The Choir Boats (22 page)

Barnabas started to mutter “
Quatsch
” but stopped himself. He
was going to miss the Mejuffrouw very much.

Sally took the Mejuffrouw’s hands. “Thank you and your husband
for your hospitality,” Sally said. “If we can ever repay you, we shall.”

“Success in your venture will be repayment enough,” said the
Mejuffrouw.

Barnabas said, “I fear, my dear lady, that we have nothing suitable
to leave in the Gezelligheid’s curio room.”

The Mejuffrouw shook her head, her lacquered hair making
impressive shadows. “There is no need,” she said. “Do so when you
return; leave us a keepsake then!”

Barnabas took his leave. Sally pressed into the Mejuffrouw’s
hands a packet of letters for the cook and Mrs. Sedgewick, asked her
to have them sent on the next ship to London.

“Of course, dear girl,” said the Mejuffrouw. The Dutch woman
reached out, cupped Sally’s chin, and looked long at Sally. “Strange
paths lie before you, and much danger. Trust is your best weapon
but, as you have already seen, trust is hard to win. A final word: I
cannot foresee what will come but, Sally, I believe you will see your
James again.
Dat haal je de koekoek
, as we say in Dutch, meaning ‘I
truly believe that.’ He has fallen but is not lost.”

Sally’s heart raced. She hesitated, then embraced the Mejuffrouw.
“Thank you,” Sally whispered. Then she turned and disappeared up
the stairs.

The next morning, a grey day in May of 1813, with early winter
winds whispering, McDoon & Associates departed. Their last
glimpse of the Gezelligheid was of the Termuydens in the front
garden waving goodbye, Cornelius holding his black hat in the air
and the Mejuffrouw’s white hair piled high and swaying. Jantje,
with his front paws on the gate, barked a farewell.

Sally stared into the water as the McDoons sailed in a small cutter
out to the ship from Yount. Barnabas, Sanford, and Fraulein Reimer
watched as the
Gallinule
slowly hove into view. Three-masted,
shallow of draft, it was boxy and bluff-built.

Slow bacon, this one
, thought Sanford.
We won’t crack on in this
tub
. But then he brightened when he recalled that Cook had sailed
his epic voyages in a sturdy little Northumberland collier. Perhaps
there was more to the
Gallinule
than met the eye. Sanford noticed
the copper sheathing on the hull (standard in the British Navy since
the 1780s, but unusual in the merchant fleet), the gun sockets along
the deck-railings, and the gun-ports in the hull. He wondered at the
two shed-like structures on the deck, one on each side between the
first and second masts, and the smaller structure in the middle of
the deck, like a pedestal or dais. Sanford assumed they were storage
huts for provisions since ships typically took livestock on long trips.
Or perhaps the
Gallinule
had been a whaler and the sheds had held
the cauldrons used to boil the train-oil.

The
Gallinule
weighed anchor, caught the wind, and set a south/
southeasterly course away from Cape Town. An English ship that
had laid over in Rio de Janeiro from Christmas until Easter had
brought them their last news of the outside world on the day of their
departure. They learned that Lord Liverpool’s government, having
taken over from the assassinated Perceval, continued the debates
about the East India Company’s trade monopoly, that the Duke of
Wellington had defeated the French at Salamanca and then occupied
Madrid the previous summer, and that Napoleon had also suffered
a reversal in Russia in the fall of 1812. They reflected on the oddity
of news already months out of date and on the eeriness of knowing
that it was their last news of home for a long time.

At dusk on the second day out from Cape Town, a ceremony was held
on the
Gallinule
. The entire crew, over one hundred men, lined up in
three companies. Facing the crew, next to the ship’s captain stood
Nexius, with McDoon & Associates at his side. The McDoons realized
for the first time, seeing the entire ship’s company so arrayed, that
most of the Yountians were brown-skinned, darker by far than the
Nax brothers.
Like being in India again,
thought Barnabas, which
caused a sudden pang that should not have surprised him but did.

The ship’s captain called out something in Yountish. Every crew
member put on a dark blue, padded vest. One company had a scarlet
collar on their vests, one a white collar, the third pale blue, in each
case matching the band on their caps. A small silver brooch of a
leaping dolphin gleamed from every breast. The ship’s captain began
a speech, during which he paused at intervals so that Nexius could
translate into English. “We welcome you, Big Landers. We welcome
you who have wished yourselves to go to Yount. We welcome you
who bear and guard the key. The key returns to Yount. The key has
found its appointed ones. Show forth the key!”

All eyes watched as Barnabas held the key up. The entire crew
made a motion with their right hands. The ship’s captain continued,
“We are the crew of the
Gallinule
, being officers, sailors, and marines,
that is, the Fencibles.” As he mentioned the three companies, the
head of each bowed in turn. “We, the men of the
Gallinule
vow to
protect and guide you, as you will protect and guide us, so we vow by
the Nurturing Mother.”

Then he chanted, and each company followed, half-singing a
prayer in a round:

Kaskas muri ankus’eem,

Kaskas selwish pishpaweem,

Kaskas puro post’i feshdadeem,

Kaskas muri ullo darpapeem,

Kaskas muri ankus’eem.

The McDoons stood transfixed. Barnabas felt a humming in his
temples. Sally felt the verse that was in her. As they chanted, the
Gallinule
’s crew held out their right hands, making small circles in
the air. They repeated the chant three times, the words cascading as
each company took up and finished a line or two behind the others.
Nexius turned to the McDoons, who felt they understood the chant
without translation. “It is our Common Prayer,” he said. “We call it
‘The Plea’”:

Dear Mother, end our loneliness,

Dear Mother, protect and guide us,

Dear Mother, remove the mists that blind,

Dear Mother, unloose the chains that bind,

Dear Mother, end our loneliness.

“Nexius, you told us before that Yountians pray to a Mother,” Sally
said that evening at the captain’s table. “Can you tell us more with
your colleagues here?”

Nexius, with a shrug that indicated he was a warrior not a
theologian, looked at the other Yountians around the table.

Shaking his head in disbelief, yet not so vigorously as to close
off discussion, Sanford said, “Worshipping a female! I have puzzled
over this since that day, Nexius, when you deciphered Sally’s dream.
I can only conclude that you are a strange breed of papists, elevating
the Virgin over the Father. But that hardly makes sense to me. I
confess I am at a loss.”

“No,” said a tall officer sitting next to the ship’s captain, laughing
a little. “Though we have Catholics in Yount. And Jews and Muslims
too. You will see.”

Sanford pondered these tidings. His years in India and China had
forced him to wider thinking than his demeanour might sometimes
suggest. He pressed his enquiry. “So you know the Bible in Yount?”

“We do, Mr. Sanford,” replied the tall officer. “But from your
world, from Big Land, not as a part of our own. We believe in the
Nurturing Mother, who had two sons. Like you, we do not always
agree among ourselves on matters of faith. Some believe both sons
rebelled against their mother, but that one atoned while the other
remains adamant in his rebellion. Others say only one son rebelled,
he who still disobeys. All agree, however it started, that the two
brothers are at war, and that the Mother weeps.”

“Cain and Abel,” said Sanford.

“Yes, perhaps like Cain and Abel,” agreed the tall officer. “Also like
in Big Land, blood has been spilled over these rival interpretations.
The only certainty is that the Mother weeps.”

The tall officer addressed his dining companions as a group.
“But, come, surely these are matters better addressed if we make it
through to Yount: you will have ample opportunity to speak with
the Learned Doctors, with the Gremium for Guided Knowledge,
with the Rabbi of Palombeay if you wish. The Rabbi would be a good
source for your questions.”

“How is that?” asked Sanford.

“I know little of him myself,” said the tall officer. “But I do know
that the Rabbi serves as a spokesman for all the Karket-soomi
religious communities that have washed up on our hidden shores.”

“A Jew?” Sanford said. “To represent Christians?”

“Yes,” said the Yountian. “Speaks for Muslims too, as I understand
it, for Hindus and so on. Probably I, who knows so little of your
faiths, should not say this, but perhaps the case is that, no matter
how different your faiths seem to you in their native soil, they are
less different in truth and principle when seen in a foreign place.”

“Buttons and beeswax,” Barnabas said. “Where is this Palombeay
then? Far?”

The ship’s captain answered, “No farther than anywhere else on
Yount, at least viewed from our current vantage point. Palombeay is
a district in Yount Great-Port, what you could call The Foreigners’
Quarter. Most of the arrivals from Big Land live there, under Crown
protection.”

“Palombeay’s nickname is ‘Sabi-na-karket-soom,’” said the tall
Yountish officer. “Which means ‘Little Big Land,’ if you see the play
on words.”

For the first time since leaving James Kidlington, Sally smiled.
The smile faded quickly when she realized that such wordplay
reminded her of James.

Barnabas noticed the smile, and sent a grateful look to the tall
officer who had so graciously answered their questions. It struck
Barnabas that the tall officer was handsome and young, with an
assured manner.

Without being a coxcomb
, thought Barnabas.
Poor Sally grieves for
her Mr. Kidlington, and I understand why, but she cannot grieve forever.
Who knows how long we may have to reside in Yount?

The tall officer raised his glass to the McDoons. “Now I beg leave
to turn the topic elsewhere. First, allow me to introduce myself:
I am Reglum Bammary, head of the scientific team onboard. The
Gallinule
is what we call a ‘tough ship’ or ‘fierce frigate’ in translation
from the Yountish, an explorer’s vessel fit for battle. Every tough
ship carries a scientific team, like Banks and Forster on Cook’s
voyages, or the apostles of Linneaus on Swedish East Indiamen. I
am a lieutenant, serving in the Fencibles, of which Nexius Dexius
is highest ranking onboard. The Fencibles have a special branch,
which can be translated as the ‘Analytical Bureau,’ or ‘A.B.’ for short.
We Anglophones joke that it is actually the ‘Abbey.’ The A.B.’s task is
to assist the crew and the marines with our knowledge of zoology,
botany, mathematics, whatever is required. More broadly, we gather
data for analysis in Yount, in our search for answers to . . . our
current circumstances — our dilemma.”

Barnabas thought,
Handsome, young,
and
a scholar it seems. I
do
hope Sally is able to see past her grief. If not now, perhaps in a while
.
Out loud, he said, “Your English is exceptionally fine, Mr. Rammary,
excuse me, Bammary. All of you officers speak lovely English but
yours, sir, is a marvel. How did you come by it?”

Reglum nodded. “English is my native tongue. Actually, I am
bilingual. My maternal grandfather was English, you see, Lieutenant
Humphrey Hiller-Thorpe, who served with Commodore Anson and
who, in your year 1742, fell overboard during action against the
French off the Mascarene Islands. By great good fortune, though
he did not think so at the time, the gateway to Yount was near, he
fell through, and washed up in Small Land. He married a woman
of Yount, who bore him three children, including my mother. We
spoke English as a cradle-tongue. Also, I was sent back. I went up to
Oxford, took my degree at Brasenose. Passed as the son of an Indian
prince, don’t you know? Even learned a spot of Hindi to pull it off,
even though I was hardly pucka.”

Barnabas laughed. “Good one, that!”

“Ah,” sighed Reglum. “I miss those days. Above all, the access
to knowledge from ancient to modern, and from all corners of the
globe —
your
globe.”

Sally, dabbing her mouth with a napkin, said, “The Termuydens
took care to send out several cases of books . . .”

“Oh yes,” said Reglum. “Means more than you might realize,
Miss McLeish. Of all the treasures we fetch back from Karket-soom,
the books and journals are among the most precious. Right now, for
instance, we must settle for copies of
The Quarterly Review
and
The
Edinburgh Review
that are three years old!”