happen, sir?”
Easton pauses and his gaze flits
from face to face. It rests for a moment on Captain Pym, showing compassion and worry in equal proportion. “I can scarce tell it, my dear sirs, without impugning the reputation of the young man.”
Pym withdraws the handkerchief from his mouth. His eyes widen, perhaps in silent challenge. “Tell it, sir,” he croaks.
Easton casts his eyes down once more and tips his head to the side as if praying. “Perhaps he was enraged, or ill, or intoxicated by too much wine. But I turned from the table for a moment to give an instruction to one of my servants. When I looked back, he had drawn against me.”
“He drew his sword when your back was turned?” Pym asks hoarsely, each word like a bullet, unfriendly and disbelieving. His face flushes almost scarlet.
Easton merely nods and casts his eyes at the table.
“And the head, sir?” Pym counters. “Why was my officer’s head nailed to the door of his cabin?”
“My dear sir. It is the very highest mark of respect.”
“Respect, sir?” Pym gasps.
“I forget myself, sir, and you will bear with me. I have lived away from England for so long that customs at first strange and exotic have become as dear and comforting to me as the glorious customs of our own dear Church. I will explain.” He pauses for a moment, clasps his hands and goes on. “The African tribes from which we in England and the Spanish harvest our slaves have many strange and powerful beliefs. I do not take part in their extraordinary rituals myself. But I have grown to understand and respect even some of their most lurid practices. It is often the case in nature, sirs, that the most exquisite things in life derive from a savage source.”
“Please, sir,” interrupts the admiral. “Can you give us the facts as plainly as possible?”
“I am trying, sir,” Easton says, then pauses. The slave appears from the hatch with a large jug. Easton glances at her as she approaches. “I occasionally allow the African slaves which are aboard my ship to perform their ceremonies in respect of the dead. You have seen the girl who serves us?” He catches the slave’s eye. “It is she and another woman who have carried out what they sincerely consider to be a spiritual aid to the departing soul of the lieutenant.”