Collector of Lost Things

by Jeremy Page

  I missed, entirely, the arrival of the other passenger on the quarterdeck rail, until in the corner of my view I recognised the wild checked design of the trousers I had seen in the saloon, edging towards me.

  ‘Splendid stuff!’ he said.

  My fellow passenger was a young man, possibly twenty-five, with bright sandy hair in long fashionable curls, and a wide uncomplicated grin on his face. He was wearing a cornflower blue pilot coat with large buttons and slanted pockets, had a golden cravat around his neck—as bright as a kestrel’s throat—and a bamboo cane tucked under one arm.

  ‘Edward Bletchley,’ he said, offering his hand.

  ‘Eliot Saxby.’

  He shook my hand smartly, giving it a very strong squeeze, adjusted his coat and stared up at the sails in an appreciative manner.

  ‘Mr French has told me we shall be setting twelve sails,’ he said. ‘He used all manner of names I cannot remember, but I shall learn them all, it can’t be too hard.’

  ‘I have just about figured out we are standing on a quarterdeck and that cabin before the mast with the two whaleboats on it is the fo’c’sle,’ I replied.

  ‘Very good!’ Bletchley snorted. ‘Now you must see this.’ He angled a riding boot towards me: ‘I have engraved a star into the toe of this one, to remind myself that this is my starboard side. How about that!’

  ‘The wrong foot,’ I said.

  ‘No! Is it? Ah, I see you are joking. Very amusing.’ He glanced towards the helm and whispered, ‘Have you met the captain yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither. From the look of him he seems a quirky fellow.’

  Bletchley wandered off, in the manner of a ship’s officer, his hands behind his back and his cane stowed, while the sails continued to be set. Full of confidence, an easy charm and direct expression—a man I have always known I could never be. His clothes were flamboyant, his posture without apology. Yet even in that first glimpse of him, I believe I sensed something unusual. A glimmer in his eyes that was unsettled and furtive, at odds with the rest of his impeccable demeanour.

  It was apparent, at supper that evening, that Bletchley’s travelling companion had no intention of joining us. Her place at the table was glaringly empty. Mr French stood, formal and straight-backed, by the stove, warming his hands above the hotplate. He had the bearing of a naval officer, stiff collared and erect, smiling privately to himself. Perhaps he was amused by the impoliteness of the second mate, Mr Talbot, a most disagreeable fellow on first impressions, built as solidly as an ox, who refused to sit at the table or properly introduce himself. He merely stood at the far end, in a coat too thick for the warm room, regarding the companionway door, a frown on his face, occasionally sinking his fingers into his beard in the pursuit of an itch. When I went to introduce myself he looked back at me angrily, as if I had failed some requirement of proper approach. He refused to shake my outstretched hand so I quickly made my leave, choosing to stand near Bletchley instead, who was absorbed with studying a barometer fixed to the mast.

  ‘It is gimballed,’ he pointed out, ‘to counteract the motion of the ship.’

  ‘I see,’ I answered. Bletchley was obviously wishing to be an expert in all things, and I worried that I might not be able to cope with his enthusiasms, in such confined quarters.

  Talbot and French remained standing, Talbot like a tethered bull, uncomfortable in any room, and French as upright as an undertaker. Quite a couple, with little friendship between them. They remained awkward and formal, until the captain opened his cabin door and marched briskly to the table. As I’d noticed on deck, he was a short man, round in the belly, with a slightly florid face and a ram’s horn look to the blond hair either side of his head. His bald pate gleamed surprisingly smooth in the candlelight. Immediately he began to speak in a brusque but not unfriendly manner:

  ‘Good evening, Mr Bletchley, Mr Saxby, I am Captain Kelvin Sykes and I would like to formally welcome you to the Amethyst. Please, your seats,’ he instructed, taking his at the head of the table. ‘She’s a three-hundred-ton barque built in Bristol forty years ago. Not what we would call fast, but steady. She is made from a veritable forest—three hundred and twenty oak trees for her frame, and one hundred and forty long-grained Douglas fir for her decking, masts and yards. She is bound with no less than nine miles of rope. Nine miles, I say! And in her life she has sailed … well, how far, gentlemen? Would you like to guess?’

  Bletchley was straight off the mark: ‘Three times around the world.’

  The captain rubbed his chin with a finger, contemplating. ‘Mr Saxby?’

  ‘I would say twice that.’

  He laughed, satisfied. ‘Wrong, sirs. She has sailed a distance equivalent to the moon and back.’

  Sykes allowed us to feel dutifully impressed before he continued. ‘She’s a plump vessel, double walled with English oak between the wales to the six-foot waterline and a tripling of oak in the bows in addition to iron plating. Fortification timbers have been applied within the stem for resisting blows, and these consist—at considerable expense—of four large ice beams.’ The captain made an estimate of their girth with his hands. ‘From fine trees I personally chose in the yard. Thirteen inches square and twenty-six feet in length, each butted with its foremost end against strong fore-hooks. As you can appreciate, gentlemen, I am a keen engineer when it comes to the forces of man against nature.’ He arranged his cutlery into rows, demonstrating his design. ‘Each of these ice beams is connected in various places, here, and here, for example, by carlines, so that a blow to any part of the stem or bow will be communicated evenly across the shores of the timbers.’ He scattered the cutlery with a strike of his palm. ‘Boom, like that, gentlemen. It is quite marvellous.’ The knives, fork and spoon looked a mess, a catastrophe, an approximation of a shipwreck. He drank thirstily from his wine. ‘This year, I have also had fitted ice-knees beneath the bow. Your captain is a most cautious man, sirs, and you will be quite safe on board, in all circumstances.’ He knocked the tabletop, for luck.

  ‘To the business of our route, gentlemen, we will be sailing north-west directly into the Arctic Circle until we make a sighting of the sea ice, and will venture several excursions along the edge as required for hunting, Mr Bletchley. We will do that as soon as we are able, because I can see you are anxious to bag some skins, and it is the time of their cubbing, so we must not delay. At this time of year I shall expect us to be in the vicinity to the west and slightly to the north of Iceland before we encounter the floe. As is convenient, and winds and general weather permitting, we shall then leave the ice behind us and proceed to Mr Saxby’s concerns.’ He regarded me, his face lowered so he was effectively watching me through his eyebrows, seemingly in an act of permission to continue. I raised my glass to him.

  ‘We have been asked to veer from our usual route in order that we might visit an island and various skerries to the south-east of Iceland,’ he said, ‘in accordance with Mr Saxby’s duties as an agent for the collection of eggs and other natural artefacts for his influential acquaintances. We shall be looking for an extinct bird, I believe.’ He paused. ‘I see you are amused, Mr French, but we shall conduct this search for the bird because we have received payment to do so. Mr Saxby, you might settle an ornithological question that has long vexed me. The Scottish ptarmigan is black in summer and pure white in winter. So is it a black bird or a white bird?’

  ‘It is both,’ I replied.

  ‘Exactly! You have passed my first test!

  ‘So,’ he continued, ‘after our business with these extinct birds of yours, we shall be returning to our usual merchant route, passing Cape Farewell at the southern point of Greenland and delivering supplies to the whaling stations on the east coast of Davis Strait. At several points we shall offer trade with Esquimaux groups. Powder, rifles, flints and hooks and the like. Sheffield steel and plate is particularly admired there, as in the rest of the world. You will require your overcoats once more, as we travel north, agai
n into the Arctic Circle. We shall navigate the western coast of Greenland, seeing many icebergs, gentlemen, but none so close that we shall touch them. I see you are excited at the prospect, Mr Bletchley! We will admire these bergs at distance, I say, and we shall pass the snouts of the finest glaciers in the Northern hemisphere, too, as they prod out to sea. It is a frozen and wondrous world up at the top. Our final destination, ice permitting—for it is very cluttered up there—will be Jakobshavn. It is 69 degrees north in latitude and you will be pinning your felt curtains over the portholes in your cabins, gentlemen, for it is light early. You might well observe the dipping-needle compass there, for it will be pointing largely down into the earth, rather than a flat north. That is where we shall embark upon our return journey.’ Sykes took a healthy draught of his wine and dabbed his lips with the napkin.

  ‘I have had many passengers on this vessel, and I look forward to becoming acquainted with you both. I would like to add that you are welcome to wander the ship at will, although the hold is not of interest and is of a dark and dangerous nature. Staves, hoops, manila sea rope, timber, scantling and coal tar is an excellent environment for breaking an ankle. Any breakages of bones will be set by the ship’s carpenter, which is not a pleasant prospect! Myself, Mr French the first mate or Mr Talbot the second mate will gladly explain all matters of the ship, when asked. They are both splendid seamen of great experience, particularly in the frigid waters of the North. You may talk to the crew but please be aware they are on board to work, and may not be convivial to idle conversation and in general do not match your education. At times when sails are to be furled or the windlass or capstans manned they are to perform these tasks quickly and should not be approached. I trust both of you will use your discretion with this. On a more delicate matter, most of the crew are Irish, and their land has once more been afflicted with the potato blight, which may have affected several of their number directly. I trust you will bear this in mind. But, enough of that! I believe the steward has provided you with a comprehensive list of times for drinks and meals and I suggest we start with the soup right away.’

  Sykes sat back in his chair, greatly pleased, while the pantry door slid open and Simao wheeled in a tureen of soup.

  ‘Mr Bletchley,’ the captain asked, ‘are you a good shot?’

  ‘Unfailingly.’

  ‘Game birds?’

  ‘Mostly waterfowl. Duck, teal, widgeon and pintail. Grouse and pheasant in the season.’

  ‘Nothing larger?’

  ‘Deer.’

  Captain Sykes stroked his moustache either side of his mouth, considering. ‘The seal has no heart. It has to be shot in the head. You can kill it no other way. Mr Talbot will gladly show you how.’

  ‘Thank you. Mr Talbot, I shall look forward to it.’ The second mate looked up glumly from his plate and nodded at Bletchley.

  The captain continued. ‘Mr French informs me you have handmade rifles with you?’

  ‘Absolutely. Mr Gallyon of Cambridge has personally manufactured them. I generally use a fowling-piece at the decoy, where the shoot is close and controlled by the dogs. With pheasants I prefer the trusty long-barrelled three-iron Damascus. But anticipating a relatively close shot I commissioned a shorter barrel and an easy breech. Mr Gallyon suggested a twenty-eight-inch barrel, rather than a thirty-six. And one even shorter than that, for when prey is close. He designs all my rifles, and I believe he has done a tremendous job on this occasion. I have had them personally engraved.’

  Sykes looked as if he approved. ‘I would like to try your guns in the morning, if I may?’

  ‘I would be honoured.’

  ‘In my time I could shoot the smirk from a duck’s beak,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that right, Mr French?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and even on occasion you were known to make a kill.’

  The captain grinned. ‘Simao, what is this soup?’ he asked.

  ‘The bean and pork belly, sir.’

  ‘Very good. We are lucky, gentleman, to have Simao on board. For the Portuguese are fine cooks, especially with salted cod. Cabinet pudding, too, if you’re lucky!’ Simao took the compliment with a neat bow and, at Sykes’ instruction, began to clear away the empty place setting.

  ‘Mr Bletchley, will we be seeing your wife?’

  Bletchley, who at that moment had been drinking, nearly coughed on his wine. He looked at the captain, alarmed, before saying, ‘Oh no, Captain Sykes, she is not my wife.’

  Sykes was more interested than apologetic for his mistake. He let Bletchley continue.

  ‘I’m afraid she is not well. Most faint, and troubled. I have given her a hop pillow to ease her mind. She doesn’t want to leave her cabin.’

  ‘Well,’ the captain said, ‘that is our loss, I am sure.’

  ‘Why, yes,’ Bletchley agreed. Momentarily, again, I saw something highly mistrustful in his expression.

  Over the main course, which was beef that first evening, the captain turned his attention to me. He made it his duty to interview each of his passengers. I explained to the table that I would be collecting natural specimens for a group of individuals who had procured my services for the task and paid my passage.

  ‘Who are these employers of yours?’ the captain asked.

  ‘Four gentlemen. I hardly know them.’

  ‘But they wish to find this extinct bird?’

  ‘It is somewhat more complicated than that,’ I explained. ‘I think they care little about the bird. But they do care whether it’s extinct or not. They have made a bet on it.’

  ‘A bet?’

  ‘As gentlemen like to do.’

  ‘Is this what you commonly undertake?’ the captain asked. ‘Settle pointless bets?’

  ‘No,’ I answered. ‘It is unusual. But I have worked closely with museums and private enthusiasts, so the task of collecting natural wildlife and recording their habitats is something I relish. When these animals are presented in their display cases, it is important to be correct with all aspects of posture and environment.’

  ‘Very interesting,’ Sykes commented. ‘You should consider stuffing Mr Talbot and placing him in a glass case, for he is one of the Arctic’s most frequent visitors.’

  Talbot, the second mate, looked back unamused, resolutely refusing to smile. Sykes laughed heartily at his own joke, undaunted. ‘But what are these birds I have been told about?’

  ‘The great auk,’ I replied. ‘It is a large flightless bird—you might regard it as a northern penguin. In recent years their numbers have suffered from hunting and loss of their colonies. It’s believed that the final breeding couple were killed last year, on an uninhabited island off Iceland by three local fishermen. They killed the birds and smashed the egg. I, and the collectors I represent, would dearly love to find some remains.’

  ‘Mr Saxby, steering my ship in the search for an extinct bird is one of the more peculiar charters I have accepted. But I dare say that if there are any remains, we shall find them. A beak or a foot at least for your display cabinets.’

  ‘Let us hope so,’ I said.

  At that moment Mr Talbot decided to speak. ‘I have eaten the auk,’ he said.

  The captain slapped the table with pleasure. ‘Congratulations, Saxby! You have made our second mate speak,’ he said with a flourish. ‘So you have eaten this bird, Talbot?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And what of it?’

  ‘Oily.’

  That was all he had to say on the matter. ‘I will explain, gentlemen,’ the captain continued. ‘Mr Talbot is a man of few words. But before this cosy vessel he spent most of his life serving on whalers. He knows about all the Arctic creatures.’

  ‘And how to kill them,’ French added.

  The captain laughed. ‘Perhaps we should search for remnants of your bird among the hairs of his beard,’ he joked.

  For the first time Talbot showed some pleasure in the occasion. He looked up at me, deliberately I believe, and placed a large slice of beef into his mouth wit
h his fork and continued to look at me while he chewed the meat. His beard was full and thick, but I could see the grease on his lips and the edges of his teeth. It was quite revolting, and I felt a warning of some form, aimed at me, although I had no idea what for. Still, I raised my glass and drank a toast to him, which he acknowledged, as he swallowed.

  That first night, needing air and a space to myself, I went on deck and was thrilled to find it so deserted. It was almost completely without illumination, as if the ship was a solid featureless platform on which to walk above the sea. I was struck by how quiet a sailing ship was. Voices could easily be heard, and none of the sailors had cause to speak loudly. From the quarterdeck’s rail—which was as wide as a church pew—I watched the waves running alongside, noticing how some would turn against the timbers and burst into white foam. Further out, the sea was dark and indistinguishable, with mysterious lines where the crest of a small wave was breaking. There was a clean sharp smell of salt and a soothing rush of water. The impression I’d had when I first stepped onto the Amethyst’s deck had been that I was entering a web of knots. I had almost expected to see giant spiders above me, each one as wide as a bale of hay, watching me as I stepped beneath them, and it was difficult to dispel that image. The bolsters in the rigging had resembled giant insects, wound in spider’s silk.

  I didn’t venture far, for fear of snagging an ankle in some of the many ropes or blocks; instead I sat on a corner of the main hatch and listened to the sounds of the air and sails. I imagined how it must be, at the tops of these tall trees, with just the icy dome of the sky and stars above, riding the ship on the tip of a point a hundred feet in the air.

  Sitting on the hatch, I was almost invisible, the only illumination on the main deck being the spill that emerged from the portholes of the fo’c’sle beyond the mainmast, and the open door of Simao’s galley, which was a bright square shape cut into the darkness. Inside, I could see the corner of the cooking range, with a rail running around it to stop pots falling during rough weather, and several shelves and cupboards, all neatly ordered. A pendant was pinned to a shelf with the word Azores embroidered upon it. Simao was still busy. With two of the men he was arranging for meat to be hung from the rigging, where it would be kept cool and fresh. Double smoked sides of Wiltshire bacon had already been hauled up onto the mizzenmast, and two sides of an Aberdeenshire bullock had been roped to the mainmast, beneath the belaying pins where I sat.