The North Water (14 page)

Sumner has no appetite for dinner. Instead of eating with the others, he goes up to walk on the deck, smoke a pipe, and take some air. The bear cub is growling and whimpering in its wooden cage, chewing on its paw and scratching itself constantly. Its coat is dull and matted now; it smells of excrement and fish oil and looks as lank and scrawny as a greyhound. Sumner gets a handful of ship's biscuit from the galley, balances the pieces on the blade of a flensing knife, and tips them through the metal grate. They are gobbled up instantly. The bear cub growls, licks its muzzle, and glares back at him. Sumner puts a cup of water down on the deck a foot or so in front of the cask and then prods it forwards with the toe of his boot until it is close enough for the bear cub's long pink tongue to reach. He stands awhile and watches it drink. Otto, who is commander of the watch, walks over and joins him.

“Why go to the trouble of catching and caging a bear if you plan only to let it starve?” Sumner asks him.

“If the bear's sold, all the money goes to the dead man's widow,” Otto says, “but the dead man's widow isn't here to feed him, and Drax and Cavendish feel under no obligation. We could set him free, of course, but the mother's dead and he's too young to survive on his own.”

Sumner nods, picks up the empty water cup, refills it, puts it back down, and prods it forwards with his toe. The bear drinks for a while longer, then stops drinking and retreats into the rear of the cask.

“What's your opinion of the recent events?” Sumner asks. “What would your Master Swedenborg say of this atrocity?”

Otto looks solemn for a moment. He strokes his broad black beard and nods several times before answering.

“He would tell us that great evil is the absence of good, and that sin is a kind of forgetfulness. We drift away from the Lord because the Lord allows us to do so. That is our freedom but also our punishment.”

“And do you believe him?”

“What else should I believe?”

Sumner shrugs.

“That sin is remembering,” he offers. “That good is the absence of evil.”

“Some men believe that, of course, but if it were true, then the world would be chaos, and the world is not chaos. Look around, Sumner. The confusion and stupidity are ours. We misunderstand ourselves; we are very vain and very stupid. We build a great bonfire to warm ourselves and then complain that the flames are too hot and fierce, that we are blinded by the smoke.”

“Why kill a child though?” Sumner asks. “What sense can be made of that?”

“The most important questions are the ones we can't hope to answer with words. Words are like toys: they amuse and educate us for a time, but when we come to manhood we should give them up.”

Sumner shakes his head.

“The words are all we have,” he says. “If we give them up, we are no better than the beasts.”

Otto smiles at Sumner's wrongheadedness.

“Then you must find out the explanations on your own,” he says, “if that's what you truly think.”

Sumner bends down and looks at the orphaned bear. He is crouched at the back of the cask panting and licking at a puddle of his own urine.

“I would rather
not
think,” he says. “It would be pleasanter and easier, I'm sure. But it seems I cannot help myself.”

*   *   *

Shortly after the burial, Cavendish requests to speak to Brownlee in his cabin.

“I've been asking questions,” he says. “I've been squeezing and grinding the bastards, and they've given up a name.”

“What name?”

“McKendrick.”

“Samuel McKendrick, the carpenter?”

“The same. They say he has been seen ashore in public houses canoodling with the Molly men. And this last whaling season when he shipped aboard the
John o' Gaunt
, it is well known he was sharing his berth with a boat steerer, man name of Nesbet.”

“And this was in plain sight?”

“It's dark in the forecastle, as you know, Mr. Brownlee, but let's say noises were heard at night. Noises of a certain unmistakable kind, I mean.”

“Bring Samuel McKendrick to me,” Brownlee says. “And find Sumner also. I want the surgeon to hear whatever it is he has to say.”

McKendrick is a slight fellow, pale of skin and unrobust. His beard is wispy and yellowish; he has a slender nose, a narrow almost lipless mouth, and large ears tinged red by the cold.

“How well did you know Joseph Hannah?” Brownlee asks him.

“I doesn't know him hardly at all.”

“You must have seen him in the forecastle though.”

“I seen him, yes, but I doesn't know him. He's just a cabin boy.”

“And are you not fond of the cabin boys?”

“Not especially.”

“Are you married, McKendrick? Do you have a wife waiting for you at home?”

“No sir, I int and I don't.”

“But you have a sweetheart there, I suppose?”

McKendrick shakes his head.

“Perhaps you don't like women much, is that it?”

“No, it's not that sir,” McKendrick says. “It's more that I have not found a woman that's quite suitable for me as yet.”

Cavendish snorts at this. Brownlee turns, glares at him briefly, then continues his questioning.

“I have heard you prefer the company of men. That is what I've been told. Is that true?”

McKendrick's expression doesn't change. He seems neither scared nor agitated nor especially surprised by this accusation of unnaturalness.

“It int true, sir, no,” he says. “I am as red-blooded as the next man over.”

“Joseph Hannah was sodomized before he was killed. I suppose you know that already.”

“That is what all the fellows in the forecastle are saying, sir, yes.”

“Did you kill him, McKendrick?”

McKendrick frowns as though this question makes no sense.

“
Did
you?”

“No, that int me, sir,” he says placidly. “I int the one you seek.”

“He is a plausible fucking liar,” Cavendish says. “But I have half a dozen men who will testify to his well-known reputation as a buggerer of young boys.”

Brownlee looks at the carpenter, who seems, for the first time since the questioning began, less than comfortable.

“It will not go well for you if you are found to be lying, McKendrick,” he says. “I warn you now. I will be severe.”

McKendrick nods once, then scans the cabin ceiling before replying. His eyes are gray and fidgety, and there is something like a smile playing about his narrow lips.

“It hant ever been boys,” he says. “The boys int to my taste.”

Cavendish snorts derisively.

“You really expect us to believe you are so very particular about whose arse you lay siege to. From what I hear, after a pint or two of whiskey you would fuck your own granddad.”

“It int a matter of laying siege to anything,” McKendrick says.

“You are a fucking disgrace,” Brownlee says, jabbing his forefinger in McKendrick's face. “And whether you are a murderer or not, I should have you whipped.”

“I int a murderer.”

“You are a proven liar though,” Brownlee says. “We have established that beyond a doubt already. And if you lie about one thing, why will you not lie about anything else?”

“I int a bloody murderer,” McKendrick says again.

“If you allow me to examine him briefly, Mr. Brownlee,” Sumner says, “there may be indications one way or the other.”

Brownlee looks quizzical.

“What indications would those be?” he says.

“The boy had a slew of sores around his arse, if you remember. If the sores are venereal, which is likely, the culprit may have them too. There may also be some soreness or abrasions on the culprit's penis. A child's fundament is quite narrow, after all.”

“Oh fuck me,” Cavendish says.

“Very well,” Brownlee says. “McKendrick, remove your clothes.”

McKendrick doesn't move.

“Do it now,” Brownlee says, “or I swear we'll do it for you.”

Reluctantly, slowly, McKendrick undresses in front of them. His legs and arms look strong but scrawny; between his dark red nipples there is a small, whiskery patch of light brown hair. For such a slight and colorless man, he possesses, Sumner notices, as he begins his examination, an unusually large and gaudy set of genitalia. The balls are heavy, dark, and pendulous; the yard, although not abnormally long, is thick as a dog's snout, and its end piece is as broad and shiny as a kidney.

“No visible chancres,” Sumner reports. “No signs of soreness or abrasion either.”

“Perhaps he used a gob of lard to ease his entrance,” Cavendish says. “By any chance, did you check Hannah's arsehole for signs of lubrication?”

“I did, and there were no residues to speak of.”

Cavendish smiles.

“Precious little gets past you, Mr. Sumner,” he says. “I swear to God.”

“No fresh cuts or scratches on the arms or neck as might be caused by a struggle either,” Sumner says. “You may put your clothes back on now, McKendrick.”

McKendrick does as he is told. Brownlee watches silently as he dresses himself and, when he is finished, instructs him to wait outside in the mess cabin until they call him back in.

“There is your murderer, right there,” Cavendish says. “Whether his cock is chafed or not, he's the guilty one, I tell you.”

“It's possible, but we have no convincing proof,” Sumner says.

“He's a self-confessed sodomite. What further proof do you need?”

“A confession,” Brownlee says. “But if he won't confess, I'm minded to put him in irons anyway and let the magistrates deal with him when we get back to port.”

“What if he's not the one?” Sumner says. “Are you content to have the actual murderer walking free around the ship?”

“If it's not McKendrick, then who the fuck could it be?” Cavendish asks. “Exactly how many sodomites do you think we have crammed aboard this vessel?”

“I would be surer of his guilt if someone had seen the two of them together,” Sumner says.

“Put McKendrick in irons for now, Cavendish,” Brownlee says. “Then let the rest of the crew know we wish to speak to anyone who has seen him talking to Hannah or paying the boy any sort of attentions. Sumner is most likely right. If he is guilty, there will be a witness.”

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

In the wardroom, Drax listens as the others talk. They are talking about the boy again, even though the boy is dead and gone. This afternoon they wrapped his body up in canvas and dropped it over the ship's stern; he watched it sinking under the water. The boy is nothing now. He is not even an idea or a thought, he is nothing, but they are talking about him still. On and on they go. On and on. What is the fucking point of that? Drax chews his boiled beef, drinks deeply from his mug of tea. The beef is salty sour, but the tea is sweet. He has a bite mark on his forearm a half inch deep. He can feel it throb and itch. It would have been quicker and easier, he knows, to cut the boy's throat, but a knife was not to hand. He doesn't plan these things. He only acts, and each action remains separate and complete in itself: the fucking, the killing, the shitting, the eating. They could come in any order at all. No one is prior or superior to the rest. Drax lifts his dinner plate up in front of his face like a looking glass and licks it clean of gravy.

He listens.

“It's McKendrick,” Cavendish says. “For sure it is, I know a murderer when I see one, but Brownlee thinks he needs more proof.”

Drax knows McKendrick. He is a feeble, girlish, blood-shy fellow who could not kill someone if you put a pistol in his hand, pointed it for him, and offered to pull the trigger yourself.

“Why McKendrick?” he asks.

“Because he's an infamous sodomite. You can see him in the dockyard taprooms every night, buying arse and giggling with the other pansies.”

Drax nods. McKendrick will be his stand-in then, he thinks, his scapegoat. He will dangle from the rope end, while Drax stands and watches and applauds.

“What kind of proof does Brownlee look for?” he asks.

“He wants a witness. Someone who has seen the two of them together.”

Drax rubs the crumbs from his beard, grumbles out a fart, and then reaches into his pocket for his pouch of negro-head tobacco.

“I've seen them together,” he says.

The others look at him.

“When?” Sumner says.

“I seen them standing by the deckhouse late one night. McKendrick mooning over the boy, cooing and billing, paddling his neck, trying to give him little kisses. The boy didn't appear to like it much. 'Bout a week ago that was.”

Cavendish claps his hands together and laughs.

“That should do it,” he says.

“Why didn't you mention this before?” Sumner asks. “You were there when the captain asked us all what we had seen.”

“Must have slipped my mind,” Drax says. “My wits are not quite so sharply tuned as yours are, Mr. Sumner, I suppose. I'm the forgetful type, see.”

Sumner looks at him, and Drax looks back. He feels easy and qualmless. He knows the surgeon's kind too well—he will quibble and ask questions all day long, but he will never dare to act. He is a talker and not a doer.

They go along to Brownlee's cabin, and Drax tells the captain what he saw. Brownlee has McKendrick brought up from the hold in irons and instructs Drax to repeat what he has said word for word in front of the prisoner.

“I saw him laying hands on the dead boy,” he says calmly. “Trying to kiss and cuddle with him. By the deckhouse this was.”

“And why did you not tell me this before now?”

“I didn't think of it before, but when McKendrick's name was mentioned as the murderer, then it all came back.”

“That is a fucking lie,” McKendrick says. “I never once touched the boy.”