Collector of Lost Things

by Jeremy Page

  He regarded her gravely, picking his words. ‘Perhaps your relative will explain,’ he said, dismissively.

  ‘Well, Edward?’ Clara asked.

  But Bletchley made no motion to speak. He closed his eyes, his silence not one of guilt, but of the morally wronged. He would take no part in this.

  ‘He is determined not to speak,’ the captain stated.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ Clara said, indignantly.

  Sykes deferred to his first mate: ‘Mr French, if you please.’

  French looked up, a little surprised. Quickly clearing his throat, he adopted a serious demeanour sufficient to outline the crime. ‘He has thrown the skins of the great auks into the ocean.’

  No one spoke. The news silenced the room, the way irreversible fact always does. I have often tried to recall the moment of this announcement, how Clara jolted with surprise, whereas Sykes stared dark-eyed at the floorboards. And French, a quickening tension in his expression, avoiding everyone’s eye. I had imagined a blank depth of water that pressed around me, and had the urge to reach within it, into its featureless and lightless fathoms, chasing something that could not be found.

  I knew Bletchley’s warped logic. This was the corrective gesture he had promised. Of course it was. How could I not have seen?

  Clara was the first to speak: ‘Is it true, Edward?’

  Bletchley snapped open his eyes, as if waking from a pleasant daydream. ‘Oh, yes, quite true,’ he answered, in a blissfully light manner.

  ‘But are they lost?’ she asked.

  Captain Sykes sighed, looking deflated. ‘He weighted the bundle, madam. It has sunk to the ocean bed.’

  The finality of the act subdued the room. The last breeding colony, needlessly slaughtered, now entirely vanished. And alongside that, a further fact: history would have no record of this journey. The captain’s logbook would be proficiently filled with hourly readings and separate columns for knots, fathoms, course, wind and leeway. Navigation and speed would be calculated and plotted with the utmost accuracy. But there would be no mention of the birds that were found and lost. No one would ever know there had once been a chance to save this species, but that chance had not been taken, because of greed, because of man’s weakness. All of us, present, would be too ashamed of the story to tell it.

  Whether or not Bletchley became, at that moment, aware of what he had done, he was suddenly keen to elaborate.

  ‘I used a length of chain,’ he explained, demonstrating with his hands how he had wrapped the package. He looked happy in the precise nature of the task: ‘In order for it to sink.’

  ‘But why, man?’ Talbot asked, fed up beyond bearing with a man he’d never understood.

  Bletchley regarded Talbot with curiosity, his mouth half opened ready to shed light. But Talbot’s sheer presence, his broad bearded jaw and straightforward expression, the countenance of a man requiring blunt solutions to practical problems, seemed only to amuse Bletchley rather than require an answer.

  ‘We might consider the ocean bed a more fitting grave for these birds than the public spectacle of them being mounted within display cases, where our guilt might be looked upon for hundreds of years to come.’

  ‘Avast! I have had my fill of your prattle!’ Sykes roared, his strength regained. ‘You talk of these birds as if they have souls. They are cargo, and you have destroyed them. Perhaps Mr Saxby here will explain just how valuable each of those birds might have been.’

  I crossed my arms, reluctant to take part. ‘I do not wish to comment,’ I said.

  ‘But you shall, Saxby, because I am your captain and I have asked you.’

  I felt a restless energy in the room, keen to find a new victim. ‘All I have to say is that the collection of those birds was a doomed and cynical venture from the start.’

  He dismissed me with an impatient wave of his hand. ‘The cost, Mr Saxby?’

  ‘The cost in pounds is probably several times the value of the rest of your cargo, if that is what you require from me.’ Before he could answer, I made it clear I had more to say. ‘But the cost to the animal kingdom was immeasurable, and it was not Edward, but you, who committed that crime.’

  ‘Enough!’ he spat back. ‘I will not be judged on board my own ship!’

  The captain’s anger was fierce, but it bounced off me. I felt emboldened by the realisation that for once I was not afraid of him. ‘It is not being judged on board this ship that should concern you. It is the rest of the world that shall judge you, sir. You may be captain on this plank of wood, but as soon as this vessel docks in Liverpool you will be seen merely as a profiteer. A man who recklessly murdered a species for the sake of a few pounds. That is your crime and it is for that you will be judged.’

  Sykes turned on me, squaring up like a street brawler, even though I was a good few inches taller than him. ‘You are young, and foolish,’ he snarled. ‘I am in the business of survival, Mr Saxby, of making a living and a profit. I am doing what every Englishman was born to do, and I am proud of it. My type is strong and it is in the majority. You, on the other hand, are in the business of trying to save the things that are already lost. For that, you are foolish. And you are mistaken, too, in considering that the world of this ship is inconsequential.’ He held out his fist and opened it, revealing a wide, fleshy palm. ‘Your life and all the lives on board this ship are in my hand, right now. We are surrounded by a cruel ocean and dangerous coasts. This ship, sir, is the world.’

  He turned away from me, contemptuous and in command. Beyond him I noticed French regarding me curiously, as if I was a problem he could not solve. As usual, he showed no sign of standing up in my defence. Instead, it was Clara who came to my aid.

  ‘The birds are gone, captain,’ she said, her voice impeccably reasonable. ‘There is little point in venting your frustration now.’

  Sykes looked at her, apparently considering a futile response, knowing he had no answer for her. Instead, as he assessed her proximity to me, I saw a glint of amusement flicker in his eye. He nodded, reluctantly, and addressed his officers:

  ‘We shall not take passengers upon this ship in the future,’ he said. ‘They are supernumerary, they do not understand the sea, and when they speak, I do not understand what they say.’

  Talbot actually smiled, as if he’d wished for this moment for a long time. I remembered how he had looked at me during the first meal on board the ship, chewing his beef with greasy, unpleasant lips.

  Oddly, Bletchley thought this the best time to voice an opinion. ‘Captain Sykes,’ he said, speaking when he should have absolutely kept quiet, ‘in actual fact I believe you should thank me for what I have done.’

  ‘Are you quite insane?’ Sykes replied.

  ‘I have saved you,’ Bletchley continued, blithely following the logic of his actions. ‘It is the Esquimaux who believe that—’

  ‘We have heard enough from you,’ Sykes interrupted. ‘You are nothing but a mountebank and you are preferable when you do not speak. French, the men will want to know the situation. Go for’ard and inform them, I will have no secrets on board. Have the yards set acockbill for an hour tomorrow.’ He turned back to Bletchley with the attitude of a parent who can’t get enough of admonishing a child. ‘You shall be confined to the passenger quarters for the remainder of the voyage. Under hatches, you understand? You are a liability about the ship, you have proved this most convincingly, and I can therefore not vouch for your safety among the crew—you must understand that they have lost quite a dividend, too, as a result of your foolish actions. They are hardworking men, sir, and they might express their anger in an ungentlemanly manner.’ He clenched his fist and regarded his knuckles, whitening with pressure.

  Sykes turned to his cabin and went inside, closing the door with a slam. In his absence the room felt misshapen, with a scolded air. We remained positioned around Bletchley, who looked content on his seat. French nervously examined his fob watch, his usual gesture, before walking briskly up the
steps to the deck without a second look towards the rest of us. Talbot followed him, clearing his throat loudly and walking wearily to the companionway.

  ‘I will look after Edward,’ Clara said, when the officers had departed. ‘Let us decide what to do with him in the morning.’

  ‘Did you know he was going to do this?’ I asked.

  I placed a hand on her shoulder. She looked sadly at me, then sighed:

  ‘How could I?’

  In my cabin, I lay on the bunk and pressed a hand to my forehead. I was shocked by what Bletchley had done, and the brutishness that it had unleashed in the captain. I remembered the miracle of discovering those birds in the mist, the sheer joy at finding them alive, then the agony of having to watch as one by one they were drowned, an entire species meeting its extinction. To battle through all this with the captain, to witness him bragging of their worth with the Greenland whalers and listen to him negotiate with the Esquimaux to have them skinned. All this, for them to be thrown into the sea. So futile! I imagined them, descending through the complete night of the Atlantic Ocean. They were probably still sinking, even at that moment, tunnelling into uncharted depths, never to be seen again.

  Over the next couple of days a troubled air persisted throughout the ship. The officers went about their tasks with perfunctory routine, ordering the sails to be trimmed and re-trimmed, the masts to be greased, the rigging tarred, and the deck to be sanded and scrubbed with stone bibles. A spinning wheel was brought up on deck, and the sound of the yarn being made was a constantly whirring accompaniment, much like the sound of a nightjar patrolling its woodland territory, coming and going, coming and going. Oakum was piled up, and in groups the men unwound ropes while further along the deck another group replaited them. Senseless work to occupy idle hands, with intermittent, perplexing orders being issued by the officers: Mr Talbot, will you see that the men cover those ropes with new foxes, or stuff the sides and be ordered about it, or address the top nettings and fringes. One of the men was hoisted up the mast on a boatswain’s chair so that he could pour hot fat from the galley onto the wood.

  The crew set about this work without complaint, but perhaps because of my sensitivity to the situation on board, I glimpsed a difference in their attitude, a flat disappointment. Bletchley did as he had been instructed, staying in his cabin. Meals were taken to him, and at night he no longer sat in his chair by the side of the stove. Of the captain, I saw very little. He spent his hours in his cabin and at noon he took sightings of the sun before retreating to the chart room. The possibility of seeking his help to save the last bird had become inconceivable.

  The weather improved; it lost the bite of Arctic cold, and instead became wet and softer. I fancied I smelt the coast of England, many times, while walking the deck at night. For the first time I began to anticipate our return, imagining my disembarkation at the quay in Liverpool, very much an enlightened man. Free, too. Free to plot a future—a hesitant farewell to Clara hand in hand with a desire to meet again. I imagined travelling to Norfolk, this autumn—when I would walk up the long drive to the manor near Somerleyton, crossing the once familiar damp lawn in front of the old house, and it would be she who would rush out to greet me, healing a wound that had remained open all these years. And as we embraced, the rooks would rise from their roosts in the trees as if a curse had been lifted.

  Two nights after Bletchley had destroyed the birds, I was considering these things, smoking my pipe at the bow of the ship, when one of the crew came to my side asking for tobacco. It was Connor Herlihy, who often smoked at the same spot. He placed his foot through a hawse hole, as he’d done before, so he could lean on one leg.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, sucking on his pipe stem. He seemed intent on gazing at the horizon. ‘A nasty business, to be sure, with the loss of them birds,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘A great loss.’

  He puffed at his pipe, in no hurry, then tapped his foot in the hawse hole. ‘It’s said, you enter the ship by them hawse holes, you come into the service at the lowest level.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ I replied.

  ‘Mm. It’s true,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Anyhows, we’ll be back soon. You’ll be glad to be home?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You think you’ll be a-sailing again?’

  ‘Well, that also feels uncertain.’

  ‘Like I says, you have the eyes for a sailor.’ He viewed me quizzically, sucking on his pipe. ‘Very pale blue, sir. I think they would suit the Arctic.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I suppose those eyes of yours wouldn’t be missing nothing, now,’ he continued. I regarded him, a little wary of his direction. ‘I have been wondering sir, might I ask yous a question?’

  ‘Of course, Herlihy.’

  ‘It’s been botherin’ me, an’ that younger brother of mine,’ he said. He sucked on his pipe and relit the tobacco, taking his time. I watched the light flickering on his strong face. ‘I been wondering, sir, what happened to the eighth bird?’

  I looked away, too startled to face him.

  ‘Juss wonderin’, sir,’ he repeated.

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ I managed.

  He smiled, and the impertinent fellow actually gave me a wink. He waited, allowing me to leave, should I wish to. When he saw that I was going to remain, that I had to hear what he had to say, he seemed satisfied.

  ‘It’s just, when I was on that rock with them birds of yours, I saw it hidden in the crack.’ He made a gesture of pointing at the planks near his feet, as if re-creating the vision of the auk concealed in the crevice. With apprehension, I realised he was also pointing straight down to where the anchor locker was, several feet below us.

  ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’

  He chuckled. ‘Like I says before, a good sailor is devious.’ He raised his eyebrows at me, and I saw the flicker of indecision in his expression. Surely he was uncertain how far he might question a gentleman? Yet there remained a stubbornness to the line of his mouth and the directness of his gaze that made me think he was past caring. He was difficult to gauge. Eventually, he took a step away from me, allowing me to take my leave. Again, he saw that I was going to hear him out. He smiled knowingly.

  ‘You have the bird on board?’

  ‘I think it’s impertinent of you to ask me this.’

  ‘Aye, right you are, sir. And that would be the ordinary position, it would. But my tongue is quick on account of the things are bad at home. The crop has failed again. It has given me a desperation, to think of them digging in that wet earth and them fingers findin’ nothing in there but the rot and the disease.’

  ‘Be that as it may, if you continue, I shall have to report this conversation to the captain.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘He wouldn’t take kindly to the things you have said.’

  ‘No, sir, he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Insinuation is what it is.’

  ‘Aye.’

  I prepared to leave, looking him in the eye and seeing nothing but a flat reflected gleam of the night’s sky. His face was a patchwork of shadows and ambiguity.

  ‘So you are wanting money from me,’ I stated.

  He sounded surprised. ‘For what, sir?’

  ‘For your silence. And for your brother’s silence.’

  He looked out to sea, knitting his brows, as if the answer was out there. He considered his options.

  ‘Is that what you think?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. It’s what I think.’

  ‘No,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t want your money. I just want to know about that eighth bird.’

  It appeared a simple, honest appeal. I looked at him, at the strong square face that was both open and impenetrable.

  ‘You’re an unusual person,’ I remarked.

  ‘Aye, has been said before,’ he replied, smiling.

  ‘Do you remember when we climbed the cliffs and stood among the gannet colony?�
�� I said. ‘It was a mad place, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I thought we’d be pecked ragged.’

  ‘You amused me, that day, you and your brother. We were fairly scared, weren’t we?’

  He laughed. ‘Well, in truth, me brother was more scared than me.’

  I tapped my pipe out against the brass top of the capstan. ‘It’s hidden in the anchor locker,’ I said.

  He broke into a broad grin, revealing the strong even teeth of an honest working man. ‘I said you could be a fine sailor. You are devious.’

  ‘This time I’ll take it as a compliment.’

  ‘It’s been there all this while?’

  ‘It has.’

  ‘Will you be selling it?’

  ‘No, Connor. I want to set it free, where it will be safe.’

  ‘It has value.’

  ‘Yes, but not a value that can be measured in pounds. And I have some news for you. It has laid an egg.’

  ‘An egg? Well I’ll be blessed!’ He stood, shaking his head.

  ‘I am sorry about Ireland,’ I said. ‘I am sorry about the potato crop.’

  ‘That’s fairly odd, to hear an Englishman say that.’

  ‘I don’t really know what being an Englishman means,’ I said. ‘But Connor, what about your duty to the captain? To tell him what is on board?’

  He pocketed his pipe and wiped his hands on his jacket, preparing to leave. ‘What duty would that be, sir?’ he said. ‘We’re just his Irish bastards.’

  I had little choice, after this exchange, to relate it to French. The knowledge that two or more of the crew knew that there was a concealed bird on board forced my hand. Connor might be genuine, but others might not be. I didn’t truly comprehend the workings and hierarchies of the ship, so I felt I needed advice in the matter.

  I found him in his cabin, once more writing at his desk with the nib of his scratchy pen. Yet as before, when he welcomed me in, his desk had been conspicuously and hurriedly cleared, although the familiar candle burnt brightly, right in front of where he had been sitting.