Watery Grave

by Bruce Alexander

“All except the officers, of course —neither Mr. Landon, nor Mr. Grimsby, nor Mr. Highet.”

  “Who is Mr. Highet?”

  “He uuui the fourth officer, sir. He fell in battle against the Dutch pnvsiteer Haarlem a year later. Quite young, good young lad, a pity and a shame it was.”

  “It always is.”

  “You mentioned the opinion of Lieutenant Landon as regards Lieutenant Hartsell’s action in launching a boat. You must then have talked to him about the incident —Captain Markman’s fall into the sea, et cetera. When was that? What did he say? ‘

  “Why, he was quite distraught when we spoke the night after the storm, when things ha’ calmed down. Blamed himself he did, but I wouldna’ say he telt guilt.”

  “You are making a distinction which I do not quite follow.”

  “Well, I think it plain enough,” said Mr. MacNaughton, a bit loftily.” In any mishap, him who tries to give aid or remedy may feel afterward he should have done more or different. As ship’s surgeon I feel it full many a time. In this way, you blame yourself, still knowing you were not the cause of it all. To feel true guilt, it seems to me, you must indeed feel you yourself were the cause. And so I say iMr. Landon blamed himself, but I wouldna’ say he felt guilt.”

  “I accept your distinction,” said Sir John.” Do you remember what he said?”

  “No.” Yet having said no, he reconsidered.” Well, perhaps …”

  “Perhaps? Please, sir, we must hear. We have traveled down to Portsmouth to glean what we can otyour knowledge of this matter. We deserve better than perhaps. Mr. Landon deserves better than perhaps. ‘

  “Aye,” he agreed.” Well, the first thing he said was of little importance, something to the effect that if he had grasped Captain Markham by the belt of his britches he might have saved him —the sort ol: thing we always tell ourselves as we look back on such situations. ‘ Mr. MacNaughton laughed abruptly and rather inappropriately at that point.” I recall tellin’ this to Tobias Trindle, what Lieutenant Landon said. Tobias is a proper old salt who was at the helm that terrible day, and he saw it all. When he heard that about grabbin’ the captain by the belt of his britches, he said, ‘Had Mr. Landon done that, he would hae wound up with the captain’s pantaloons in his hand, ‘stead of his shoe. There was no savin’ him.’ Or so said Tobias.”

  “Would you repeat that, please?”

  “What Lieutenant Landon said?”

  “No, what Tobias Trindle said.”

  Donald MacNaughton repeated it, as requested, realizing as he did that what he had said was of some significance. His eyes glinted shrewdly, and in him seemed to kindle, for the first time, the beginning of respect for Sir John.

  “Now,” said his interrogator, “you indicated that something else said by Mr. Landon was of greater importance. What was that?”

  “He said that the captain should not have been up on the poop deck in any case. He was Far too 111. Mr. Landon said he had returned to Lieutenant Hartsell and told him that, but that Mr. Hartsell ha’ simply repeated his order to bring him forth.”

  “When I talked to Lieutenant Landon—when was that, Bobbie? — but three days ago, he indicated that you would be the best source to reveal the nature of the captain’s illness. Did Captain Markman consult you? Did you treat him?”

  Mr. MacNaughton let out a sigh and for the first time showed some degree of discomfort at a particular area of questioning. He hesitated long and said at last: “Yes, he consulted me early in the voyage.”

  “And what was the nature of his complaint?”

  “He ha’ a swelling in his innards that gave him pain.”

  “What was your diagnosis? A tumor?”

  “In my opinion, no. It was his liver was swollen. I advised him to give up drink. He … He did not take my advice.”

  “Am I to take it that Captain Markham was something of a tippler?”

  “A good deal more than that, I fear. He seemed to me to be in the last stages of alcohol addiction. Probably he was wise not to follow my advice and give up drink. Had he done so, the shock to his system would no doubt hae killed him. He was past saving. The death he got was probably the best one he could hope for.”

  “Again you make a distinction. What would be the difference be-tween frequent drunkenness and what you call alcohol addiction?”

  “One of degree, I suppose —but more important, the condition of the body. His color was yellowish. His liver, as I said, was swollen and painful. I observed him at the officers’ mess, and he did not take food, used it only as an occasion to take wine. He could be depended upon to down two bottles each meal. Soon he gave up the pretense of eating. He simply kept to his cabin and drank his brandy. I wouldna’ hae given him six months. I canno’ understand how he could have been given a command in his condition.”

  Vice-Admiral Sir Robert Redmond coughed loudly at that as a warning to Mr. MacNaughton that he would countenance no criticism from him of the Fleet’s decisions.

  “This must have put a great strain upon the other officers,” said Sir John.

  “Aye, oh aye! And on Lieutenant Hartsell most specially. Him it was who charted the course, kept the ship’s log, and stood double watches on deck. He took his duties serious, oh, a bit too serious, it seemed to me.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Well, perhaps not so. After all, he’d had command in the French War, as I understand. He knew probably better than any of us what was required.”

  “What are you trying to say, man?” For the first time Sir John showed some slight exasperation with the surgeon.

  “Simply that as we sailed down the coast of Africa, Lieutenant Hartsell took it upon himself to stand near every watch, every day. He complained that on those rare opportunities when he might allow himself to sleep, he was unable to do so. He’d become a proper insomniac.”

  “What in God’s name is an in-som-ni-ac?”

  “It’s a medical term,” said Mr. MacNaughton, with a quick upward movement of his eyebrows and a flash of his eyes.” An insomniac is one who finds it difficult to sleep.”

  “But you had already said that. I understood you quite well. Why should it be necessary to — ” Sir John broke off, gained control of himself, and began again: “I take it that he sought help from you?”

  “Of course. To whom would he go but me? I offered to administer him sleeping drafts. He found that inconvenient, since his chances to sleep came at odd hours. He thought it better if he had the contents at hand. And so I gae him a quantity of the seeds of the poppy I had carried with me from India, and I instructed him in how he might make a tea from them.”

  “And did that solve his problem?”

  “Aye, it must have done, for he never had occasion to ask me for more. In fact, sir, his sleeplessness seemed to vanish once the captain was overboard.”

  “Did it indeed? How remarkable.”

  “He became more dependent upon his brother officers —Landon, Grimsby, and Highet. They supported him well.”

  There was a pause then of near a minute. The silence became a bit awkward —then somewhat unnerving to Mr. MacNaughton. He looked to the others at the table —the admiral, Mr. Byner, and even briefly at me, as if to ask. Has he done with me? Then, with a great phlegmy rumble. Sir John cleared his throat and spoke up once again:

  “What is your opinion of Lieutenant Hartsell?”

  “A good officer,” said Mr. MacNaughton, “somewhat strict, but a first-rate sailor and steady in battle.”

  “And as a man?”

  “Well, you know what the Good Book says.”

  “What is that? It says many things.”

  “Judge not that ye be not judged.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Sir John, “it falls to some of us to judge —to me, for instance, when I am on the bench. And to you, sir, when asked the question I have just put to you. ‘

  Again an awkward pause. Mr. MacNaughton’s eyes glinted no more. They were downcast as he shifted in his seat and squirmed a
bit. Yet who but Sir Robert should come to his rescue?

  “Jack,” said he, “I must remind you that Lieutenant Hartsell is not the issue here. It is not the condemnation of the accuser but the defense of the accused that concerns us.”

  Sir John glowered. I thought certainly he would speak out in anger, yet he did not. He spoke with great control:

  “Then if that is the case, tell me, Mr. MacNaughton, what is your opinion of Lieutenant Landon?”

  “William Landon is the finest officer and Christian gentleman I have met in my fifteen years as ship’s surgeon with the Royal Navy. It is my deepest conviction that he could never hae committed the act he is accused of.”

  Sir John’s anger flashed out at last: “Is that, sir, why you turned tail and ran like a frightened rabbit for a berth in Portsmouth the moment the Adventure anchored in the Thames? So that you would not be called upon to testify in behalf of this finest officer and Christian gentleman at his court-martial?”

  “Jack! Please! Mr. MacNaughton has been most cooperative.”

  “Yes,” said Sir John, rising from the table, “and I shall ask his cooperation for twenty minutes more, while Jeremy and I go upstairs and prepare a statement drawn from the interrogation of this pusillanimous Scot. Do not worry, Donald MacNaughton, I shall put no words in your mouth. It will contain no more than you told me. But then, sir, you must sign it. You must.”

  He waved briskly at me, who had risen by his side.” Come along, Jeremy.”

  SIX

  In which we receive a letter,

  and

  again visit the Adventure

  There was a curious silence in the kitchen when Sir John and I returned from Portsmouth. It was near the dinner hour and indeed we hoped to be fed. Yet as we ascended the stairs, we heard no hustle and bustle, no rattle of pots and pans, nor none of Annie’s loud laughter. We, or at least I, presumed that the kitchen was empty; but when I, struggling with Sir John’s portmanteau and my ditty box, managed to open the door at the top of the stairs, I was surprised to find both Lady Fielding and Tom Durham sitting quiet at opposite sides of the kitchen table. Her arms were folded. His head was hung low. There was no sign of Annie about.

  Tom jumped up immediately to help with the portmanteau.

  “I’ll just take this upstairs,” said he, seeming most eager to be away.

  Thus he made his escape, bag in hand. And though his mother seemed about to call him back, she checked herself and raised no objection.

  Sir John entered the kitchen, came forward a few steps, stopped, and sniffed the air.

  “What,” said he, “no smells of dinner? Nothing in preparation? I persuaded Bobbie to go through without a stop except to water the horses. I hoped that we might eat what Annie cooked us. Where is she?”

  “Annie Oakum has returned to the Magdalene Home, John.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” said he, in such a way as to make it clear he did not.” But couldn’t you … ?”

  “I was detained with matters at the Home. I only just arrived here myself. There was no one about to do the buying. ‘

  “But … Tom … ?”

  “Tom is in disgrace.”

  “But in disgrace or no, could he not … Ah, well, what then have we to eat in the house?”

  “All I can offer is bread and cheese.”

  “Well, then, bread and cheese it shall be.”

  “And tea, of course.”

  “Of course.” He ruminated a moment, then said he to me: “Well, Jeremy, I reckon a pair of hungrv’ travelers can fill their bellies on a simple meal as easy as a grand one.”

  Yet before I could make polite agreement, my lady raised her arm in a manner almost threatening and pointed to the stairway.

  “Jeremy,” said she, “up to your room, please. You and my son will be called when dinner is put out. Sir John and I have matters to discuss.”

  Having no choice and no proper reason to argue, I picked up the ditty box, excused myself, and marched up the stairs. Tempted though I may have been to stop halfway and eavesdrop, I continued to the top, assured that I would hear the whole stor) from Tom.

  Yet he proved evasive. I found him in a posture not unlike that in which I had first seen him in the kitchen: he sat upon the bed, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. He seemed the very picture of melancholy there before me, as he glanced up and acknowledged my presence with but a nod. I put the ditty box down on the floor and threw myself down on the bed next to him.

  “What is it?” I asked him quite direct.” What has happened?”

  “Oh, please, Jeremy, let it be.”

  “Well, I will if you insist, but you might at least tell me what has happened to Annie. I believe I deserve to know, for I’ll probably catch some blame myself. It was I spoke up for her in this household, more or less. Why was she sent away?”

  “She is in disgrace.”

  “So are you —or so says your mother.”

  “Oh, well I know, well I know. She has done nothing but remind me of that, ever since … Never mind, Jeremy. Let it be.”

  “As you will,” said I.

  Then, half in annoyance, I jumped up from the bed and went to where I had left the ditty box. I unpacked it in a trice, for there was Httle of mine inside it, and thanked him for its use. In response, he merely nodded, annoying me further. So then with nothing better to do, I went to the books piled against the wall to search out one I had not yet read. Though they numbered near a hundred, this was becoming more and more difficuh each time I looked. What should I do when I had read them all?

  It vould be disingenuous for me to play the complete innocent with you, reader. If Tom was in disgrace, and Annie was in disgrace, it was very likely they had together committed some disgraceful act. And I knew full well that what men and women did together was held to be immoral, unless done within the bounds of marriage. It might to some then seem all the more reprehensible if undertaken by such as young as Tom and Annie. Yet I wanted to hear this Irom Tom. Above all — and I burn with shame to admit it —I wanted instructive details.

  But then of a sudden Tom spoke out to me in a manner most accusing: “Why did you not tell me of the true nature of this ‘Magdalene Home’? Penitent prostitutes, after all!”

  “Your mother told me not to.”

  “Why did you not tell me Annie was one of these former prostitutes? That she had been on the streets for near a year?”

  “Well,” said I, “if I did not tell you of that about Annie, neither did I tell her that you had been a thief.”

  That seemed to me to be a reasonable retort, yet I admit I meant to sting him with it. What had become of us —we two mates, we chums — that we should now speak so sharp to one another?

  “She could have given me a disease —the pox or some other!”

  “Who? Annie?” It seemed a strange idea to me.” She seems healthy enough to me.”

  “Mother says you cannot tell. She has scarce talked to me of anything else. She has me frightened as I was back in Bombay.”

  “But what about Annie? You could have given her a baby.”

  “I could?”

  “Well, isn’t that how it is done? I admit I don’t know much about it, but that much, at least, I heard from Jimmie Bunkins.”

  Tom seemed quite awestruck by the notion:

  “By God, I suppose it’s possible.”

  “It may be growing inside her this very moment.”

  “But she’s so young.”

  “Well, so are you.”

  After that, he quietened down somewhat, perhaps brooding upon the pox or his unintended fatherhood. Time passed. I began to wish that Sir John and Lady Fielding would soon conclude their discussion, no matter how grave, so that I might have my portion of bread and cheese.

  Oh, I would miss Annie long after Tom had gone, I knew full well I would. She was a remarkable good cook—and a good companion, too. Having gone back to the books, I dwelt upon that
a bit as I shuffled through them desultorily.

  “It was in this very bed, ‘ said Tom, unbidden. giving the mattress a slap.

  “Truly?”

  “Yes, it was all arranged beforehand, it was. The girl is quite daft, Jeremw Said she loves me … would do anything I liked …” He hesitated.” Id no idea, reallw

  I frowned in my effort to comprehend.” What was it you didn t understand?” I thought she had made her feelings quite plain.

  “Well, none of it. What a lot of doing there is to that business, mate! Why, we did and did all night until we fell asleep quite exhausted in one another’s arms. And that, you see. was our mistake.”

  “Falling asleep, you mean?”

  “Well … yes. We had chosen this bed quite wisely because it was well away from where my mother slept. But I had been chosen to set the fire in the stove in your absence. When Mama rose in the morning and found neither me nor Annie about, she must have suspected the worst, for she came directly here and found us all atangle, as naked as ever could be, dozing away there where I now sit.

  “What happened then?”

  “What do you suppose? She let out a terrible roar, sent Annie away to get something on her, and as I tried to cover up she began preaching to me that I might now have the pox, and such other terrible things as I do not wish to mention. And then —”

  Just at that moment the summons came from our kitchen. Lady Fielding called us down in a manner much less genteel than was her usual.

  “Bread and cheese.” said I.

  “Ah, well,” said he, “at least it is something. I’m quite famished.”

  And so, together we answered the call, descending to the kitchen not as two hungry lads in a great hurry to eat, but with the slow measured tread of two who know not what to expect but expect the worst.

  In the event, what we experienced was far from the worst —thanks, in large measure (if not completely), to the efforts of Sir John. Redelivered a long report on our trip to Portsmouth which, all m all, was a most eventful journey, what with the attack upon our coach by marauding highwaymen. and my near recruitment into His Majesty’s Navy.

  Even Lady Fielding was impressed by this last. She roused herself from her unhappy musings and reached across the table to clasp my hand.