Deluded Your Sailors (31 page)

Lieutenant Kelly, partnered to Pollard and playing opposite Cleasby, re-arranged his hand. —Surely, Captain, you could consider a short side-trip for the surgeon. Harbour Grace is one of our ports of call.

Penney played badly, costing the game, and Kelly winced.

Cleasby gave a hard sigh and stood up. —Mr Penney, never mind your lieutenancy, how did you ever pass the midshipman's exams with such a poor comprehension of probability and mathematics?

—I apologize, sir.

Pollard split the winnings with Kelly and got ready to shuffle the deck.—Rods and spheres and orbits, Penney: all in its time and place, and elegantly at that. Another round, Captain?

—No, gentlemen, and I beg your pardon. Tomorrow evening, perhaps. Mr Kelly, could you stay a moment?

Lieutenant Kelly watched Penney and Pollard disappear behind the closing door. Then he faced his captain.

Cleasby sat down again.—I see you looking around. You covet these quarters.

—Your quarters are most pleasant, sir.

—Did I ever tell you I once took up work as an agent?

Intelligence agent, I mean, not shipping. Aye, me, Will Cleasby.

Seemed a tidy job; I was already sailing, so I sought it out. An admiral of my acquaintance put me in touch with this fool who could not even fix both eyes upon me as we spoke. He looked for someone more interesting or important the whole while. He gave me a task a boy could do in his sleep, and I got it done quickly, very quickly, to show him my capabilities. I gave a message to the wrong man, however, but the intended man was late, and the man I saw in the appointed place fit the description. For that I got a kick to the arse. The intelligence man ordered me never to cross his path again. Look at me now, captain of a frigate. I suppose he must be dead, or else setting up other young men for betrayal and abuse.

What say you to that?

—I say tis a most unfortunate story, Captain.

—Drop the pretence. You reek of spies as a whore reeks of men. We're months and months at this now. I read Runciman's work in your face as easily as I read a winning hand in Pollard's. Are we chasing a ghost? Who is this Finn, really? Speak, man.

—A murderer and a thief.

—Oh, pretty. The master as deaf to purpose as a powder monkey.

—Sir, I did answer your question.

—You parroted back the contents of my sealed orders. Protect your life, is it? How can I protect you if I know not the truth?

—Sir, the truth lies with Finn's answering to stolen gold and murder.

—Fine words on fine lips. You think me a fool.

—No, sir.

—Then tell me, Lieutenant, whom I must not only protect but cherish as my very compass, why do we now wear on to the West Indies?

—
Kittiwayke
works the molasses trade, sir.

—Barbados, by the devil, bright sun and fever. And if no success in Barbados?

—Massachusetts, sir, Boston and Salem.

Cleasby rubbed his forehead. —Boston and Salem again. And if no success once more? May we at least winter in Portsmouth, sir?

—As you please, sir, but Newfoundland be closer to Massachusetts.

—I like this as much as losing at cards. Such fuss and expense with no return? Does your Runciman cherish these secrets against me?

Kelly's stomach fell away. A delicate situation, as he'd told Runciman. Delicate as navigating high rocks and sunkers, and, if Cleasby's foolishness did not abate, as navigating fire at sea.

—Let me tell you what I carry in my name, Mr Kelly.

Remember when we put in to St John's and got the new charts for Conception and Bonavista Bays from the Governor? I ordered us through Bay Bulls afterwards. Know you why, sir? Any inkling?

That other Captain Cleasby, losing to the French, burnt and sank his ship
Saphire
in Bay Bulls rather than let the French capture her.

Honour there, aye, and a mark on history. But for this Cleasby?

Spies and diplomats, sir, cipher and murder. And this secrecy – is it punishment? Runciman would sit in judgement of me? Shake your head, aye, and give the excuse: Finn, Finn, Finn. To that, sir, I say gold, gold, gold. Finding that stolen gold, the credit of it will go to me. It must. I command this vessel. And your task, a secret from me, shall remain a secret to all. How like you that, sir?

—Tis no matter how or what I like, sir. By guess or by God or by the devil himself, we both stand bound to our orders. Take credit as it pleases you, sir. I shall make do with the truth.

Cleasby squinted. —You, sir, are naught more than a redheaded lying Judas. Get out.

Once Kelly shut the door, Cleasby slid the panels, strode into his night cabin, and opened his sea chest. Lifting a folded blanket from his hammock, he exposed an intricate and heavily worked merkin. This unusual variant, custom-made, boasted a tube of soft pelt and long leather thongs which allowed the user to lash the merkin into place. Today, he did not bother, using it quickly. The pelt was getting stiff.

Kittiwayke
anchored once more in Harbour Grace, Con Pilgrim worried about souls. Raised by a devout aunt who'd taught that he must not only earn his livelihood by the sweat of his brow, but also earn the hope of his birth's redemption by difficult voyages, Pilgrim believed deeply in hell and divine punishment. He also believed one need not die to be in hell: not a destination, he told himself a particularly cold night on watch, but a state of the soul.

His aunt read him Bunyan; she had plucked the lost boy's surname from
Pilgrim's Progress
. She had advised him when praying each night to ask himself if he'd yet earned the right to be a pilgrim.

Working, he often sang verses of Bunyan's song:

Whoso beset him round

With dismal stories

Do but themselves confound;

His strength the more is.

No lion can him fright,

He'll with a giant fight,

But he will have a right

To be a pilgrim.

This day in Harbour Grace, ashore, Con Pilgrim swatted away large flies, the kind that landed on split fish to lay eggs.

Spontaneous generation, his aunt called it. Although maggots and flies come from eggs, some creatures just appeared. Like Adam.

As did I? Con once asked, reasoning he must be spontaneous, lacking mother and father. His aunt said something about there being no reasoning we might see, save our faith. Then she called him by his full name, Constant John Pilgrim, kissed his forehead, and begged him to remember
Matthew
, chapter seven, verses sixteen to nineteen: ‘Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.'

So many things I do not understand.

Kittiwayke
bobbed lightly on her moorings. Pilgrim eyed the little sloop proudly and waved to young Seward, who stood watch.

Seward would get his turn on shore.

The lad should get his turn immediately. He looks sad and pale.

Was Seward's pallor born of guilt? His captain killed two men and set their ship on fire, and calmly sailed on to Harbour Grace. The idea of righteous mutiny or a crewman reporting the attack did not appear to bother Captain Finn. Harbour Grace to St John's, St John's to Boston, Boston to Salem, then back to Harbour Grace.

Any one of them could have deserted in each of those ports and sought justice for the murders. No man did so, not even at home in Salem. Well, how much could a man clearly see from
Kittiwayke
's deck? And what else could a man do at sea but tend to his duties and follow his orders? Secrets in all hearts – some later revelation for an incorruptible time. A much later time. God's forgiveness, meantime, was a private matter.

Pilgrim signalled to a boy in a dory, then climbed down into it. He paid the boy to row him to
Kittiwayke
and row Seward ashore. In the boat, Pilgrim swatted again, this time striking the insect. Fly? Hornet. Pilgrim grimaced and swatted at yet another pest, this one hovering over a healing gash on his forearm. Hornets and wasps, proof of the devil, he once told his aunt. God made the bees, and bees made honey, but God would never have created wasps and hornets. His aunt twisted his ear, forced him to chant ‘great whales and every living creature that moveth' a hundred times, and then fed him bread and water until he had memorized the entire book of
Genesis.
Sometimes he murmured it to himself when he could not sleep.
In the beginning, God created the heaven
and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and
darkness was on the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved
upon the face of the waters.

Pilgrim glanced over the side of the dory but saw only rocks, some ways down.

—Mr Pilgrim.

—Seward. Quiet watch?

—Aye. Only me and the captain on board. Captain's resting.

Does he never go ashore?

—Rarely. But you go on. That dory is waiting for you.

Pilgrim inspected lines, adjusted a few belaying pins. All quiet and fine, just as Finn liked it – and just as he liked it. He leaned his forearms on the larboard gunwale and clasped his hands together.

One day, his own master, but command for command's sake, for the title of captain... no. Content to stay on board
Kittiwayke
.

Compelled.

Pilgrim hardly trusted the supposed certainties of this world – Polaris and bad weather being about all he counted on – but he was certain Finn needed him. Finn gave no sign of this; since
Kindly One
, Finn had hardly spoken beyond orders to Pilgrim. But the privilege of old confidences meant that Pilgrim recognized the marks of nightmares on Finn and felt guided to hold Finn somehow, protect the much smaller man with his height and bulk.

Be a shield. And he would earn the right.

Pilgrim had dared open the subject a few days before. Finn had been busy with the charts.

—Make it quick, Pilgrim.

—I fear for you some days.

—Stay out of the rum.

—I speak plain.

—So do I. Three extra tots, by the smell of you.

—Two, aye, but only to get the courage to ask you.

—Ask me what?

—What is it that darkens you?

—Naught. I shrug off darkness as I do a coat. Now, please – —Even in winter at Morrow's?

Finn looked up. —What do you want, Pilgrim?

—Our last voyage, we spoke easy and free, and we ate together, and we'd go ashore and drink together.

—And tis a failing of mine that I cannot hold much drink.

—Not every man admits that.

—Not every man bears my failings.

—This voyage, you are sour and solitary. I hear you suffering in your sleep. The whole ship hears you, but no one has the courage to speak of it, not even amongst ourselves. Tis a rotten silence we keep for you.

—Foolishness.

—Cries. Pacing. Those shadows around your eyes.

—I do fine, Pilgrim.

—You lie.

—I should give you the back of my hand.

—You'd need to leap to reach my face. Captain, all of us bear the weight of original sin. You be no different, save in degrees of pride.—You be getting Godly on me?

—Tis no jest. Captain, if redemption bothers you – put down the knife.

—Do you know what I hold in my hand? Hey? Poor, sad Pilgrim. You laboured so hard to persuade me to throw my dagger overboard, and I refused. So for you, I dug this treasure out, and now I bear it around my neck. This knife the sailmaker gave me.

Attend, Pilgrim, my friend, my concerned and Godly friend, and – get out.

—Matt.

—Go.

—Your voice – —Cracks on knowledge of sin. Con, get as far away from me as you can. Go!

A slash meant for Pilgrim's face cut his forearm instead. Finn had pulled back, but Pilgrim's arm bled briskly. He stared at the wound, not yet aware of the pain. Then he stared at the knife, which Finn had dropped. Shaking, Finn took Pilgrim's arm and examined it; he allowed this, not sure why.

Telling Pilgrim to sit down, Finn unlocked a sea-chest and brought out a new shirt. She retrieved the knife and cut the shirt into strips, and with those strips she dressed Pilgrim's wound.

Pilgrim's anger curdled in him, and he tried to remember what he said that night at Morrow's. Something salt dripped into his cut, and he flinched; Finn did not look up from her work.

—Con, I wish I might sail thousands of miles away and start again. But I've sailed my thousands. Christiania, Benvolio, Barbados, America, Newfoundland. What remains? The Northwest Passage? New Holland? Sail one more voyage, change my name one more time, then go ashore. No, let me be. Do you understand?

You do not. We'll put turpentine to this tomorrow, once it dries some. I am sorry.

Now Pilgrim examined his forearm; the scabs itched but smelled clean, and they'd gone red and black, not yellow and green.

Some said pus meant healing, but he doubted that. Anger still smouldered in him; he'd done naught to deserve the cut, which could have ruint the strength of his forearm. And Finn had not even asked how it healed. Finn who now hid.

Tis a rotten silence we keep for you.

Pilgrim descended noisily to the master's berth. He called out to Finn, voice well able to reach past the habitually locked door, but he got no answer. Leaning his cheek on the door now, he called again. He rattled the knob, pounded on the door, rattled the knob again. No sound came from within. Pilgrim got an axe and chopped a hole in the door near the knob. He carefully reached through, caught the key and brought it to his side. Then he unlocked the door.

A stink of sweet rum and corruption hit him as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He strode to Finn's desk and chair – not dead, dead drunk, limp and drooling.