Easton (7 page)

“Are you ill, sir?” George cries above the wind.

But the captain pulls away and his shoulders dip like those of a bull before battle.

“No,” Pym grunts. “Our cabins. Mine and Baxter’s. Look.” He points behind him. George stares off toward the cluster of smartly appointed rooms. He follows the instruction without quite knowing why and walks slowly in that direction. Captain Pym stays where he is, coughing and retching. When George reaches the small staircase beneath the cabin entrance he turns around. Captain Pym, now by the deck rail, the handkerchief still in his face, nods and waves him on.

George climbs the staircase and, reaching the top, pushes open the unfastened door in front of him. Glancing back again he sees that Pym is now turned to the sea, gripping the deck rail. George goes through into a vestibule which is almost identical to the one that adjoins his own cabin. Only one detail distinguishes it. Attached to one of the cabin doors is an object George takes at first for a bizarre and rather tasteless decoration. It is a sculpture of a human head, in the exact likeness of the young lieutenant. Its chalky-white colour makes it somewhat like the Roman and Greek busts he has seen in the London exhibitions. But unlike those artifacts, the lips are of a different hue to the skin, the hair is lifelike—a plait of it is curled around a large nail on the door and tied into a knot—and there is an obscene and bloated slaughterhouse verity to the skin and the seams of the eyelids.

It takes no more than a second to realize that it is neither sculpture nor decoration. But that short time is pregnant with hopeful explanations, steering George away from the obvious. First he thinks it might be the result of some macabre joke of Easton’s by which clay or some similar substance can be made to look like human flesh. Then he considers how the slave or slaves who live below might have some way of creating such an illusion. The thing that finally confounds these explanations is the presence of a plump black housefly on the rug directly beneath the hideous object. The insect stands in the midst of a dark, drying puddle—a viscous, foul-smelling stain that can only be blood.

George takes a step backward. His heart hammers, sending echoes through his ears. Something warm rises from his stomach and he swallows it down. He has seen such things many times before, he tells himself in a vain attempt to calm down. He thinks of the heads stuck on poles above the entrance to London Bridge. He recalls his more recent experience of hanged men and rogues over whose execution he has even helped to preside. He has seen the helpless twitch and struggle of the dying. He has seen their remains change from pink, dripping carcasses to leather and bone. Why should this be so much more shocking?

He spins away from the vestibule, half backing out of the door. The wind enwraps him on the stairs and he tells himself it should not be so; he should not be so upset. Yet he is not convinced.

Images return like the spokes of a windmill: the candlelight of the previous evening; the sharp, bright buttons of the lieutenant’s tunic; Baxter’s glistening, indignant eyes; and most of all, Easton’s calm and tolerant smile. These things tumble back into his brain as partial answers as to why the gruesome discovery is uniquely disturbing. It is because this was so unexpected, because things are most definitely not what they seem with Easton. Most of all, it’s because the severed head, with its blanched white skin and closed eyes, could so easily have been his.

“
It was, I
confess, quite unforgivable of me to let you find him like that.”

Easton addresses them all in quiet, even tones. His eyes are cast meditatively down at the table. The cabin creaks gently like a church pew under the weight of worshipers’ knees. The tunic Easton wears today is darker and less embroidered than usual. George has seen similar clothing in portraits of the pious King Philip II of Spain. He wonders if Easton has Catholic leanings.

No one has eaten, including Easton this time. Bread remains unbroken in a basket at the centre. The solemnity and the tension are almost unbearable.

At last the admiral stirs.

“Perhaps, sir,” he begins with a cough, “you could give us some indication as to the circumstances through which the young lieutenant came to meet his fate.” As he talks, the admiral glances at Captain Pym, who holds a handkerchief to his mouth and seems too unsettled, perhaps too angry, to say anything himself.

“Of course, sir,” Easton replies penitently. “That is the very least I owe you all. Oh, that such a disaster of inhospitality should have occurred on my ship!” Easton seems almost overtaken with grief for a moment. He takes a deep breath then rouses himself. Tipping his head to the side and gazing down at the oak grain patterns of the table, he begins. “You all saw, sirs, how the young lieutenant was when you retired,” he says quietly. “It was my ardent wish at that time to continue calming him with soft and patient answers until such a time that we might part from each other as friends.”

Easton’s dark eyes seem unusually sensitive in the midst of his embarrassment. Their very depth seems to attract all the scattered daylight in the cabin. “I took the blows most meekly,” he says, looking up and gazing directly at each of them in turn, begging that his sincerity be accepted. “Even the accusations of...treason,” he adds closing his eyes. The word “treason” comes in a sigh as though it turns his breath to flame.

A chair creaks slightly and the cabin falls into dead silence again. George feels the sympathy in the room is growing for Easton. Perhaps it is not
quite
sympathy. More like
inevitability
. More like a silent communal intelligence growing among them all. If Easton continues to make his case so persuasively, the silence seems to say, they will all have to give him the benefit of the doubt. They will have to because they are his prisoners and they are afraid.

“He charged me with murders foul and unprovoked,” Easton continues, “and with disloyalty to the country that I so adore.” He looks from face to face once again. Light and dark do battle in the deep pools of his irises. “All of this, sirs, I took most calmly and with a fortitude I flatter myself you would have honoured had you seen it yourself.”

Whitbourne gives the ghost of a nod, as though believing so much. Then he coughs. “Would it not, sir, have been better to have confined him until the time of the departure of the lieutenant and the good captain here? Then he might not have tempted your patience so.”

“But that’s the thing, sir,” Easton gasps with impressive humility. “I had been considering so much, for his safety. My own temper I can vouch for, but I was thinking about my crew, all men well-trained in matters of honour and chivalry. What if they were to overhear?”

“So what did happen, sir?”

Easton pauses and his gaze flits from face to face. It rests for a moment on Captain Pym, showing compassion and worry in equal proportion. “I can scarce tell it, my dear sirs, without impugning the reputation of the young man.”

Pym withdraws the handkerchief from his mouth. His eyes widen, perhaps in silent challenge. “Tell it, sir,” he croaks.

Easton casts his eyes down once more and tips his head to the side as if praying. “Perhaps he was enraged, or ill, or intoxicated by too much wine. But I turned from the table for a moment to give an instruction to one of my servants. When I looked back, he had drawn against me.”

“He drew his sword when your back was turned?” Pym asks hoarsely, each word like a bullet, unfriendly and disbelieving. His face flushes almost scarlet.

Easton merely nods and casts his eyes at the table.

“And the head, sir?” Pym counters. “Why was my officer’s head nailed to the door of his cabin?”

“My dear sir. It is the very highest mark of respect.”

“Respect, sir?” Pym gasps.

“I forget myself, sir, and you will bear with me. I have lived away from England for so long that customs at first strange and exotic have become as dear and comforting to me as the glorious customs of our own dear Church. I will explain.” He pauses for a moment, clasps his hands and goes on. “The African tribes from which we in England and the Spanish harvest our slaves have many strange and powerful beliefs. I do not take part in their extraordinary rituals myself. But I have grown to understand and respect even some of their most lurid practices. It is often the case in nature, sirs, that the most exquisite things in life derive from a savage source.”

“Please, sir,” interrupts the admiral. “Can you give us the facts as plainly as possible?”

“I am trying, sir,” Easton says, then pauses. The slave appears from the hatch with a large jug. Easton glances at her as she approaches. “I occasionally allow the African slaves which are aboard my ship to perform their ceremonies in respect of the dead. You have seen the girl who serves us?” He catches the slave’s eye. “It is she and another woman who have carried out what they sincerely consider to be a spiritual aid to the departing soul of the lieutenant.”

“Fie, sir!” says Pym. He is almost steaming with anger now, his head red as a cherry. “How can such a fiendish barbarity be anything but an insult to the dead?”

The slave circles the table with the milk jug, not looking at anyone’s face. Her eyelashes flicker. George finds himself blushing.

Easton is silent until the girl withdraws to the side table. Then he continues. “Doorways have the most profound significance in their belief,” he explains in a low voice, his lips tightening. “Especially the doorway that leads to the dead one’s most recent habitation. This portal, or opening, becomes crucial for the departing spirit.”

Pym makes a scoffing noise. Easton smiles sadly, but doesn’t continue for the moment.

George looks over to the slave who stands side on to him, rearranging dishes. Her hand touches her black skirt in a delicate, embarrassed gesture. He tries to imagine such a creature carrying out the gruesome ritual with the head and finds it incredible. The only explanation that makes sense is the one that Easton is providing, that the apparently savage act hides extraordinary sensitivity of purpose. The slave doesn’t know she is being watched, it’s clear. Her eyes are still cast down, and her long lashes quiver.

Easton has allowed the silence to do its work. Each hushed moment adds both drama and credibility to his explanations. “Another belief,” he continues at last in a soft voice, “is the potency of the head as a means of directing the spirit in its journey to the life beyond.”

“Even if these are the reasons, sir,” Pym challenges, “what have such savage rituals to do with this good Christian boy?”

“My dear sir,” says Easton leaning back in his chair, some hint of his old arrogance returning, “our own glorious religion has undergone many centuries of change. I’ll ask you to remember it was not so long ago when our bishops would burn a man for not believing that wine could be turned into the Blood of Christ.”

A deathly silence now overcomes the table. A slow smile comes across Easton’s face. “Religion has become diluted and compromised, its vitality has drained away. We can barely even talk on the subject without fear of the accusation of heresy. The African rituals are rich and vibrant and have lost none of their violent beauty. We can all learn from them.”

“Is there no end to your horrors?” Pym gasps.

Easton merely bows sadly. The admiral interposes.

“Captain Easton, I must insist we give Lieutenant Baxter a Christian burial at sea using the text of King James’ Prayer Book.”

“Of course, sir. You have misunderstood me.” Easton’s brow is knotted, a picture of troubled hospitality once more. “I am a simple man of faith. I look to my glorious Church for instruction in these matters. The rituals to which I refer were carried out by simple, good-hearted women. I was explaining but not justifying their actions.”

Easton nods again. A sense of relief comes over the room.

The burial takes place just before dusk as the clouds burn crimson around the edges. The waves glitter like leaves of gold, waiting to carry their parcel to the underworld. Easton presides. The lieutenant’s body is wrapped tightly in the St. George’s Cross, and Easton’s crew—perhaps fifty of them on the deck—stand silent and respectful. Somehow the head has been bound or tied to the body so that the whole falls into the glistening waters with no sign that dismemberment has ever taken place. Tiny bubbles fizzle up to the surface and the night draws on with a single gasp of the breeze.

Pym takes his leave from Easton with polite solemnity. The
Loyal Pandora
, now drawn alongside, receives its captain. Its sails ripple then swell in unison to welcome the breeze. As the great masts creak and the ship begins to pull away, spewing foam from the bow, George feels a tug of envy. The presence of Pym on the ship and that of the
Loyal Pandora
nearby had up to now given George some sense of normality. The navy, though dwarfed by Easton’s ships, was present. Now, as the
Loyal Pandora
slices through the waters as fast as the wind will carry it, George feels the boards of the
Happy Adventure
wobble beneath his feet. Certain irrefutable realities begin creeping into his brain. The first of these is that Easton is a man who defies every authority but his own; the second is that even though one out of his last two guests was decapitated, Easton has emerged from the controversy with the grace and ease of a man who has never sinned. But most of all, more fearsome than all the show of power and the impressive line of cannons below, is the calmness and geniality of the man. When explaining Baxter’s death he soothed them all as though he were a giant playing with babes. Such is the discrepancy of power between captor and captives. He could crush them both in an instant if he wished.

That night George stays in his own cabin. Easton has claimed to have a headache, an intelligence delivered with the gesture of placing a handkerchief to his temple as though he were somebody’s maiden aunt tired from too hectic a social pace.

George now sits upon his bed rather pensively, his heart quickening whenever he hears a footstep nearby in case it be the slave coming with his supper. And at last there is a knock.