The Coming of the Whirlpool (12 page)

Obedient, the crowd cleared a space for them. Dow – for all that he had been waiting for just such a sighting – studied the dignitaries only briefly. He supposed that one of the men must be the governor, but it was impossible to tell which, for all the men looked important; while the women, dark haired and tall, were dazzling in clothes far brighter and more outlandish than anything Dow had ever seen. But it was the great ship that demanded his true attention.

It slid closer now to its berth. The tow ropes had been transferred from the boats and made fast to bollards upon the wharf. On the ship, men laboured in gangs to heave on the lines, warping the vessel slowly sideways towards its station. Dow sought out the handsome young officer once more. He was leaning over the high deck railing, shouting commands to those on the main deck below; then he straightened, hands upon hips, to survey the crowd on the wharf. White teeth flashed for a moment in his proud face, a smile.

‘Is he the captain?' Dow asked Nathaniel, pointing the officer out.

The old man, absently coiling a wayward rope, peered a moment and gave a snort. ‘Not he. That's just a lieutenant, going by the uniform. Junior grade.' He peered a moment longer. ‘There's your captain.'

Dow blinked in disappointment. Nathaniel was indicating a far less impressive officer than the first – an older man, round-faced and short-statured. He was leaning casually on the rear rail of the high deck, his coat unbuttoned to reveal a white shirt stretched over a stout belly. His shoulders were quite unadorned by any gold, and he wasn't shouting a single order to anyone.

But this offhand air was deceptive, Dow soon saw. The man's gaze, seemingly indifferent, actually moved continually about the ship, missing nothing. And although he gave no verbal orders, all the other officers were careful to glance back to him from time to time (with the exception of the young lieutenant, who was still busily yelling over the rail); and should he nod minimally, or shrug, crewmen would immediately hurry off to this task or that.

‘No peacock, that one,' Nathaniel observed. ‘He's a true seaman, and as well known here in Stone Port as his ship. Captain Vincente of the Shinbone is what they call him. Aye,' he added, catching the look in Dow's eye, ‘they have strange names, these Ship Kings. And strange ways too. But the tale goes that Chloe was the name of his wife, and that she died untimely, and that when he earned command of his own vessel he changed its name to hers. And even his own folk think that peculiar, for a lass is not the same thing as a battleship.'

As Dow watched, the dour little commander strolled to the dockside rail, as if from idle curiosity, to oversee the final moments of berthing.
Captain Vincente of the Shinbone.
A strange name indeed . . .

But then everything about the Ship Kings was strange – Dow knew so little about them. All he had to go on were the tales of his childhood; stories of how their mariners roved the seas for years on end, returning to their homeland only to repair their vessels, and how that homeland was the greatest of the Four Isles and was known as The Kingdoms, and reigning there were eleven kings over eleven realms, each enemies of old, but now all allied under the one Sea Lord, who ruled the world and lived on a giant ship which never saw land.

But was any of that real? As he'd grown older, Dow had come to suspect that most such stories were merely fables and fancies, told to entertain. But now it suddenly struck him – whatever the truth of the stories, the Ship Kings themselves were a
fact
. Here was an actual ship and an actual crew, not described in some tale, not merely glimpsed from a headland, but up close, in brute strength and in coarse flesh and blood, with cannons deployed. It brought home to him as never before something he'd always known but never quite grasped: a foreign power ruled over his land, an alien people, and they did so by force.

The great warship was finally alongside the dock. Dow watched in thoughtful silence as mooring ropes were made fast, a gangway was lowered and the governor's party from the town were welcomed aboard.

His attention was called away then, for the fish merchants had returned to their stalls and the day's catch had to be unloaded. When that was done, Dow remembered the girl he'd seen. He turned to study the
Chloe
once more in hope of sighting her, but she was nowhere on deck, and her face was in no window. By then the ship's officers and their guests had all vanished below and only the common sailors remained, working on the main deck or tramping down the gangway to mix with the crowd that still milled about upon the wharf.

Nathaniel climbed back into the boat. ‘Time we were away, boy. Quickly now. Your gawking can wait for another day.'

Dow glanced at the old man in irritation. It wasn't
gawking.
The great ship was important and it was only right that he should study it closely. (And never mind that he'd actually been looking for the girl.) But restraining his temper, he took up the oars and rowed the
Maelstrom
back across the harbour, his gaze lingering on the
Chloe
until they passed through the gate.

Out in the channel they quickly raised sail. The evening was deepening now and a keener wind was blowing. Gazing across the Rip and out to the ocean, Dow could see white-capped waves rearing in restless lines. Having now beheld a ship at first hand, and seen mariners fresh from a long voyage, the ache rose in him so acutely that he could no longer hold his tongue.

He turned to Nathaniel. ‘When will we fish in the sea?'

The old man stirred at the tiller, gave him a warning look. ‘No one fishes the sea anymore. No one from Stromner, anyway.'

‘The other men don't, I know. But I thought you . . .'

‘Oh aye?' Nathaniel's stare sharpened further still. ‘What did you, in all your grand wisdom, deign to think about
me
?'

Dow swallowed, not knowing how to say it, but knowing he must. ‘I thought you weren't like them. I thought you weren't afraid.'

‘Afraid!' The fisherman gave the tiller a savage twist and the boat broached; the boom slammed across in the wind and Dow went sprawling to avoid it. He struggled to his knees, but Nathaniel wrenched the rudder again and the boat canted hard the other way, near on capsizing. Dow fell headlong against the gunnels. Only then did the old man set the boat right. Through both upheavals he had ridden easily at the tiller. ‘Afraid!' he repeated scornfully, as Dow gathered himself up. ‘One summer of fair weather fishing on the Claw and you think you know what
sailing
is? You think you're a match for the sea?'

Dow could feel that his scalp was split and that blood was trickling through his hair, but he refused to raise a hand to touch it. He did his best to meet Nathaniel's gaze, and the derision burning there.

‘Fool,' the old man pronounced. ‘What do you know of waves or wind? Why, take you a mile beyond the Heads and you'd be wailing for your mother, once you saw true ocean swells. There's no escape out there, no retreat. The currents would drag you beyond sight of shore before you knew it, and without landmarks or soundings you would never find your way home.'

Dow held to his wavering courage. ‘The Ship Kings find a way.'

‘Aye, but you're an even greater fool if you take comfort in that. The Ship Kings share their secrets with no one. Whatever the art of navigating the deep ocean might be, it's long since lost to us New Islanders.'

‘But there was a time that you fished the sea, even so.'

‘Never beyond sight of land.'

‘And yet you went. You and all the men of Stromner. Before you became too frightened. Before the day of the maelstrom.'

‘Wretched boy!' cried the old man, stung to fury. ‘I alone have braved the wrath of the great whirlpool, no one else. You do not dare accuse me so. I fear nothing in the ocean, not even death.'

‘Then why won't you take me beyond the Heads?' Dow pleaded, in one last attempt. ‘It's true that I know nothing of the sea, as you say. But how will I learn, if I'm never allowed to go there?'

To which Nathaniel responded in cold disdain, ‘You don't deserve to learn. Others may think you are somehow fated to save our village, or to right the wrongs done to me ten years before now – but I do not. There's no great destiny in you, boy. You're naught but a spoiled child who hadn't the stomach to live out the life appointed you. The fools of Stromner took you in, and aye, I gave my word to teach you the fishing life – but I said nothing of the sea. You are not worthy of the sea. I will never take you there. Do you understand? Not ever!'

A deadly anger woke in Dow, and in turn he responded with what he was sure would be the most insulting, unpardonable words that he could utter in the old man's presence. Softly, he said, ‘I have not told you this before, but I'll tell it to you now. I am sorry for the loss of your son and your grandson.'

Nathaniel's expression froze over. With a measured and final deliberation, he turned his face away and spoke no more. In silence, they sailed to Stromner beach. In silence, they dragged the boat up onto the sand. And in silence they parted.

Dow made his way to the inn, his innards all in a turmoil and his anger giving way to doubt. He'd known, of course, that
pity
was the one sentiment Nathaniel would never tolerate from him. But he'd been provoked beyond endurance. All these months he had obeyed the old man's every order, he had shown himself skilled at every task set – and for what? He did not expect Nathaniel to ever like him, yet surely he had earned acceptance . . .

But no, it seemed the horrid old man held him in the same unreasoning contempt that he had on the night they'd first met; and now, even worse, had sworn that Dow would never go to sea. It was too unfair. If Dow had committed some actual crime it would've been the worst punishment he could imagine; to live in view of the ocean and yet never be allowed to voyage there. And yet he had committed no such crime. Was simple curiosity a crime? Was desire for greater things a crime? Was to envy the freedom of the Ship Kings a crime?

He came to the inn, but nearly turned back at the front door. He did not think he could face another night sitting alone in the miserable bar. The old home- sickness washed over him; he would've given anything just then to spend an hour with his family, to bask in their understanding and support. But it was impossible, they were hundreds of miles away. His only choice was either the inn, or Nathaniel's house, and that was no choice at all.

Dow pushed open the door and went in. But at the inner door he halted in surprise, for a strange sound was bubbling through from the room beyond; the massed hum of many voices. He listened a moment, perplexed, then pushed through the second door – and stopped still in amazement. The bar was jammed full. It looked as if every man of the village was there, even those who rarely visited the inn, and indeed most of the women too. The din of conversation was enormous, and the air was thick with smoke and beer and whisky.

No one noticed Dow. He stood there for a confused instant – his fight with Nathaniel quite forgotten – then went squeezing his way through the crowd to get to the counter. He ordered his beer from a harassed-looking Inga, and then squeezed his way back through the press again, to find a last empty seat at a table by the wall. The noise and the crush reminded him almost of the Winter and Summer Councils back in Yellow Bank. But what could be the special occasion?

He had his answer soon enough, for there was only one topic of discussion throughout the bar – the arrival of the great battleship in Stone Port. It was this notable event that had brought everyone out. Indeed, it seemed that such an assembly was near to a ritual in Stromner, convened by common consent whenever a fleet – or at least its leading vessel – appeared between the Heads. It was, in short, a chance to gossip about the Ship Kings.

Dow drained his mug and then ordered another, along with his dinner. No one spoke to him, but all the while he listened in eagerly on as many conversations as he could. It was clear that Nathaniel had spoken the truth; the battleship was indeed a regular visitor, and a familiar sight to the villagers. As was its captain.

‘Do you remember old Vincente's first trip?' asked one man – Morris was his name – of the crowd. ‘Twelve years back it was, and the
Chloe
only newly under his command. He fired off that broadside as they neared the Heads, right in front of the whole fishing fleet.' There were nods of recollection around the bar. ‘All fifty guns to the left, then all fifty to the right. The noise of it, and the smoke – and then great towers of water rising up on either side! Why, the
Chloe
must throw three ton of metal at least, every time those guns let fly.'

‘Aye,' said another, ‘but it must rattle the ship's bones too. 'Tis an old craft, the
Chloe.
It was on the Whale Island run for many a year, so the stories go, before Vincente took it over and gave it a refit.'

‘Old, but a fine vessel all the same, and mighty,' said a third. ‘Six hundred and no less it takes as crew, men and officers together.'

Dow noted the number – it was even more than he'd thought. He also noted the word
men.
There was no mention of any girls.

‘Still,' pondered Morris loudly, ‘if what they say is true, then there be bigger ships with bigger guns, far out to sea. So big they could scarce come between the Heads, let alone enter the Stone Port gate.'

‘Go on!' said a doubter. ‘There's always talk of these giant ships, but I've never seen one and no one here has. The
Chloe
is as big as anything that's ever docked at Stone Port – and why would the Ship Kings need anything bigger? Who have they got to fight anymore, other than each other?'

‘Who knows how the Ship Kings think and why they do what they do?' disagreed one woman. ‘They ain't like us, that's for sure. By all accounts they're crazed when it comes to the sea. Crazed enough to build giant ships they don't even have use for, if the mood takes them.'