Easton (11 page)

“Indeed, sir, indeed,” he says enthusiastically. “That...um...” he begins again with a slight tremble of the lip, “...that rather delicious meat we have been dining on...” He glances at Jemma who having filled Easton’s mug now instantly turns her back and retreats to the side table, her face still turned away. “It was so succulent and I am now so unused to such opulence...” George manages a hearty smile as he speaks.

The admiral unknowingly helps him by giving a quick laugh and chipping in, “Life in the northern colonies!”

“Quite,” says George. “Was it wild meat, sir? Boar perhaps?”

Easton sustains the same smile and wipes his fingers on a napkin. “It was indeed the most brutish and ignorant of animals, sir, which by the oddest of nature’s perversities yields the most gloriously tender meat.” He pauses. “You were right in your guess. A pig. One with all the faults of its breed yet young enough to be tender. I believe my cooks are now salting the remains so that we may enjoy some ham in the weeks to come.”

George nods and smiles while swirls of nausea rise in his stomach. Does Easton know that he suspects? His words, as always, communicate more than they say, and the fixedness of Easton’s smile suggests a calm defiance.

But he turns to Whitbourne as though distracted by more important thoughts. “But, Admiral, I wanted to engage you and your good captain in talk of the New-found-land. My mind always runs ahead and I find myself planning my return to the north even before accomplishing my mission in the south.”

“Of course, sir, we would be happy to tell you all you wish to know about the New-found-land,” Whitbourne answers.

George now catches Jemma’s eye. She is standing by the serving table arranging the dishes. Worry, and perhaps reproach, show on her face. It is enough to persuade him never to risk the subject of the meat again. He looks away and Jemma moves off toward the serving hatch.

Whitbourne has begun telling Easton about the planters along the coast. Easton listens attentively, his face serious and his head slightly cocked, although none of the information is entirely new.

“St. John’s, you will know, was named after the Baptist upon whose day the island was reputed to have been found,” Whitbourne says, folding a napkin and coughing slightly. The admiral’s discomfort is clear to George. He wonders what it feels like to walk the tightrope of goodwill, knowing that every detail given is helping an enemy force. “Our most bustling settlement other than this, as I think we have mentioned, is Cuper’s Cove where John Guy, an excellent man held in high esteem by the King, is overlord.”

Easton’s smile returns slowly. He picks up his mug of milk. “If he is a friend of the King, Admiral, I will tread carefully and act as his friend, as you so subtly suggest.” He takes a drink, the cup for a moment obscuring his smile.

Whitbourne clears his throat and gives a short blustering laugh.

“Of course, sir, I understand that you mean no harm to our colonies,” Whitbourne says, reddening, “I never would have implied—”

“But what of other colonies, Admiral,” Easton interrupts. “I believe I heard a former comrade, an officer of mine, has set up in a place with a most unpromising name. Is it Mosquito?”

“Indeed, an offshoot of the Cuper’s Cove colony. The old comrade to whom you refer must be Mr. Gilbert Pike.”

Easton stares for a moment, his eyes dark and glassy as though he is dreaming. Then he speaks as though suddenly roused by his own silence. “That’s the man. Gilbert Pike. And there was a young lady from a French convent who we rescued from a Dutch pirate ship. A beautiful young girl if I remember correctly. A Sheila O’Connor.”

“Yes they are married and live happily in the settlement. The lady is of high Irish birth as you may recall. She is known locally as
Nagueira
, which I believe is Irish for ‘the beautiful.’”

“Indeed, sir,” Easton says sighing and leaning back in his chair. “I believe it was I who first named her so.” There is an unhappy pause. “An Irish noblewoman,” Easton continues sullenly, “educated in France, living in a hovel on the shores of New-found-land. It hardly seems appropriate. Don’t you agree, Admiral?”

Whitbourne is for once speechless, at least for a moment. He shifts in his chair. “We all have to come to terms with the most grievous of changes when we leave our own shores, it’s true.” The admiral smiles pleasantly and looks at George as though for support.

“Indeed, it seems to be part of the deal,” George offers.

“Changes and hardships are one thing,” Easton responds with a sigh. “But for nobility to degrade itself is quite another.” He smiles. “But I can see that both of you are of the noblest and most understanding of natures and that you see hardship as virtue. I honour you for it.” He gives a little bow.

The faintest sound of a baby’s cries reaches them from below.

A knock on the door of his cabin takes George by surprise. He springs up from his chair and calls “Come!” in a single reflex.

The door opens and Whitbourne enters.

“Oh, Admiral,” George says scratching his head nervously, “do come in.”

Whitbourne takes another step into the room and stares at George with penetrating eyes. “You seem disappointed,” he says.

“No, no. Why should I be?” George responds, offering Whitbourne the chair. He sits himself on the side of the bed.

Whitbourne, now seated, continues staring at him.

“Perhaps you could tell me what is going on?” he asks in neutral tones.

George shakes his head.

“Admiral, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Don’t lie, sir!” Whitbourne barks, his sudden anger taking George entirely by surprise. “Do you think I am deaf?” His voice reaches such amazing pitch and sharpness that George’s ears are singing. Then, in a more hushed tone, the admiral continues, “Do you think these walls are thick enough to erase the sounds of an argument?” Although his words are quieter, Whitbourne’s eyes show tiny blood vessels of anger.

“You mean...”

“Yes, sir, I know you have been conversing with the slave. And I have expressly told you not to do so. I have also noted the surreptitious glances you exchange even in Easton’s cabin.”

“You noticed that?” George asks, worried. If he noticed then perhaps Easton did also.

Whitbourne doesn’t answer.

“And perhaps you could explain why the title page of Easton’s Bible is missing.”

George frowns deeply and feels his face burn.

“Title page?”

“Oh come, sir, your blushes betray you.”

George thinks for a moment and decides he has no choice but to take the plunge.

“She was trying to warn us. Both of us. She reads and writes, you know,” he adds eagerly. “She’s just as civilized as we are.”

“I hardly think so, sir.” A look of outrage comes into Whitbourne’s face and passes just as quickly leaving only withering scorn. “Continue,” he orders folding his arms and waiting for the full story.

George sighs. “Her name is Jemma.”

“Spare me such embellishments and kindly tell me what you have been doing.”

George falters. A sudden rush of anger almost finds voice, although he is not even sure of its shape or meaning. Whitbourne seems unbearably smug to him all of a sudden, a counterfeit Solomon passing judgment on issues of which he knows nothing.

George swallows and clasps his hands together.

“She used the page to write a message,” he says. “She does not believe the meat we have been eating is pork.”

“She does not believe it is pork,” Whitbourne repeats as if it were a riddle which might yield a true meaning the second time around.

“And nor do I,” asserts George. “Sir, Easton is tricking us every step of the way,” he pursues. “He has tricked us into being on his side against the British navy. He has tricked us into accepting murder. And now he is tricking us into cannibalism.”

“Cannibalism?” Whitbourne repeats, his brow knotted. “Explain yourself, sir.”

“The meat we have been eating is Lieutenant Baxter. The body we buried at sea was someone or something else.”

Whitbourne merely stares at him without movement or change of expression for a full five seconds. When he speaks it is more of a breath than anything. “Have you gone insane?”

George can think of no reply and eventually Whitbourne sighs and rises slowly. He looks down at George almost as though afraid of him. “You have been too long away from England. I see that now,” he says in short, whispered syllables. “It has affected your mind.”

He takes a step backward and turns around, looking at the porthole. He sighs again as though giving his troubles to the sky. “I will have to inform Easton of your malady.”

“No!” cries George, leaping like an enormous dog at the admiral. Whitbourne spins around. George’s grabs onto the cloth of Whitbourne’s tunic. “He will kill us both!” George cries.

Whitbourne continues to back away, his eyes wide, his fingers trying to prise George’s hands from his clothes. “Control yourself!” he commands.

George obeys and lets his hands slip away. Whitbourne backs off into the far corner.

“You must not tell him,” George whispers, sinking hopelessly onto his bed. “You cannot. He will kill Jemma for sure and he will kill me.”

There is another silence.

“I will make a deal with you,” says Whitbourne still in shock and breathing heavily. “I will hold off telling Easton. For the while at least. But you must do your part.”

“What is it?” asks George warily.

“Stop talking to the slave. Your mind is fevered already and she is making it worse.”

George doesn’t answer at first. He looks up at Whitbourne who stands in the corner. Then he nods slightly as though in agreement.

“Remember who she is, boy. A slave with no name. Her mind is a cesspool of savagery and ignorance. Whatever Easton is or has done he is still a former commander of the English Crown. Now who out of those two characters is the notion of cannibalism a more likely fit? How ironic you should take the word of such a creature and foist her own depravities on one of your own race. ”

George says nothing but allows his silence to mean acquiescence.

“You are far from home and vulnerable to such nonsense,” Whitbourne continues, his tone almost comforting. “You are not the first to fall into such grotesque imaginings. Nor are you the first to sink so low as to take comfort from the sight of the savage female.” He pauses and takes the few paces toward George. “But you must take a grip on yourself and remember who you are.” He puts his hand on George’s shoulder. “You are betrothed to a woman of unquestioned virtue and decent lineage. Now remember that. Remember Rosalind.”

George sits
motionless on the edge of the bed for some time after Whitbourne leaves. The sound of the baby’s wailing starts again. The other voices return also; one woman crying, the other cooing in dove-like comfort.

George again thinks of his foolish outburst of yesterday.
May you and your evil practices go straight to hell
. The words reverberate in his skull, and now they are laced with the infant’s cries. The two combine into a potent mockery.

Yet there is a puzzle still. Why should the woman—Jemma’s sister—be crying now that the child is born?

He decides that this time he will give himself up to the mystery of it all. A woman’s world is an impenetrable maze of shadows and veils. He would be wise to keep to the one certainty of which he can be sure—he knows nothing.

The day begins to darken, turning the sky seen through the little porthole into a crisp, starry blue. Then a cloud the colour of charcoal appears, a fiery crimson seam running through it at the thinnest point. George stands and approaches for a better look. Thunder begins to growl far off in the heavens. The movement of the ship alters; it begins to sway rapidly as though under the influence of shallow but fast moving waves.

George peers through the partly open porthole and breathes the fast rushing air. The cloud bloats like living smoke from a cannon of the gods. Dark hair-like strands of vapour fall into the distant rolling waters.

There is a tingle in the air; the atmosphere smells of lightning.

A knock sounds on the door. This time George daren’t hope.

“Come,” he says despondently. Whitbourne puts his head around the cabin door.

“Easton requires our presence at dinner tonight,” the admiral says.

The thunder grumbles more fiercely.

Easton’s face is flushed and excited. There is that strange dampness around his lips George has noticed before. “To the tropics, gentlemen,” Easton says, raising his glass, “to the land of gold, and slaves, and discovery.”

“To the tropics,” Whitbourne echoes enthusiastically.

An aching sensation passes through George’s stomach as he takes a sip. He wonders what the admiral is planning.
Did Whitbourne prevent Jemma from coming to his cabin just now? Did he send her back in order to give the summons himself?
George thinks of how he will have to sneak around in order to steal a glance or a word from her. He watches her now by the side table. He can see the right side of her face as she reaches for a wine jug, but her expression gives little away. He feels as if she were herself a liquor from which he can draw the courage and ease of mind he needs. The idea of not being able to talk to her has become intolerable.

There is a crack of lightning. Suddenly the decks start clattering as if through a hail of stones. The sound reverberates from all around, tapping on the cabin’s roof as well.

Easton smiles. The ship lurches a little to port.

“Neptune’s silver arrows!” he says, leaning back and breathing deeply. “They sound fierce, but here they are warm and sweet. This is my favourite region in all the world, sirs, full of the most volatile, intemperate of humours, full of rewards for those who dare to risk. When I am in the tropics, I act like its weather. I am sudden and unpredictable.”

“What is it you plan to do in the tropics, sir?” Whitbourne asks.

“To show my good friends its wonders,” Easton replies. “I have taken Spanish gold here, and I have taken slaves. But it is more than mere coinage that beckons me back. I want to take enough to build a kingdom—not just in gold, but in the blood and fibre of men. I still have high hopes you gentlemen will join me.”