Easton (9 page)

There are two women. One lies prostrate on a long, plain wooden table. There are leather straps near, but not on her hands and feet. Her dresses are pulled up revealing her long, brown legs which glisten with sweat. She whimpers as she sees him, her eyes startled and bulging. Her hair is drenched and there is dark fluid spilt all over the table and running down its legs. The other woman, his slave, is bent over the table, her head pressed close to that of the prostrate woman. She stares up at George. But her expression is intent and questioning, not frightened.

Still half turned and balanced on the ladder, George glances around the room, at the dark chains hanging from the cabin walls, at the flickering candles in every corner. Shelves coming from the walls are stacked to bulging with jars and bottles as though this were the inside of an apothecary shop. The cabin lurches to the side with the ship’s movement. The prostrate woman cries and George’s slave woman tries to hush her.

This is not at all what George had expected; his valour is suddenly thwarted. The woman he has come to rescue is unquestionably in control of whatever is going on. And she seems suddenly primal again, reverting to his first impressions of her. What weird, unwholesome ritual is this? He looks again at the candles, the straps and chains, the stacked jars on the shelves, the dark pool of fluid on the table dripping down the legs. Hot, burning words spill into his brain—words like “torture,” “savage” and then another, even more forbidden label, and one that fits with lethal accuracy the picture before him:
witchcraft.

He stares at her for a second longer. She makes no move and doesn’t alter her expression. She does not even attempt to conceal her diabolical actions. George feels anger swelling up inside him like the turbulent movement of the cabin. For
this
he was risking himself? For
her
he was dreaming such soft, alluring dreams? With bitterness he thinks of his fair Rosalind, how he has merged her pure and beautiful features with this shameless, ignorant piece of base nature before him.

He straightens himself on the ladder.

“May you and your evil practices go straight to hell,” he says out loud with a bitterness that surprises him.

He climbs up the ladder, goes through the anteroom above, strides back through the still empty captain’s cabin and makes his way along the howling decks back to his own quarters, his righteous anger only marginally drained by a curious sensation of unease he can barely explain.

He settles down on his bed, still not able to shake this disquiet. The curious feeling seemed to have its origin in the atmosphere immediately after he had spoken. Was there a reproach in the moan of the stricken woman as he climbed the stairs? Or did he catch sight of a hurt frown on the face of the slave leaning over her? He is not sure about either. But something in the very air made his anger stand out as ugly—even unjustified. Perhaps it was the silence and mystification with which the two savage women met civilization that made civilization itself seem perversely cruel and ignorant. Perhaps this was the paradox with which all missionaries who brought enlightenment to the darker corners of the globe had to do battle.

Somehow fresh bread and milk has appeared on the side table in his absence. After a few minutes’ rest he rises and partakes of it. The fresh bread is beautiful as usual, its outside crisp, its inside as light as cloud and smelling of warm yeast. But even while eating, the reflection of his own brutality comes back to George. He begins to hear the moans of the woman below. This time they are even louder than before, more urgent and more pained. He wonders what is being done to her and thinks of the jars and bottles on the various shelves. Perhaps it is some kind of slow poison that drains all the fluids from the woman’s body, hence the dark pools of liquid on the table. But it is useless to guess too much. And what is the point of trying to rescue a people who so obviously prey even upon each other? He lies back on his bed and drifts off into a sleep.

He dreams of black panthers with wild red eyes and sabre teeth snarling and tearing at each other in some wild and inhospitable terrain. Then the dream changes and it is no longer panthers but Easton, Whitbourne and himself, all disguised in panthers’ hides, lunging at each other with spears. As Easton’s spear pierces the flesh between George’s ribs, the sharp pain causes him to yelp. He wakes. And as though still dreaming, the most curious sound greets his ears. A noise muffled, far off and below but utterly unmistakable. It is the crying of a newborn child.

It takes
a while for him to understand, even while he listens to the infant’s wailing.

He thinks of the woman moaning and in pain. He thinks of the slave leaning over her. It suddenly seems obvious. But how was he to know? He knew about childbirth, of course, but he had no idea what it looked like. And the scene had been so savage: the sweat, the pain, the nakedness of the prone woman’s legs. Surely childbirth was not like that in any civilized country.

George tries to hold on to anything that might mitigate the severity of his judgment; any strand of thought that might make him seem less ludicrous. But self-justification soon crumbles and the words return like burning embers into his brain.
May you and your evil practices go straight to hell.
He turns on the bed like one in a fever and sits up. What could he say were their evil practices? Being in pain? Being with child on a pirate ship?

He thinks of the odd silence that followed. Little wonder! George feels his face burn at the memory. He goes through it again, trying to make it all less crushingly foolish. Perhaps they did not hear or understand him properly. The thought gives him momentary respite. But then again he had spoken very loudly, clearly and angrily. The silence was not one of non-comprehension. It was one of amazement.

He gets up and washes his face in the basin. The cool water is pleasant against his burning skin and it calms him. The woman is, after all, not wicked as he had thought her. And beyond the shame and embarrassment of it all, this seems to matter. He will have a chance to talk to her again, and perhaps explain.

The ship still sways, but to a gentler rhythm; the storm has subsided, but the swell remains. George decides to tell Whitbourne what he has found out about Baxter.

“My dear Captain Dawson,” Whitbourne says with a sigh. “You must consider the source from which you gathered this information.”

“She isn’t lying.”

Whitbourne sits upright in his cabin’s only chair; he is fingering a leather-bound book distractedly. He opens the cover and stares at the title page. George is close enough to see the elaborate illustration—austere, classical characters draped around a stone tablet which appears to carry the work’s title.

“You would take the word of an untamed primitive,” he merely says. “Easton explained how it happened and I’m satisfied.”

The cabin groans and lurches to starboard. George doesn’t speak at all for the moment and clearly his silence goads the admiral, who snaps the book closed and sighs heavily.

“What would you have me do, sir? Pym was satisfied also. Look, he even gave Easton this gift, his own newly printed Bible from King James’ own Court.”

“Pym wanted to get away,” George persists quietly. “He wanted to escape so he could report directly to the Admiralty.”

“I don’t see it,” grumbles Whitbourne. “I don’t see it at all.”

“You don’t see it because you don’t want to,” George says, taking a couple of paces in the small cabin. “Pym saw into the depths of Easton’s depravity. He saw it so clearly he knew there was no point in arguing. That’s why he left without any fuss, bestowing gifts. He was humouring a madman.”

Whitbourne lets the book drop onto his lap. His face twitches, then loses some of its rigidity. “And if you’re right,” he says quietly, “if you’re right, the question is this.” He pauses and stares up at George, his eyes darkening. “What difference does it make?”

“What difference?” George echoes. He stands bewildered.

“Exactly,” snaps Whitbourne. “I believe Easton because I must. Whatever Pym says to the Admiralty about Easton, he will also be saying about us. We have been his ally and we must continue to take his part. We must continue to argue in his favour. It is our only hope. We are implicated in everything.”

“I would rather die, Admiral,” George replies, feeling moisture in his eyes.

Whitbourne is silent for a few moments. George immediately regrets the theatrical flourish of the words but hardly the sentiments. Whitbourne sighs and opens the Bible again at the title page. The heroic figures of Abraham and Moses and the host of angels and saints appear, a blazing sun behind them. Whitbourne seems to gain strength from the illustration. He snaps it shut. “That choice,” he says at last in a whisper, “is one that will likely remain open to you, Captain.”

The words root George to the spot. He feels the sharp pain in his Adam’s apple once more and again it encircles his neck. The sensation shakes him and also fills him with shame. George had always believed himself prepared to die for his country. Such a destiny was ever accompanied in his mind by the sights he held dearest: the regal St. George’s Cross billowing in the wind against a crisp blue sky; Rosalind on the sun-scattered turf beneath the old beech tree, holding a delicate lace handkerchief to her face; the dimmed chapel with the smell of carved oak and the soft sound of madrigals wafting through the celestial shafts of light. But right now, at this moment, death seems to carry none of these charms. George feels intimately connected with the pulses and rhythms of his own body; they seem to claim his allegiance with more ferocity than anything his love of honour could match.

“But, Admiral,” George says in a small voice, “What do you plan to do? How do you suppose we will get away?”

Whitbourne leans back against the chair. “It is something to which I have given no little thought,” he says, his eyes now candid and less threatened. “You must realize that Easton does not really want us on his ship. We are of no use to him here. He is confident in his own command and has given us no insight into the workings of the vessel or his fleet. So we are merely guests.”

The admiral holds up his hand as George tries to interrupt.

“It’s what he wants from us after we leave that is important. It is for this that he is binding our allegiance to him so thoroughly, so skillfully. He wants to trust us when we are far from him. That is why he is keeping us in his company so long.”

“I understand that much,” George agrees.

“And I understand from the various conversations I have had with Easton that he is a man of some melancholy. No outlaw lives happily for ever. I believe he craves reunion with his motherland. This, I am sure, is his ultimate goal in keeping us.”

“Then why is he so openly treasonous?”

Whitbourne is silent for a moment. He shakes his head slightly. “He is clenching his fist from a distance. He is raging against that with which he secretly longs to reunite. It is not uncommon.”

“And what are his ambitions with the New-found-land? Might he not be using our allegiance to smooth the way for his own trade? Will he not make demands on us when he takes us back and rejoins his fleet?”

“Undoubtedly,” Whitbourne mutters. “Undoubtedly that too. The ships that he left in our harbour will be establishing dominance over our shipping. The small outpost of our navy will get no word out to enlist help.” He pauses again. “That he can do so much from afar is truly frightening.”

The conversation slows to a whispering halt, but Whitbourne’s gaze remains steady on George and becomes almost pleading. “But you must promise me something, George.”

George is almost shocked at the sudden use of his given name. It seems to prize him open at the chest, exposing something within that is normally well hidden when he talks with the admiral.

“You must promise me you will talk to that slave no more. It is unseemly, and as an insult to our host, it could undo all our work.”

George leaves the cabin without a word, Whitbourne’s mournful stare remaining on him all the way. George gains his own cabin in a state of breathless confusion. The little porthole shows that the sky is beginning to darken. He lights the candles and thinks. Did Whitbourne mistake his silence for agreement? Of course, why wouldn’t he? How could the admiral know that George could not make such a simple promise?

George pulls out the single chair in his cabin and sits, realizing that he has eluded the real question, the one he ought to be asking himself. Now he whispers it out loud and listens to the words as they touch the air, “
Why
can’t I make such a simple promise?”

The candle flames wobble as the cabin lists to one side and rises again gently.

It is obvious he should agree not to talk to the slave. He is still under Whitbourne’s command. The request is surely for sound tactical reasons; if Easton finds out he is being undermined any bargaining power they have is lost. George breathes in deeply, telling himself he must be sensible.

There is a soft knock at the door. George doesn’t answer at first, but stands. “Come,” he says finally. The door opens and the slave enters. Her gaze is unnaturally averted. She carries a tray with a plate of sliced meat, bread, a jug of wine and a goblet. George has to back off, realizing he is standing in the way of the side table. He notices the furrows on her brow as she lays down the victuals with her usual slow, graceful movements. He takes in her scent again—the fragrance of clean skin and the mildest of perfume. He watches the delicate curve of her lips.

“I must talk to you,” he says suddenly, his tone urgent yet soft.
What am I doing?
another voice yells inside his brain. But it goes largely unheeded, like a cry in a storm. His heart is thumping and blood rushes in his ears.

The slave’s eyes flicker and she begins filling the wine goblet. She doesn’t look around.

“About earlier. I didn’t understand.” His words become even gentler but more determined. He takes a step toward her.

The warning voice has now utterly drowned in the roaring confusion of his brain; he concentrates solely on her.