by Jeremy Page
‘Quinlan, I am sorry it is late, but there has been a development of our situation. I have just come down from deck, where I was accosted by one of the crew. He knows all about the bird.’
I had expected a reaction from French, but he remained almost impossibly impassive. ‘He knows it is in the anchor locker,’ I continued.
He sat, quite comfortable in his chair, and began to rub the side of his finger where the writing ink had left a stain.
‘The name?’ he asked, at length.
‘One of the Herlihy brothers. Connor.’
‘Yes, yes. I could have guessed it would be that one.’
‘Possibly there are others, too.’
French’s self-interest was quick to show: ‘Do they know my part in it?’
‘He made no reference.’
‘I see.’
‘So what should we do?’
‘Do?’ he replied. ‘I suppose we should do nothing. They know better than to challenge the authority of the ship, especially if they suspect an officer might be involved.’ His manner became quickly overtaken by a barely controlled anger. ‘I hate them, Saxby, are you aware of that? I hate the way those men sing their mindless shanties and smoke their foul pipes and the way they obey orders with a knowing look. I hate the smells of cooking that come from the fo’c’sle and the sound of the laughter. It must be fetid in there, and yet they love the stink and the grime. They are little more than pigs.’
Even by French’s standards, he was in a volatile mood, partly surprised at his own outburst, partly relishing it. I realised the underlying current that welled in him, which occasionally broke the surface, was a thing he was greatly fascinated by.
‘You were writing again. I am sorry to interrupt you,’ I said.
‘Oh, it is nothing,’ he replied, his tone still torn between self-control and its release. ‘It is wasted effort—she will never read it.’
Abruptly he turned away, as if dismayed. I saw he had been caught off guard, and was attempting to conceal a revelation. Sensing the nearness of an answer I understood to have been long bothering me, I asked him:
‘She …?’
French stared at me with a look of excitement, attracted to the idea of telling me, of telling someone of the conflict that had been keeping him awake all these nights.
‘I have been writing a long letter—but it is so difficult—it has taken me several drafts. I don’t enjoy writing, not in the least. The words take me off on routes I didn’t predict.’
‘To a sweetheart?’
‘I hope that will be the case.’
‘I see. So it’s a letter of persuasion.’
He nodded. ‘But the words are hard to find.’
For the briefest moment I saw a glimpse of the man French held too much at bay. A youthful man, still believing in a world of hopes and desires.
‘It is good to see you in this spirit,’ I said. ‘I have often wondered what really lies within you.’ He looked back at me, a little quizzically. ‘So,’ I continued, not wanting to relinquish this new openness from him, ‘have you known this lady for long?’
‘A while.’
‘In what capacity?’
He sounded amused. ‘We have … dined together, on several occasions.’
‘You like her character?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is she pleasing on the eye?’
‘She is—’ He broke off, grinning unpleasantly. ‘Eliot, what is the point of this silly game you are playing? Are you making fun of me?’
He looked confused, as if I was not following him at all. ‘I am talking about Clara,’ he said.
I felt a sudden hotness, possibly even a blush, which doubled in intensity under his scrutiny. ‘Clara?’ I managed to say. ‘But how is that possible?’
He spoke warily. ‘Surely you knew my feelings?’
There are moments when merely the postures of two men, sitting a few feet apart in a small cabin, reveal more than anything they are prepared to say. A certain awareness; facts seen in complete clarity. And I felt it right then, facing this acquaintance who had quickly become a rival. French knew it too, I could see it.
‘Oh,’ he uttered, knowing for the first time the true extent of my own feelings towards Clara.
I nodded.
‘I would like you to leave now,’ he ordered.
I returned to my cabin, troubled, and lay upon my bunk just a few feet away from a man whose presence had a palpable heat to it. I imagined him bringing his desk candle close to his face, regretting his lapsus linguae, his slip of the tongue, and staring at it until the flame purged his soul.
By breakfast, everything had changed. Clara was refusing to emerge from her cabin, the sound of her inconsolable tears quite evident to all on board. Two men from the crew had been brought to stand sentry in the saloon. They stood, awkward but dutiful, one outside the captain’s quarters and one with his back to the stove, avoiding anyone’s eye. And in the captain’s cabin, Sykes was gazing at the great auk, which had been placed in the centre of his table. Proudly, he tried stroking its plumage, then prodded its breast with a curious finger. With his free hand he reached for its egg, lifting it carefully, examining it and gauging its weight as if it were an ingot of pure gold.
26
EVEN NOW, FIVE YEARS later, the image of Sykes with the bird in his cabin has the power to upset me. It was a sight that ran against the grain: life hanging by its most fragile thread from a hand that weighed its potential for profit. I felt defeated and ashamed. Ashamed for ever having tried to meddle with fate. Extinction, I realised, is a process that cannot be negotiated.
The reversal of fortune had made Sykes amiable and relaxed. He welcomed me heartily, like an old friend, inviting me to sit on his settee; once he was sure I would comply, he replaced his glasses on the end of his nose and continued his observations.
‘It is quite a remarkable creature,’ he said, with pleasure. ‘Either you have tamed it, which I think is unlikely, or this bird really has no fear of mankind. Regard this, if you will.’ The auk was standing squarely upon Sykes’ table, without bindings around either its beak or wings. It was contented and almost sleepy. Sykes reached forward with an inquisitive finger and gently nudged the bird’s neck. The auk stirred, watching the finger curiously. With a swift movement, Sykes flicked it hard upon the side of its beak. The bird flinched, snapping its neck back, and I heard the sound of its claws trying to grip the polished wood, but with startling ease it quickly resumed its previous pose. Sykes laughed, satisfied: ‘See, it forgives me immediately! I believe it regards the slight against it as having emerged from my finger, not myself.’
I felt utter disbelief. Disbelief that I should ever have to see this. The bird had for so long been a secret, belonging to the shadows of the anchor locker. It belonged to Clara and myself. It was our bird and our secret alone. As usual, Sykes was allowing me no time to consider the new complexities of a rapidly changed situation. With the gesture of a prearranged signal, he rang a small handbell on his desk, and almost at once his cabin door opened. Quinlan French entered, somewhat hesitantly, but rigidly upright, glancing first at the bird that was standing on the table, and next at the captain, who was choosing which chair to sit in to admire his new prize. Eagerly, I sought French’s expression, hoping for an ally, but he was reluctant to meet my eye. He looked awkward and shifting, undecided between standing or sitting, and it appeared as though he had not slept well.
‘Now I see there are aspects to my needlework image that were incorrect,’ the captain continued, deliberately cheerful. ‘She is much plumper around here, and down this line towards the belly and legs. Something of a baggy-trousered look. And in the manner that she sits upon her haunches she is more womanly than I expected.’
I decided to speak. ‘Is no one going to attend to Clara? It appears you are unable to hear the obvious distress that she is in.’
Sykes rocked his head from side to side, but chose to ignore me. Instead, he pick
ed a fillet of dried fish and held it in front of the bird, excited by the possibility of making it perform. The auk saw the morsel immediately and raised its neck in the manner a goose has. I watched the miniature glossy feathers aligning down its throat and the adjustment of its body as it shuffled towards his hand.
‘Aha!’ Sykes cried, delighted. It was not an unusual sight for me. Countless times I had watched Clara offering it food.
‘It is not a circus animal,’ I said, disgusted by the captain and suspecting his every motive. ‘If you will permit me, I have had enough of this show, and wish to leave.’
Captain Sykes leant back in his chair and regarded me, stroking his moustache in a deliberate gesture.
‘I can see you are shocked,’ he said.
‘Yes. Very.’
‘But I am intrigued,’ he said. ‘Just how long did you think you could maintain this charade? Did you really think that I could not know about a bird that was concealed on my ship?’
‘How long have you known?’ I asked.
He waved his hand at me, dismissively. ‘It is not important.’
‘I would like to know.’
Sykes smiled, weighing me up. ‘Then I shall tell you. I have known from the start.’ His eyes sparkled with the pleasure of informing me. ‘I see this surprises you. But I think you have underestimated the workings of a merchant ship, Mr Saxby. It is more than a few planks bound together with line. It is a living thing, you see, and it is bound together with sinew, and all those on board have to assume a part of this connection. Why, it was I who gave Mr French the key to the anchor locker—I believe I even told him of the tradition in the navy that women of dubious character used to be concealed within that lazarette. I told you that, didn’t I, Quinlan?’ From the corner of my eye I saw French give a single nod of confirmation. ‘That was a thing he did not know, despite his brief spell in the services.’
French was determined not to catch my eye. ‘You are a despicable man,’ I told him.
Sykes clapped his hands with pleasure. ‘Well said! I like my passengers to have fire about them. You hear that? He called you despicable. You may add that to the list of accusations I have heard against you over the years. What were they now? Immoral, heartless, selfish …’
Sensing he might hide behind the playfulness, French was keen to join in: ‘It was also said that I was cunning, disloyal—’
The captain raised a finger. ‘No, Quinlan, not that. I would say that being disloyal is not one of your faults. You are most loyal.’
I had had enough. I stood to leave.
‘Where are you going?’ Sykes asked.
‘To attend to Miss Gould. It appears that there are three men in this room but only one gentleman.’
‘Yes, yes, attend to Miss Gould’s tears, of course you must, but we shall have a small discussion first. Please, let us sit down.’ He waved to the couch with an expansive gesture.
‘I would prefer not to,’ I replied, clinging to all I had left—my dignity. ‘I have had enough of your games.’
‘As you wish,’ Sykes replied, casually. ‘Mr French, bring that lamp, would you?’
French quickly went to the captain’s bedside table and brought the oil lamp. He set it in front of the captain. Sykes raised the flame, then picked up the auk’s egg and held it to the light. He gazed intently, examining the egg through his glasses.
‘Mr Saxby, what is your opinion? Is the egg viable?’ From where I stood, the egg glowed a milky yellow, darkly speckled with the lines and flecks of its marking. Sykes glanced at me, raising his eyebrows, before setting the egg down once more. It rocked on the flat tabletop. The auk noticed, and quickly scrambled to gather it.
‘See!’ Sykes cried. ‘She sits like a statue, but when she moves, she waddles like a washerwoman!’
‘Goodbye,’ I said.
‘Stop,’ Sykes instructed. ‘Please, sit.’
I refused, intent on leaving.
‘So,’ the captain continued. ‘We appear to have one problem, which is a bird, and another problem, which is an egg. We have two problems.’
‘Mr French knows how to wring a neck,’ I said, pushing past French with the satisfaction of shoving him against the wall as I left.
I knew what I had to do. The thought had occurred to me with the clarity of a crystal of quartz. Hard, smooth-edged, filled with its own perfect right to exist. For a moment in the saloon, I actually thought of how the world might be, if it accorded to such beautiful and natural lines of geometry and precision. Rightfulness, existing with the power to cut through all that was wrong and bent within men’s minds.
Across the room I faced the two sailors who had been put on sentry duty. They were not men I had spoken to, and they eyed me with suspicion, encouraged by the warning they had no doubt been given that I might be trouble. Trouble! What a thought. I stared at them with an unflinching resolve and saw that it was an attitude they hadn’t anticipated. One, a tall man in a smock whom I had seen at the bow of the ship, patiently bent over the spinning wheel making yarn, lowered his chin and eyed me as you might give a shrewd glance at a particular problem—an incorrectness in a carpenter’s join or a door that wasn’t hung straight. He scratched his chin and relented, looking to his mate for advice. I scoffed at him and went directly to Bletchley’s cabin, marching straight in without knocking.
Inside the room I was quickly unnerved by what I saw. The porthole was entirely closed off with material, making it a very shadowy place, and Bletchley was not on his bunk; he was instead on the floor, covered in several blankets so that even his head could not be seen. But there was no doubt he was in there, for he was moaning in a most disconcerting and injured way.
‘Wake up, man,’ I said, overcoming my trepidation. ‘Edward, get off the floor.’
From among the blankets I heard a strange and muffled groan.
‘Did you hear me?’
‘I am awake!’ he replied, irritated.
‘Get up, then.’
‘Why?’
‘Can’t you hear your cousin?’ I said. Clara’s cries were clear through the thin divide between their cabins. ‘I’m talking to you—I said can you hear your cousin’s distress?’
He whipped the blanket away from his head. ‘Of course!’ he snarled, as an angry child might do, backed into a corner.
Despite the situation, I laughed. He really was quite pathetic. Only then did I notice that his clothes lay in a tangled pile strewn about the floor, several garments ripped to shreds as if he had searched among their expensive linings.
‘What’s been going on here?’ I asked.
He stared at me, wild eyed. His hair was tousled and unkempt and there was a sour unwashed odour coming from his clothes or body.
‘I have to do something,’ I said, pushing my boot through his clothes and shovelling them to one side. His cabin had the same layout as mine, which meant the locker underneath the bunk would be the only possible place where they could be. I crouched down and opened the hatch, reaching in among his stuff.
‘Are they in here?’ I asked, more of myself than Bletchley. He was quietened by my attitude, and watched me with a curious expression. I quickly found the case and dragged it onto the floor, springing the catches as if I had done it a thousand times. It was only with the lid open, and at the sight of the three gleaming and immaculate rifles, that I felt my determination crumble. Their hard steel, their engravings, their sheer workmanship and plain intent were unavoidable.
Bletchley shuffled on his hind quarters across the floor towards me, pushing his hair back from his face and eyeing the guns with excitement.
‘Now, Eliot, that’s my gun case, you know that—I mean, those are my guns, yes?’
He couldn’t take his eyes from them, and neither could I. The barrels were long and made of a dark steel that had a wavering pattern within the roll of the metal, akin to agate. The stocks were of flat polished brass, and the butts of a beautiful walnut, deeply polished and smoothed until the grain sh
one. Each gun was nestled within a plum-coloured velvet indentation in the case. The engraved stocks had scenes of seals and walrus sitting atop the ice floe, with a proud hunter aiming a similar weapon in their direction.
‘It is no wonder you couldn’t cope,’ I said, unexpectedly.
‘Close the case,’ he whispered. ‘Go on, shut the lid on them, it’s best.’
I picked up the closest gun and felt its weight. It tipped awkwardly in my hand, as heavy as a pickaxe. I pushed it towards him. ‘You don’t understand,’ I said. ‘You have to load it for me.’
He shrank back from it, and me, raising a hand to shield his face. ‘No no no,’ he said, ‘I can’t touch the thing. Put it back.’
I thrust it at him and let it drop onto his lap. ‘Do it, Edward, or I shall strike you.’
He stared, incredulous. ‘Would you?’
Someone gave a loud knock on the door. ‘Is you all right in there, sir?’ one of the sailors demanded.
Bletchley looked at the door with pure hate. ‘Get lost, you devil!’ he spat, then turned to me with a wolfish grin. ‘Give me that,’ he said, urgently, pointing at the case.
‘What’s wrong with the gun I gave you?’
‘Pah!’ he replied, the sound of an old boast in his voice. ‘Only a fool would use that. The short-barrelled one, the snub one,’ he said, clicking his fingers with impatience.
Seizing my chance amid his erratic mood swings, I quickly passed him the smallest of the guns. He took it gladly, a favourite pet, appreciating it once more, running his hand along the barrel and stock.
‘I like this one,’ he said, a little sadly. ‘Give me the powder then, before I change my mind.’
I passed him the powder flask. Eagerly he took it and began to pour powder into the muzzle, his hands working quickly and expertly and following their own set of practised routines. He unclipped the ramrod and slotted it down the barrel, giving the powder a hearty push that made his eyes gleam with pleasure. Ignoring me completely, he reached over and picked his own bullet, a small spherical ball of lead that he sat in a precise square of fabric before easing into the end of the muzzle. It was a beautiful and satisfying fit. He pushed it in with the soft part of his thumb before again tamping with the rod.