The Voyage of the Dolphin (11 page)

‘There you are, that should hold now. It's not too tight, is it?'

Phoebe leant back and scrutinised the strip of black cloth she had re-fastened around Fitzmaurice's upper arm. He sniffed; grunted.

‘How long do you think I should keep it on?'

‘I'm not sure. As long as you're in mourning, I suppose. A week?'

‘A
week?
'

In the three days since the
Dolphin
had sailed from Reykjavik bound for Greenland, Fitzmaurice had indulged in a bout of self-pity that had surprised even himself: drifting round the ship like a wraith, staring out to sea for hours on end – even, on occasion, refusing food. The sudden elemental violence of his uncle's death, and the lack of a corpse to consign with the usual propitiatory incantations, had shaken him – it had shocked them all – but he was beginning to run out of steam on the grief front. Fond though he had been of his uncle, even Fitzmaurice (by his own admission not the most astute judge of human nature) would have to concede that Sir Crispin had not been a paragon of moral rectitude.

‘Actually, it is a
little
tight. Would you mind?'

All in all, Fitzmaurice felt he had done as much as he could. With Steingrimur's help he had contacted his uncle's business partners in Reykjavik, settled the bill at the hotel (Bjork seemed inordinately distraught), and wired the British authorities in Whitehall to let them know they required a new honorary consul. The telegram to Lady Pimm had been more difficult. A spell of poignant pencil-gnawing eventually resulted in the following dispatch:
BAD NEWS STOP SIR C SQUOSHED BY ROCK
STOP NO BODY STOP SORRY
.

They had arranged for the deceased's worldly goods to be shipped back to England and for the sale, at a significant loss, of his band of ponies to an agricultural collective. Steingrimur also sent the town's trio of policemen out to the lagoon to assess the possibility of lifting the boulder, but they concluded that it was far too big and heavy and, perhaps more saliently, that no one really wanted to see what was underneath. On the morning before the
Dolphin
weighed anchor a sparsely-attended service was held at the cathedral where, the bishop being mysteriously unavailable, a flustered commissary stuttered his way through edited highlights of Sir Crispin's chequered career. Afterwards Fitzmaurice said a few words, literally, finding himself at a loss for tributes after ‘My uncle was a man…'

 

Back at sea, McGregor was impatient to make up for lost time, and with a fair wind they made substantial progress to the southwest. The skipper had recovered from his chill but remained subdued, putting up only token resistance to Phoebe's reappearance. The crew, similarly, were docile, having taken full advantage of Icelandic hospitality during their extended shore leave. The cabin boy was in a particularly dreamy state, mooning around the ship with a sickly smirk on his face, due to a brief but transformative late-night encounter with one of the harbour crones.

In their coffin-sized cabin under the fo'c'sle once again, Crozier and Rafferty were finding life at close quarters a challenge. Minor trespasses were accumulating: Crozier's snoring, Rafferty's disregard for private property (there had been a nasty row about some shoe polish), but other tensions were also coming into play. Phoebe's crusading zeal had awakened in the Dubliner a fresh sense of injustice. Why, he wondered, was he not back at home helping to free his country from oppression rather than consorting with agents of the Ascendancy? On a hare-brained scheme that would do nothing to further the cause of Ireland?

The more he thought about it the more he smouldered. A faint paranoia crept in: fair enough, they treated him as an equal but did that not just point up their complacent superiority? He found himself listening for slights, for double-bluff condescension, for slips of assumed authority. Fitzmaurice he discounted to a degree, as being not only irredeemably mired in privilege but more or less incapable of coherent thought. Crozier, though, was different; he was intelligent, and versed in moral truth, and surely knew the writing was on the wall.

There was another source of friction under the fo'c'sle, however: Phoebe. Rafferty suspected Crozier had his eye on her. Little things: comments, the odd curious glance, manoeuvrings for proximity. And this troubled him. For the fact was, he was falling in love.

*

On the fourth morning, which happened to be Good Friday, the wind dropped and a freezing fog enveloped them. Under engine power the
Dolphin
proceeded at a cautious three knots. By the afternoon of the following day the ocean was dead calm and there was little more than ten yards of visibility. McGregor was becoming anxious about conserving fuel for heating and cooking. A feeling of unease began to grip the crew.

‘It's very unusual,' McGregor told Crozier. ‘Conditions like this shouldn't persist in these parts for more than a couple of hours.'

They were standing near the mizzen-mast gazing out at the wall of murk, which seemed to rest like a solid object on the surface of the water. Above them the tops of the masts were obscured by pewter mist. Apart from the distant rumble of the ship's propeller and the slow shoosh of the bow, all was quiet. Crozier was aware of the icy damp on his face. He gritted his teeth to stop them chattering and blew into his gloved hands.

‘I don't know. I've never been to sea before.'

‘Well, take my word for it, it's very f—ing odd,' McGregor said, ‘and if things don't change soon I wouldn't be surprised if there was an offering on the cards.'

‘A what?'

‘An offering. You know, a sacrifice? The men are very superstitious.'

‘Are they?'

‘Oh aye. Never set sail on a Friday. Or the first Monday in April. Or the second Monday in August. Panic if they see a redhead before a voyage. Don't like anyone whistling. That kind of thing. Won't have bananas onboard.'

‘Bananas?' Crozier had the sensation that his skull was starting to freeze.

‘One time, on a spice run out of Zanzibar, they found a crate of them in the hold.' He shook his head. ‘We had to sacrifice all the f—ing chickens and throw them over the side. Ate nothing but f—ing rice for a month.'

‘That's horrible.'

‘And you've probably noticed that nobody, and I include myself, is happy about there being a woman onboard.'

Crozier swivelled.

‘Are you saying we'll have to sacrifice Phoebe?'

McGregor snorted.

‘No, nothing like that. Jesus Christ, it's the twentieth f—ing century,' He coughed and spat. ‘No, not Phoebe. Something else. Another living creature.'

‘A chicken?'

‘Not a chicken.'

‘Bunion?' Crozier's tone was hopeful. He received a glare.

‘Hang on… You don't mean..?'

‘Let's face it,' McGregor said, ‘nobody likes that f—ing thing.'

‘Crikey.'

‘Don't worry, it would only be a last resort.' The Scot turned to leave. He paused. ‘Probably best not mention it tae “his Lordship” though.'

Crozier continued to lean on the handrail, staring into the mist. He tried not to think about the consequences of what the skipper had just outlined but it struck him how removed a ship at sea was from the weight of consensus, and how easy it would be to drift beyond judgment and law. Beyond reason. What was life onboard after all, but a form of dictatorship? Was McGregor a dictator? He certainly had tendencies. But then maybe they all would, given the opportunity. The chance to play God. Come to that, was
God
a dictator? He liked His own way, that was a given, but…

A sound in the distance interrupted his reverie. A muffled cry deep in the sea smoke. Human? He tightened his grip on the gunwale. Again, more distinct this time, a definite tone of distress. His heart quickened and he wondered if he should alert someone. It came twice more – difficult to tell the direction but closer by – and, after an interval, another, but further away this time, and with a dying fall. And then nothing. He listened, motionless, for a few more minutes before straightening up. He opened and closed his stiff hands to restart the circulation. He replayed the sound in his memory and then began to wonder if he'd heard anything at all. If it
had
been real then it was most likely a seabird: a storm petrel
(Hydrobates pelagicus)
perhaps, or a Manx shearwater
(Puffinus puffinus)
. Both were common around the Icelandic coast, and now he thought of it, shearwaters were known for their eerie cry. Lost souls, some called them.

The fog had not lifted the next morning. In fact it had become denser, darkening the crepuscular shroud around the ship. The order was given to shut down the engine, and the ensuing stillness and silence added to the gloom. The crew went about their tasks as usual but, there being no sailing technicalities, the work was largely completed by lunchtime. McGregor locked himself away in his cabin to study charts; Harris and Doyle moped in the wheelhouse drinking tea. In the galley, by the glow of an oil lamp, Victoor clanked back and forth while Phoebe peeled vegetables for the evening meal. Bridie, unsettled by the lack of daylight, twitched and glowered in her cage.

Under the fo'c'sle Crozier, tired from deck scrubbing and intent on a nap, was breathing heavily, his face hot. Despite repeated pleas and warnings, Rafferty had failed, yet again, to secure the door against the ship's dog. Usually this resulted only in the beast somehow ascending the rudimentary bunk-ladder and making itself flatulently comfortable in Crozier's bed. This time it had shown more initiative. It was stretched out in the middle of the room, its great chest rising and falling in agitated slumber, on a nest composed of most of his belongings. Crozier's steamer trunk, extensively scraped and gouged, lay open, a ripped shirtsleeve hanging from one corner, a detached trouser-leg from another. Between its twitching paws the monster clutched a half-eaten brogue, while scattered around its head, Crozier noted with some distress, were the confetti-like remnants of some of his most prized books.

Dinner that evening was a subdued affair. Neither Victoor's token attempt to celebrate Easter Sunday with boiled eggs and hot cross buns, nor Phoebe's impression of Sir Crispin choking on a puffin leg (Fitzmaurice was in his cabin), could dispel the atmosphere of foreboding. McGregor said little and rose from the table early, Harris and Doyle drifting in his wake. When Victoor and the cabin boy had cleared away the dishes, Phoebe suggested a game of gin rummy but Crozier was still angry with Rafferty and excused himself to go and read
Treasure Island
, which he had pillaged from Fitzmaurice's meagre library.

Sometime after midnight he stirred in his sleep. The
Hispaniola
was anchored in the narrow passage between the mainland and the islet marked on Captain Flint's map as ‘Skeleton Island'. Through his spyglass Crozier could see the pirates – among them two burly blond twins — moving in the swamp behind the trees. There was no sound but for the distant boom of surf and there was no breeze, the hot air heavy with a peculiar, stagnant smell. Rafferty, at his shoulder, sniffed. ‘I don't know about treasure,' he said, ‘but I'll stake my wig, there's fever here.' Before Crozier could reply, the ship was shaken by a volley of cannon-fire and everyone began shouting at once. ‘Damn your eyes, McGregor,' Crozier yelled. He woke up. Rafferty was already standing, pulling on his jacket. ‘Something's wrong,' he hissed.

Crozier swung his legs over the side of the bunk and sat, trying to make sense of the sounds overhead: chaotic thumping, urgent voices, the clanking of an untethered metal object. Intruders?
Pirates?
He jumped down, located his boots in the darkness, and hurried after Rafferty. The door to Phoebe's cabin opened as he passed. ‘What the hell's going on?' she demanded. ‘Trouble,' he told her. ‘Stay there.'

At the top of the ladder leading to the hatchway, he paused. The commotion had died down and he could hear someone talking in a soothing voice, as if to a child. He pushed at the swing-doors and peered out. Rafferty was nearby with his back to him. Beyond, in the trembling light cast by a hurricane lamp, was a strange scene. Perched on the lower yard of the mainmast, side by side, their eyes wide with terror — they were staring at something blocked from his view — were Harris and Doyle. The first mate's hands, he noted, were bloodied, and one of the bosun's eyebrows was missing.

‘Just keep calm and don't make any sudden moves,' Rafferty was saying. Crozier felt the weight of someone on the rungs below him and clambered out of the hatch. As he straightened up he saw what the others were looking at and all became clear.

Tensed on the deck, dorsal spines erect and mouth agape in a silent scream of rage, was Bridie, her tail whipping around like a loose electric cable. Rocking on its side nearby was a large metal bucket. ‘What's happening?' Phoebe said, appearing at his shoulder. Crozier held up a warning finger. Rafferty knelt down, proffering his hand. ‘Here Bridie, good girl.' The lizard, its attention fixed on the mainmast, registered his movement. ‘Bridie, everything's going to be grand.' He reached for the bucket. ‘I'm just going to pop this over…' The lizard started to hiss. Rafferty paused. ‘…just going to…' A low, phlegmy rattle replaced the hiss. Rafferty waited for it to stop. ‘Bridie, there's nothing to worry about, I'm only…'

There was a sound like the screech of locomotive brakes and Bridie lunged sideways. Rafferty dropped the bucket and leapt into a prancing run in the direction of the others, the lizard skittering after him. Someone screamed — Crozier wasn't sure whether it was him or Phoebe — and all three of them raced towards the stern where they scrambled onto the poop deck and lay in a tangle gasping for breath. Bridie, prioritising her revenge, doubled back to where Fitzmaurice, attired in a Savage Newell tweed nightshirt and reindeer pampooties, was staring in bafflement at the two sailors clinging to the mainmast.