Song of the Sea Maid (21 page)

In the morning, I help to prepare breakfast as the servants have not returned and perhaps never will. At around nine o’clock, we see there are boats coming up the Tagus to rescue survivors from the flames. We watch but soon I cannot bear to see it, for the chaos ensuing on the waterfront as people fight to get aboard is too horrible. Mr Dewar points out that the fire is spreading from the Customs House and has caught the stacks of timber, now billowing out smoke horrendously and making the people scatter and scream. I turn away – shaken, sick-hearted and ridden with guilt at the constant sounds of terror – and sit inside alone until luncheon, writing a long letter to Mr Woods and the Applebees, attempting to describe this catastrophe as best I can, though I omit the ghastliest details to spare them. They are heart-wrenching sights I dearly wish I had never seen, thus I have no desire to inflict them on my friends. I assure them I am well and very lucky to be so. I cannot finish the letter at first though, for I come to the part where I am to state my immediate plans and honestly cannot end the sentence. If the
Prospect
arrives as planned at the end of January, then I will return home on it, of course. But what until then? I cannot stay here. What of Peniche? Will it have been as damaged as Lisbon? Earthquakes cover hundreds, perhaps thousands, of miles, they say. Peniche is but a few hours from here, and, for the first time, a personal chill ripples through my flesh as I think of Horacio, and Pilar and Dona da Seda. And the Berlengas
.
What damage could the tidal wave have caused there? Then I remember my coach, crushed with my bag secured to it. I had forgotten it utterly. It is as if everything before the moment of the first tremor has been wiped clean from my mind.

I find Mrs Dewar and ask her about my belongings. She arranges for her husband to take their mule – which survived by escaping to a wood nearby and returning dusty yet unharmed a day later – to find my coach and see if he can retrieve them. I ought to offer to accompany him, but I cannot bear to see the ruins of those streets again. He returns later that afternoon with a grim countenance and a bare-backed mule.

‘All gone, Miss Price. I am sorry. Looks as if it were all looted. There have been no burials up yonder and the stench in the streets is awful, just awful.’

I thank him for his pains and consider my position. I have the clothes I stand up in, stolen from a dead guest. I have a small bag and a water bottle. I have access to my benefactor’s money in a bank down in the city, which may have burned to the ground or been flooded. I have my precious notebook, filled with drawings of my cave. Thank heavens I saved it from the wreck. Thank heavens I have that at least. And the rest of my belongings are in Peniche, as well as a strongbox in Dona da Seda’s cupboard, with the last of my Portuguese money therein. All damaged, destroyed perhaps; and my landlady and friends, will they be well? I must go back there, as soon as I can get passage. I must see for myself.

I have to wait for almost a week before transport can be found. Just finding food is hard enough, as the price of bread and other staples has inflated to ridiculous proportions. Luckily the Dewars were well stocked with supplies before the disaster, but these will not last in excess of a few days more. And within a day of the quake there have been soldiers on the roads out of Lisbon stopping labourers and other workers from deserting the city, as they are needed for construction. Mr Dewar has found me a Portuguese merchant friend of his who is returning up the coast to his family; they know not if he has survived, so he is keen to get up there. He will drop me at Peniche free of charge. I take a tearful leave of the Dewars, and thank them for their kindness and assure them I will see them again soon. Mrs Dewar agrees to post my letter to Mr Woods – which I finished with a summation of my immediate plans to return to Peniche – if and when the ships start to leave the Tagus again.

The merchant collects me at dawn in a clean yet basic horse and cart. He is not talkative and informs me only that we will not be stopping on the way for any reason, as he has heard Barbary pirates are massing off Cascais (three miles down the coast) and will invade the city within days for the purpose of capturing Christian slaves for the markets in North Africa. I have heard enough extreme rumours these past days – such as cannibalism rife in the city – to ignore most of them. I do not argue, but make sure I bring plenty of victuals and I use the chamber pot in my room before we leave, in case the journey is long. The day’s trip takes us fourteen hours. The roads are often blocked and we have to manoeuvre round countless obstacles. At least many of the corpses have now been removed. We see squads of soldiers commandeering the locals to bury those not yet accorded that right. I am surprised to see how many buildings have been left standing after the disaster, though I would say half are gone. All the way along the coast road the homeless appear from encampments made from carpets, sailcloth and any other found fabrics strung over vines, poles, ropes and tree branches, cooking over small fires, roasting what look like rats or doves or other wild food. To see the environs of Peniche and the sparkling sea gladdens my heart and I find myself praying – to a God from whom I now feel wholly disconnected, as if from a family feud – that my friends will be thriving here.

The merchant wishes me well and I alight, walking the final stretch to my goal in the twilight. There is certainly damage here, crumpled houses and huts, yet not nearly as bad as Lisbon. Dona da Seda’s guest-house is standing and complete, thankfully. But what of the lady? I knock on the door and upon receiving no answer, try it to find it open and I call out. I hear a weak reply from her sitting room and enter. I find her sitting with her leg sheathed in bandages upon a stool. Her face when I enter is a picture. I have never seen her smile so, or smile at all, since I first met her. She is so pleased to see me alive, well and returned. Everything she has heard from Lisbon has been bad news. She knows they brought the soldiers from the Berlengas fort, as well as those from Peniche, and sent them up to Lisbon to keep law and order. We talk for a long while about our experiences. She was out in the town when the quake began and some masonry fell on her leg. The doctor says it will heal but she must rest it. I vow to take care of her, though she says her daughter and son-in-law do come by to bring her food. I was not even aware she had family here! We have not spoken more than a few sentences these past months. The same could be said of Mrs Dewar and certainly her husband. It is curious how a disaster brings folk together. I ask Dona da Seda for news of Horacio and Pilar – have they lost their boat, is their home intact? – but she has heard nothing of them, confined to her house. I resolve to find my friends and see if their livelihood and hearth have survived, but on the morrow, as it is night-time by now. We sup together and swap our grisly stories. I sleep fitfully that night and dream of the
Gaivota
and Pilar’s fish stews she would sometimes bring me at my hut. And of mermaids.

At first light, I walk down to the sea past the house where the ladies of lace are usually found, yet it is shut up today. The beach I arrive at in shock. There are no boats to be seen, unless in pieces. Driftwood and dead fish besmirch the shore. There is no sign of Horacio’s rowing boat or the
Gaivota
further out. And I do not know where my friends reside. I double back and return to the lace house, knock at the door and wait. I hear there is movement inside, and a kind of moaning, a deep low sound, most distressing. Then the door opens and one of the older lace ladies stands before me, her face a picture of desolation. She does not speak, simply looks at me. I ask her in Portuguese about Horacio and his wife Pilar. Is Pilar here? Or is it possible for her to direct me to their house? She seems unable to speak and another woman comes to the door, her daughter it must be as she calls her Mother and ushers her to sit down. She says, ‘We are suffering. We have lost husbands, brothers, sisters. About fifty altogether. And all our fishing boats. Many rushed to the beach to escape the falling houses, but then the wave came and drowned everyone on the sand. The bodies were swept out to sea. We cannot even bury our dead. Horacio and Pilar were there. They are lost too. They are dead. So many are dead. We cannot help you. I am sorry.’

She turns from me and closes the door. My good friends are drowned, their bodies lost to the sea. I pace slowly back to the guest-house to find Dona da Seda asleep in her chair. I go to my room and sit on the bed. I close my eyes. My mind is like a shattered mirror. Shards of memory – cruel and happy – fall in a jagged heap. I believe my mind is broken. I cannot fathom how to mend it. Each rational thought I attempt is swamped by brutal visions of what I have seen and what I know.

My good friends, washed out to sea. Their fear when the wave came, trying to flee perhaps, their feet slipping in the soft sand, but too late, too late. The roaring of the wave as it crashed ashore, the screams of the people who thought they were safe on the open sand. My friends: loyal sailor Horacio, the bonny boat he manoeuvred so well; his hat over his face as he slept in the sunshine; his humorous look as I would appear barefoot at the boat sometimes with a fish for his lunch, caught on my coral garden ventures; and kind, attentive Pilar, her mop and broom and dusters; the thoughtful gift of the stool for my hut, which stands now in the corner of this room, brought back from the beloved island; her wrinkled fingers poring over my notebook, her haunting stories of the mermaids of Minorca.

Plans, I exhort myself, make plans. The only thing I can think of to do now is sail to the Berlengas
.
Seeing my island again would be my only consolation. Somehow, I must get over to the Farilhões. I want to see my cave. But with all the fishing boats destroyed, how can I? Perhaps Dona da Seda knows of someone else, anyone, whose boat has survived, which I could charter to take me there, to my island, to my cave. I simply must see it, I simply must, today.

Oh, my friends, my good friends.

I hang my head and sob. How could I have been so cold about the thousands who died in the city? Is it only those close to us who deserve our pity? I scold myself for not helping enough, for escaping. But it is not my fault. I did not cause this. If God made this happen – this quake, the inferno, the wave, all this suffering and sorrow – then I
hate
God. I used to think God set the world in motion, then watched it play itself out, looked on as folly followed disaster. But how could He stand there, in His unending wisdom and goodness, and let it happen, cause it to happen even? Punish the innocent and guilty alike, the looters and rapists surviving while Horacio and Pilar die, their lungs soaked in brine? If there is no God, if it is all a story, a lie, then I hate the earth for its stray cruelty. I hate it so. I put my faith in people now – not the earth and not the heavens – I stake my claim with humanity. If only I could see again my ancient paintings crafted by clever, hopeful, human hands; they are sacred to me and would bring me solace, would give me peace. I bury my wet face in my pillow and waul my lament. All that was sweet and soft in my life here has turned to briars and thorns.

There is the clip-clop of a single horse on the path outside, then footsteps approach the house. I sit bolt upright and wipe my streaming nose. Someone is knocking, now banging on the door. Who would come to this house, so early, on horseback? Why do they knock so urgently?

‘Miss Price, are you there?’ an English voice calls from outside. ‘Miss Price!’

Captain Alex – this man I had seldom thought of, had not wished for, and yet when I see him, it comes to me that he is the one person I want to see, who can understand what has happened here and who I can truly talk to, with no pretence and no expectation. How I know this is mysterious to me, yet I feel the strongest urge to take his hand and hold on to it.

‘Captain,’ I manage to say and I am aware of myself and my blemished appearance, yet I recall I was always thus dishevelled in one way or another with him, and he never seemed to mind it. ‘You have surprised me once again.’

‘I am so very,
very
glad to see you, Miss Price. So well, I mean.’ His face is concerned at the sight of my wretched eyes, his hand slightly raised as if to provide comfort. He is dusty from his ride and bronzed from his time under the southern sun. ‘That is to say, unharmed. You are unharmed, are you not? But I see there is some damage to your forehead.
Are
you quite well?’

‘I am, yes. I did escape unharmed, more or less. Others suffered much worse fates than mine. The worst fate, for too many. I saw it all. I saw everything. But how on earth do you come to be here, in this place? You were in Africa until January, were you not? Please, come in.’

He thanks me and I briefly visit my landlady, to find her still asleep. I carefully close her door and turn to the captain in the hall. There is nowhere in this small house to take him other than my room, so I suggest we go for a walk. I feel quite faint standing in that darkened hallway, and almost run to the door to open it for welcome air, the scent of citrus trees and the sea. I find a bucket for his horse and we refresh it with water. We stroll among the golden streets of Peniche, I leading us to avoid the lace cottage, which I cannot bear to see again today, and down towards the ocean. I ask him again how he comes to be in Portugal.

‘I was near Morocco when the quake struck. We were moored near Tangiers and there was a veritable commotion in the sea, rising and falling almost twenty times that day. When we went ashore, we saw it was an earthquake and the damage it had wrought. I took the decision to sail the
Prospect
up the coast and on to Portugal, to see if our allies required any assistance, if the disaster had affected them. And we found, as you well know, that the worst hit was Portugal, and Lisbon itself. We docked in the Tagus and my men have been instructed to take aboard any English guests of quality who require a passage home. We can only take a few, as you know we are not a huge vessel, yet we will do our best to provide aid to refugees. They will need to journey with us to visit Africa once more to pick up our other guests, yet once that is accomplished, we shall all sail home together.’