Not Yet Drown'd

by Peg Kingman

  It was hot, hotter than Catherine had ever experienced, the oppressive, heavy, drowning heat of the tropics. Even the breeze that still puffed out the sails was hot and singularly unrefreshing, a breeze of a type never even conceived of in Scotland. But they were not to complain of the hot breeze, said Mr Fleming; they were to rejoice in it, for it too often happened in these equatorial latitudes that there was no breeze at all. Too often ships lay becalmed for weeks. They had been lucky, marvelously lucky in their passage, particularly for this unusual and unpredictable season. This hot miserable travesty of a breeze was to be appreciated and praised, for light though it was, still it bore them steadily along day and night, southward to where they might expect to pick up the reliable westerlies which would take them past the cape and all the way to India—or to Australia even, if they failed to strike off in time.

  No fresh cow had been found at Cape Verde, but a beautiful goat with long drooping ears and her twin kids had been brought aboard instead to provide milk for Mrs Todd in particular. Mrs Todd found this milk repulsive, however; it smelled horribly of goat, she said, and told Anibaddh not to bring her any more of it. Anibaddh tried to argue that it smelled no more of goat than cow’s milk smelled of cow; but Mrs Todd insisted that cow’s milk smelled only of milk, smelled only just the way milk, real milk, ought to smell; that only cow’s milk was real milk, and the fluid produced by the goat was counterfeit stuff. Arguing was of no use. She flatly refused any milk. Consequently the other passengers—and the twin kids—made free of it. No butter could be made, because Increase had no separator, and the ship was never still enough to allow the cream to rise, goat’s milk being particularly slow to separate, and likely to spoil first in the equatorial heat. Goat’s milk turned out, however, to be an excellent binding medium for the pastel crayons which Mr Sinclair now taught Grace and Mrs Todd to make.

  He showed them how to grind their pigments very fine in a mortar, then to mix them with a little milk to make a brilliant paste. These pastes would be set out on separate plates to dry a little until they reached a consistency suitable for shaping. Then this pigment dough could be formed into little balls, and these balls flattened and rolled out like worms or snakes and left to finish drying, which they did remarkably quickly in the harsh, bright sun. Then Grace and Mrs Todd had the satisfaction of drawing with these crayons that they had themselves made: the delicious ochre jaune; rich, gorgeous siennas both raw and burnt; exquisite vermilion; ethereal terre verte; cobalt. They were delighted at the beauty, depth, and brilliance of the colours they had made, as delighted as though they had indeed invented the very colours. They would never have looked so attentively at these colours, never have seen them so thoroughly, if they had not had to make the crayons themselves.

  In the mornings, Catherine copied and Grace drew. Mrs Todd drew, or often dozed.

  Mr Sinclair walked his circuits of the deck with a book before his face, halting often to check the drawings and advise.

  Hector was thinking something through. He would sketch and scribble feverishly in his notebook. Then for long, languid hours he would lie pondering, sighing, frowning up at the sails against the dome of blue sky. He was in the grip of an idea, Catherine could tell. It apparently was a tight, uncomfortable, pinching grip, and gave him little rest. Sometimes he sought the distraction of music; he would take out his violin and play Italian tunes, or Scottish ones, until his fingers were sore. Worse yet, he would work on the briefest phrases of three or four notes, playing them over and over, trying out infinitesimal differences in phrasing, timing, and emphasis. It was excruciating to listen to. Knowing this, he would banish himself as far to leeward as he could on the ship, in courtesy to his fellow passengers, so that the faint hot breeze would carry the sound overboard straightaway. Nevertheless, these feverish practicings were often audible in the heavy slow air, seeming to pursue them, eddying in their lee.

  Mr Todd was irritable. He sulked and complained and criticised. He did not like the sultry breeze; he did not like the glare of the sun, nor the close stuffy air under the awning. He did not like to lie all day and night without taking any exercise; he did not like walking about; he did not like to swim, nor read, nor draw, nor write letters, nor play music, nor hear it played. He did not like the pale yellow yolks of the eggs produced by the hens; and when one of the two kid goats was butchered for dinner, he did not like the smell of its roasting. He did not admire his wife’s drawings, nor her little jokes, nor her pretty ways. But sometimes after dinner, and a quantity of Captain Mainwaring’s wine, he would rally sufficiently to try to engage the others in a game of whist or dominoes.

  “Come, Sinclair, do,” said Mr Todd. “For any stakes you choose, a halfpenny a point if you like. We are so dashed slow, I do not see how anyone can bear it.”

  “You must excuse me, Mr Todd. I have promised Mrs MacDonald that I would advise her about some matters of composition and colour for her canvaswork.”

  “Mr MacDonald then. Surely you are not entangled in women’s work.”

  “I am hopeless at such games, you know, Mr Todd. I cannot oblige you.”

  “Well! I suppose it is no use asking our doctor. He never will play for any stakes at all, I am sure. And I have made it a firm rule never to play unless there is a stake, no matter how small. It is such a bore to play when there is nothing to be gained or lost.”

  Dr Macpherson faintly nodded his head in acknowledgment; but neither of them would directly address the other, and Dr Macpherson went out.

  To Hector, who still remained in the cuddy cabin, Mr Todd said, “I wonder if the good doctor would agree to be ducked and shaved again for a quid? Ha ha! Did you ever see such an amusing sight! I am much obliged to him for the entertainment! It has turned out a dashed quiet and sober voyage. A stupid, priggish lot. Now, on my previous passage, going out on the Ariel, we were a pretty company. Among us were several gentlemen of fashion, and one in particular who was known for a wit and had been the particular friend of a noble personage before his marriage. There was a pair of pretty young widows, too, quite fresh and attractive. Ah, that was an agreeable voyage! We had some romping and some roaring! Of course I was not much more than a raw boy then, and not used to fashionable company. At first their pranks and raillery quite astonished me. But I got the hang of it, and pretty quick, too.”

  “I am sorry you are disappointed with the tone of the present company,” said Hector. “Yet on the whole it seems to me we have been pretty tolerable. I am going above to take a turn or two on the deck. Will you come, sir?”

  “Shall I have to hear Dr Macpherson urging the benefits of tobacco?” said Mr Todd. But in default of anything better to do or anyplace else to go, he went.

  On this occasion Dr Macpherson was not arguing the merits of tobacco, but those of his kinsman and patron James “Ossian” Macpherson instead. “He certainly offered to display his original manuscripts and transcriptions at his booksellers for minute examination by any who might choose to avail themselves of the opportunity,” the doctor was declaring to Catherine and Mrs Todd.

  “But why did he not publish them in the original Gaelic?” said Catherine. “A volume, with the original Gaelic on the left and his elegant translation on the facing page, just opposite—now, that would have been a most valuable document. That is just the arrangement of the Ramayana translation which Mr Fleming has lent me, and a most logical and convenient arrangement it is.”

  “I believe he had such a volume in preparation at the time he died. He was not born to wealth and leisure, Mrs MacDonald; he was never one of your dilettantes. No, he never had the luxury of freedom from worldly cares. He had no advantages of place, position, or patronage. Nor had he any more of name or family than belongs to any Highland gentleman, no more than I have myself! Despite this, he built a towering and durable literary reputation—before he had reached the age of thirty. And then he went on to make himself exceedingly useful in the political sphere as well. Exceedingly useful.”

  “
He was a marvel of determination and energy, I am sure,” agreed Catherine. “Nevertheless I do maintain it is a pity he never published his Gaelic originals. Nor did they ever appear after his death, when an executor might have found them among his papers and brought them before the world.”

  “Oh! Ossian is it, still!” exclaimed Mr Sinclair good-naturedly, walking up and joining them under the awning. “Well, well. Old jewels in new settings are still jewels.”

  “But why not present the jewel to the world in its genuine old setting?” said Catherine. “Why reset the jewel at all?”

  “Because tastes change, of course,” said Mr Sinclair, “and the old-fashioned setting may prevent us from perceiving the beauty of the jewel itself.”

  “And who among us can even read the old Gaelic character these days? I would have an easier time with Greek, myself,” said Hector.

  “Always supposing it is a jewel, and not mere glittering glass,” said Mr Sinclair.

  “But do you mean to say, sir, that Fingal is glass?” said Dr Macpherson. “Do you deny that Fingal is great poetry?”

  “Glittering glass in a setting of brass,” muttered Mr Todd, singsong to himself.

  “Oh, sir, I am no judge of poetry,” said Mr Sinclair. “Yet I cannot feel just exactly confident about Fingal, and Ossian, and all that. It is just like the curious feeling that I have sometimes when I am looking at a painting. The more I would like to believe in it, the less certain I feel that I am justified in doing so. Yes, that is it. For there we were—what was it, fifty years ago? a little more—there in particular were we, the Scots, the Gaeltach, smarting still from the ravishment of the Union and a couple of failed rebellions and a harsh and demeaning Disarming Act. And not just the Scots, you know, sir, but all of us, all Britons, sallying out into the great world. It was a credulous, anxious, ambitious age, men hungering for something that would prove us as splendid as the Greeks and Romans; or splendider if it could be managed, or their worthy heirs at the very least. Then lo and behold, a Mr Macpherson appears and presents us with a vernacular epic of our very own! And in the best classical style, too! It couldn’t have been better if we had had one built to order. And that is precisely why I am just a little skeptical, you see.”

  “Hmph! But what do you say, Mr MacDonald?” asked Dr Macpherson. “You are a Gaelic speaker from the cradle, I believe.”

  “Oh, doctor, I am a mechanic, and must confess to having shirked my studies of literature at every opportunity. But if I were to consider the question from a scientific standpoint, I might reason as follows: If it is great poetry, then I suppose it must have been the work of a great poet. Now from all that I have heard and read of your good kinsman, sir, I believe that his abilities lay more in the realm of the political and the polemical. With all due respect, I am not convinced that his soul was that of a great poet. I conclude, therefore, that if Fingal is great poetry, it must be the work of some other man.”

  “But of course it is!” cried Dr Macpherson. “There is your proof; it is the genuine poetry of Ossian himself, only translated for the modern reader by my great-uncle.”

  “Still, sir, I have heard songs and tales of Fingal and Cuchullin, of Oscar and the others all my life, and all in the old Gaelic,” said Hector. “Yet my impression of them is quite different from what Mr James Macpherson has given to us. Now, I do not pretend to much poetic sensibility. Even when I was very young, my head was full of infantile ambitions about metals and levers; and perhaps I did not pay closest attention. Perhaps it is my own fault that I never noticed much of misty romance, pathos, love, or sublime sorrow in those old ballads. A fair amount of fiery martial sentiment I do recall, more gruesome than heroic. What I remember best, I’m afraid—due to the defects of my own taste—were the bawdy and ridiculous bits.”

  “Oh, who gives a fig? Who cares whether he translated ’em or made ’em up himself?” said Mr Todd, and he threw himself into a low chair.

  “A society which ceases to concern itself with questions of truth, authenticity, and legitimacy is in decay,” announced Dr Macpherson in his most didactic and irritating tone. “Such a society is diseased; it lies susceptible to fraud and deception of every description.”

  “Legitimacy! Diseased!” cried Mr Todd, rearing up in his chair.

  “Yes, Mr Todd, legitimacy, I say,” declared Dr Macpherson. “In accordance with the established rules, standards, and accepted principles of society. The regular and orderly descent of name, title, property, and power, as known and witnessed and understood by all, open and true for all to see and attest to.”

  “This from the very man who mistook Mrs MacDonald for Grace’s mother! Do you set yourself up as a judge of legitimacy, sir!”

  “I do not ‘set myself up’ as anything, Mr Todd. That is an offensive phrase.”

  “Oh, he is speaking merely of provenance, Mr Todd,” said Mr Sinclair.

  “Providence! I’m damned tired of his precious pratings about morality and righteousness and Providence!”

  “No, no, provenance,” said Mr Sinclair, and set himself between the two men, blocking their view of each other. “Dr Macpherson is only referring to what is sometimes called provenance—knowing where a thing has come from, the path a thing has taken.” Mr Sinclair thrust his hands in his pockets and assumed a leisurely stance as he continued. “Let us consider a painting, for example: Who are all the men who have owned it since it came from the brush of the painter? Whose are the hands through which it has passed? When this is known, the authenticity of the painting, the question of its origin, can more easily be assessed. That is what we mean by provenance. But let us leave off; it is tedious talk for a hot evening. Let us have something airy, something breezy.”

  “Tedious talk! It is damned offensive talk, sir! All the men who have owned it! The hands through which it has passed! And this before her very face!” he cried, gesturing at Mrs Todd.

  “The man is drunk,” said Dr Macpherson, peering around Mr Sinclair’s shoulder at Mr Todd, who was now attempting to rise from his low chair.

  “And you are—you are—” But Mr Todd was prevented by Mr Sinclair and Hector from delivering his opinion, even if he had eventually succeeded in finding the words to express it, for he was certainly quite drunk. He struggled out of his chair and launched himself bodily at Dr Macpherson—without, however, actually landing any blow. With the help of Mr Griffith, the second mate, who quietly appeared from somewhere, they managed to take his arms, his body, and remove him, nudge him, herd him, carry him, help him, push him down the gangway and below, to his cabin. “Diseased! He said I was diseased!” he cried as they inserted him through the hatch.

  “Oh, no, Mr Todd. He certainly said nothing of the sort, never at all,” Mr Sinclair assured him.

  14

  Deviation from the Proper & native Style

  The quarrel could not be made up.

  Dr Macpherson solemnly asked Mr Sinclair to act as his second. “As second? Oh, doctor!” said Mr Sinclair. “I make no doubt that this little matter can be adjusted without resorting to the use of arms and the employment of seconds. There is no need, I am sure. But if I can be of any use in removing the misunderstanding that has unhappily arisen between Mr Todd and yourself—why, that I will do if I can.”

  Mr Todd solicited Hector to act as his second. “I cannot undertake to perform any such duty,” said Hector. “But if you wish, I will speak with Dr Macpherson. Surely there is no ground for so grave a view of the matter, and no doubt we shall be able to remove the causes of this unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  So Mr Sinclair and Hector found themselves closeted together, if not as seconds, exactly, then as spokesmen, negotiators, diplomats. There was a great deal of private talk, low-toned and not so low-toned murmurings behind thin partitions; a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing on the parts of the diplomats as they shuttled between the principals and their own private conferences.

  But the quarrel could not be made up.

  Dr Macpherso
n maintained that neither his words nor his actions required any apology; that on the contrary he had suffered enough and more than enough of Mr Todd’s jeering and fleering, gibing and taunting; and he would be happy to meet Mr Todd upon any field whatsoever, be it ever so small a rock in the middle of the ocean.

  Increase did not happen across any rocks in the ocean, however.

  Mr Todd, for his part, was convinced that Dr Macpherson had insulted him, his wife, and his unborn child by public insinuations upon their lineage and morals; and furthermore had publicly made the false claim that he, Mr Todd, suffered from a venereal infection. He was firmly resolved to demand satisfaction of the doctor and settle the matter once and for all so soon as any landfall should offer the opportunity, and the sooner the better.

  Dr Macpherson held that he was himself the injured party and had the right to choose the weapon; and he chose pistols. Mr Todd, however, declared positively that the injury was his, and that his was the right to choose; and he insisted upon swords.

  The atmosphere in the cuddy cabin became heavy and close, due now not so much to sluggish airs and oppressive heat—for Increase continued to make good progress in her southerly course, sometimes as much as two hundred miles in twenty-four hours, and with every degree of southward progress the air became appreciably cooler and fresher, and the loyal breeze sprightlier—but due rather to the utter breakdown of the fragile little society. Mr Todd, who had never been an early riser, now remained in his cabin until just before dinnertime. And as soon as dinner was over, Dr Macpherson, an early riser, would withdraw to his own cabin, or to the main deck to smoke. They both sat at the table for dinner itself, but their places were moved so that they did not actually see each other’s faces. They sat both on the same side of the table, with Mr Fleming between them, and rarely did either of them speak more than a word or two throughout the meal.