Easton (6 page)

The table is
lavishly set. Silver plates, knives and goblets catch the candlelight. The captain of the loyal ship is an older man, his hair white, his face flushed. He sits very still, looking down at the table. A youth sits beside him, dressed in a fine red tunic. His blue eyes shine like his new and well-polished buttons. His hair is lank and fair.

George is next to Whitbourne. The two of them gaze across the table at the new arrivals as though viewing a mirror image of their earlier selves. Easton sits at the head of the table. He pulls at a piece of bread with his fingers and suppresses an amused smile.

“So, Captain Pym, tell me, how did you leave the Indies?”

“The Indies, sir...” Pym starts, then pauses, gazing down at his empty plate.

At the merest hint of a gesture from Easton the slave emerges from the shadows. She holds a silver tray of roasted fowl before Captain Pym. Pym stabs a strip of white meat with his fork and lets it drop upon his plate. The action betrays a trembling hand. The slave girl goes to each of the men in turn. No one has eaten more than a few mouthfuls so far. George feels some pressure to be polite and takes two strips. Pym seems too tense to continue talking, at least for the moment. He makes no attempt to eat. The ship’s boards creak beneath them. Easton stares, chewing his bread, the smile slowly leaving his face.

“The Indies, sir,” Pym resumes at last, “were as they always are. Hot. Savage. With silent lightning and the constant grumble of thunder regardless of whether it rains. Spanish ships were all around like crows feeding off a carcass.”

“Ah. Spanish ships always mean gold, do they not, Admiral Whitbourne?” says Easton. “Gold and African slaves. We will be doing the King’s work without his even knowing it.”

George looks sideways to catch Whitbourne’s expression. His eyes are widening just perceptibly.

“We, sir?” the admiral ventures.

“Indeed, sir,” Easton replies, smiling and taking a sip of his wine.

The young man opposite George shifts in his seat, his eyes flaming. “Do I take it then, Admiral Whitbourne, that you and your captain here have joined our host’s ventures?”

Whitbourne dabs his mouth with a napkin, preparing his answer. But Easton beats him to it. “They were carrying my arms, Lieutenant Baxter, during the unfortunate misunderstanding when you mistook us for pirates. I flatter myself in believing that makes Admiral Whitbourne and Captain Dawson my comrades.”

“It certainly does,” the young man snaps, his eyes aflame in the candlelight. He stares across at George. George finds himself disliking the young lieutenant, his presumptuousness and his rash, self-righteous anger. He returns Baxter’s stare with equal venom.

“Indeed,” Easton continues addressing the young man. “And if a man of Admiral Whitbourne’s unquestioned character willingly stays with me and takes up arms in my defence, then the King can have no doubt as to my loyalty to England. I sincerely hope that you and your venerable captain will give a good report of us to those among His Majesty’s loyal seaman you find.”

Captain Pym looks up slowly from the table. “You mean,” he begins to stutter. “You mean, sir, that you intend to let us go.”

“‘Let you go,’ Captain?” Easton repeats as though genuinely shocked. “You make it sound as though we are keeping you prisoner!”

The slave emerges from the shadows once more and begins refilling the goblets, starting with Lieutenant Baxter.

“We do not keep people against their will, and we shall, of course, lend our men and expertise in repairing your mast and sail.”

George looks sideways again and catches Whitbourne’s eye. The admiral’s expression seems to wear all the helplessness and bewilderment George himself feels.

“All we require from you, sir,” Easton continues, “is the promise of a good report for myself and my companions to the Admiralty.”

The slave now fills George’s goblet, distracting him for a moment. As she sways toward him he takes in her scent properly for the first time. He has no idea how to name it, but her fragrance has the same elusive, gossamer-winged tug upon his imagination as those of the most alluring women from home. Suddenly, the room seems full of petals and butterfly wings and George feels a hundred times lighter. For a moment, and even after she moves back into the darkness beyond the table, he sees his predicament in a whole new light:
Yes
, he thinks,
we have been fooled into an allegiance with the pirate monarch. Yes, we are far from home base and travelling farther every moment. But our imprisonment is one among many confusing details. There is no telling where it might lead
. George tastes the roast fowl again and finds its flavour subtle and rich, like the pheasant from the woods near his home.

Only when the slave’s fragrance fades completely does the dull, stark reality of how they have been manipulated resettle on his shoulders. The face of Admiral Whitbourne, usually the model of inscrutable calm, also helps to anchor him. Whitbourne’s brow is, for once, crumpled in extreme vexation. His eyes are like deep wells, flickering with worry.

The conversation has moved on. Captain Pym has brightened a little and is asking about Easton’s silk hangings.

“My ancestors did battle against the infidel during the Crusades,” says Easton, “and now I do trade with them.”

“Something your conscience permits, sir?” asks Baxter, some of his former indignation returning.

Easton smiles at George and Whitbourne as if the inexperience of the lieutenant were a joke to be shared between them.

“It is the Spanish, sir, who are the villains of our time,” he replies. “They are the ones who hoard the world’s gold and harvest African savages for their colonies.” He gazes off for a moment into the shadows, where the slave stands with a jug. “There is a barbarism on that continent you would scarcely believe,” he mumbles, “and the Spanish are pumping its revitalizing blood into their Empire.”

The boards creak. Easton’s intensity has brought silence to the room. He takes another sip of wine. “I am doing the King of our beloved country a profound service, gentlemen,” he resumes in the same quiet tones. “It is the dawning of a new age. An age of commerce. The world is out there for us to plunder. We must show the King what is to be gained and what can be lost if we let the Spanish roam freely while we sit in our country homes counting our bales of hay.”

“But the Crown recognizes the need for exploration and commerce, sir,” the lieutenant says stiffly. “Surely you have heard of the East India Company.”

Easton smiles again, as though humouring a rambunctious child. “Indeed, sir, I have. And a noble enterprise it is, no doubt. Perhaps there is hope for England, after all.”

“So why, sir, do you not ask for a commission from the Crown?” the young man pursues. “This would surely be the most logical option for one intent on expanding trade and serving his country?” George notices Captain Pym is trying to reach under the table to stop him.

Easton goes silent and sighs very slowly. The cabin sways in the darkness, hardly a creak invading the silence this time. “My dear young sir. Trading for cloth and silk would bore me. Let the shopkeepers and dewy-eyed lieutenants of England work for the East India Company and scrape and grovel before their Scottish King and patron for small commissions. I pick a more fearsome enemy. And in time, let me assure you, the King will come to me on my own terms. Even a king is not averse to gold.”

Lieutenant Baxter drops a knife. The clanging noise echoes through the silence. “Sir,” he says, jogging the table with his knees, “It is His Majesty King James I of England to whom you refer, if I am not mistaken?”

The table jolts again; it seems he has come within a whisker of standing.

George instinctively backs off a little from the table as does the admiral. Captain Pym closes his eyes and puts his palm to his forehead.

Easton glances around the table. He gives a tired and slightly bemused shrug. “Sir, you are not mistaken,” he says wearily.

“In which case, sir, I must ask for a retraction.”

Easton sighs, drops a napkin and, very slowly, stands. “My dear sirs,” he says with a formal bow. “I feel my young friend, the lieutenant, and I may have a few small matters to discuss. Would it be unconscionably rude of me to ask you to retire to your cabins where I will have your food and drink brought after you?”

George, Whitbourne and Captain Pym stand all at once, a pall of silence hanging over their movements. The lieutenant remains seated for a second, then stands awkwardly while the others head for the exit. George sees a flicker of terror pass over his face.

George, Whitbourne and Pym make their way onto the deck. The night wind blusters warm around George’s ears. The sails are at full stretch like the bellies of pregnant cattle. The slave walks before them in order to show Pym his cabin. They circle together in silence around the maze of cabins with the clear, starry night watching them from above. The slave leads Captain Pym into a doorway and soon after George and the admiral reach their entrance.

“What do we do now?” George asks quietly as they reach the shelter of the little vestibule.

“Our options are even more limited than before. We are now bound to stay on his side and argue in his favour. We have no choice. Pym will report that we carried his arms. He has to.”

They stand in front of their respective doorways, both weary and lost. It is a sad, unwholesome kind of defeat because it springs not from honest battle on their part, but from cold strategy which has failed. The strain of humiliation shows on the admiral’s face.

“Will he bring us back to our own harbour, do you think?” asks George.

“It’s where he has left more than half his own fleet and so he must return there himself. We have to trust he will, that’s all.”

George bids the admiral goodnight and goes into his cabin. He waits there, pacing, his heart beating faster than its usual pace; he is not at first sure why. Only when he hears approaching footsteps a few minutes later, does he recognize the reason for his anticipation. The door opens slowly after a soft knock. Without looking at him, the slave enters and places a tray with a plate, a jug and a goblet down on the side table. George finds himself frozen in the middle of the room like a statue, unable to move away yet helpless to speak to the one who has entered. The slave glances at him curiously as she leaves, her footfalls soft upon his rug then echoing in the vestibule beyond the room. Her leaving creates a tug somewhere deep in George’s chest.

George wakes up feeling vaguely ashamed though the reason for such an emotion is obscure to him. Daylight scatters over the bed linen and he realizes he has slept soundly for many hours. He now remembers that before lying down he enjoyed two full goblets of Easton’s excellent wine and much of the roast fowl. The hunger of recent self-deprivation, it seems, caught up with him quite suddenly, and he let go. But while his brain and body were relaxing his dreams were preparing to weave his enjoyment into images of self-reproach.

In his sleep he found himself on a shining deck made of gold. Rosalind was beside him, but her face was again ebony like the slave’s. The warmth of her body was pressed close against his and he could taste the sweet breath from her smiling mouth. A cannon on the main deck was turned inward; it seemed to be shaped like a giant curved mouth, the contours of its rim like human lips. Rosalind held a jug underneath this curious aperture and it spewed forth a steaming liquid the colour of blood. Rosalind filled a goblet with the jug’s contents and gave it to George to taste. The flavour had his senses in raptures, sparkling on his tongue with richness and zest intermingling. It was like the music of the finest minstrels translated magically into taste.

None of this troubled George while he was asleep. Indeed the sweet, oozing sensations of the dreams only added to the rich comfort of his slumber. But now with morning sun glinting on the silver tray and wine jug resting together on the side table, all his recent comforts begin to pick at his conscience. He thinks of young Baxter. What would the lieutenant say if he knew George had enjoyed Easton’s bounty so thoroughly? How indignant and self-righteous he would be! How he would stiffen and stand if George were to reveal the details of his strange dream! To the lieutenant, the fancies of his sleep would surely prove that George’s soul was descending swiftly into some chasm of corruption.

And of course he was right. Easton had been talking treason. He was a rogue. George had no right to be immersing himself in such comfort and luxury after a mere two nights on his ship. How quickly the brain and body adjust to such foulness and seek the compensation of the senses!

George wonders vaguely what happened between Easton and the lieutenant when they were left alone—what stiff accusations and tired denials were repeated. How long could such a fruitless argument last before each man must repair to his own bed exhausted? Why didn’t the fool of a lieutenant just celebrate his promised freedom and keep quiet until his release?

George turns and hauls off his bedsheets. He stands and goes over to the ready jug of water and washes his face. The sweet droplets run cool over his skin and he can almost taste the wine of his dream again, the tingle of effervescence on his tongue. He can feel from the movement of the cabin that the ship is still slicing through the water at a steady pace. There is a distant sound of hammering, no doubt the promised repairs to Pym’s ship, which must be travelling alongside.

He dresses and leaves the cabin. The deck of the
Happy Adventure
is a swarm of activity. Dozens of bronze and wiry seaman are scrubbing, hammering and climbing. George sees Pym’s ship, the
Loyal Pandora
, half a length behind. The rear mast is already mended and a group of Easton’s men are checking the rigging and sails while Pym’s own crew look on like a small deer herd smelling the wind, wondering if they are in danger.

The air is much warmer today, even though the sun has barely climbed above some low clouds on the horizon; the wind streams past like the breath of a benevolent Neptune and the ocean ripples gently from horizon to horizon. George scans the distant waters. Then, turning, he sees Captain Pym standing a couple of yards behind him. He steps forward to greet the captain but is halted by a curious expression on his face. Pym’s cheeks have taken on an even more lurid colouring than usual and his eyes are bulging. He appears to speak, but the wind carries his words away and he thrusts a handkerchief to his mouth as though he is about to be sick. George takes another step toward the captain and offers him a steadying hand.