Easton (14 page)

The burning sensation grows like the onset of some tropical fever. It spreads from George’s ears, spilling over his face and neck, covering his chest. He recognizes it at last as rage and he feels his sinews tighten.

“Under your command, Admiral, so that we may smile and bow to a murderer,” he replies. He is suddenly unafraid of the pistol and of Whitbourne’s judgment and he sees the admiral’s expression change to a kind of shock. “Under your command, Admiral, so that we may turn a blind eye to every outrage and hypocrisy and then plead for his pardon to the King. No, sir, I would rather die like Baxter.”

“You young fool,” Whitbourne spits. “Has she bewitched you so entirely?” He picks up the book with his free hand and then throws it to George’s feet. “The black arts! What would Easton be doing with such a book?”

“Why don’t you come downstairs? I will show you all you need to know.”

George turns slowly as though to lead the way. But Whitbourne sits frowning, unmoved.

“I don’t want to see anything,” he says.

George turns back again to face him.

“You don’t want to see what I want to show you because you’re afraid it might all be true.”

“True or not it makes no difference,” Whitbourne says in a low voice. “Someone should have told you before you left England, my lad. When you step into the navy, you are entering the world of politics. Easton’s cannons and his ships make him our ally. Soon the King will be won over by his gold. If you wish to serve England, indeed, if you wish to see her shores again, you will believe what you must believe.”

Silence engulfs them again, a truer silence than George has known in days as the ship is almost without motion and the constant grumble of the waves has died away.

“I do not believe in blind obedience, sir,” George replies steadily. “I do not believe that a traitor with guns is a friend.”

George looks at the sword hanging from the wall and the pistol on the side table. He will have to cross close by Whitbourne to retrieve both. The barrel of the pistol is still aimed at George’s chest. Whitbourne surveys George’s face as though reading his thoughts.

“Do you think for a moment that there was not a time when I stood in your shoes?” he says suddenly. “Do you think that I have not felt disgust with the hypocrisy of the world? That I have not wished to disappear altogether into the shadows? Believe me, my young friend, as I sit here and watch you, I face myself of thirty years ago. I made the decision I had to. So must you. Trust what I say; you are at the point of no return.”

“But I shall return,” George says. “I shall return and seek justice and see that Easton is sought and captured. First, let me take my sword and my pistol. I am leaving.”

“No, sir, you are not. I will kill you first. It is my duty.”

There is another moment of profound silence.

“Then, sir,” George says quietly. “Do your duty.”

With the steady, quiet movements of a monk at prayer, George crosses the room to the sword, unhooks it from the wall and straps it on. Without looking at Whitbourne, he then paces to the side table, picks up his pistol and lodges it in his belt. He takes the tinderbox and slips it into a pocket in his tunic.

He takes one pace to the door, turns and looks at Whitbourne. The barrel of the pistol is still aimed in his direction. The admiral’s expression now betrays anxiety—his brow furrowed, his eyes alive with a hundred conflicting emotions.

Still carrying the candle holder, George walks slowly toward the vestibule. He knows that all this while his back provides a target. He waits for the explosion, for the hot lead to rip through him. But in a moment he is turning to the trap door. He must be out of sight, now, he realizes. Sweat oozes down his face as he lowers himself through the trap. His legs now begin shaking so that he is barely able to find the ladder rungs. He climbs down a couple of steps at a time, unable to rush, yet half expecting to hear the sound of Whitbourne following.

He reaches the deck at last. Turning, he sees that Jemma is there, the baby over her shoulder, a large cane basket in her hand. George takes the basket, which is heavy. He follows Jemma to the hatch in the side of the cabin.

“Leave the light,” whispers Jemma. “The men on the lower decks mustn’t see us.”

George puts the light on the deck and leaves it burning. He half thinks of setting a fire, realizing this might really put an end to Easton. But before the idea is fully formed, they are on their way downward through perilously black cannon decks, down increasingly rickety ladders. They pass dark groups of men snoring, propped up against the sides of cannons. George catches a glimpse of the moonlit ocean beyond the cannon ramps. The water’s surface lifts closer as they descend. The ship must have anchored and stopped moving.

On a groaning deck deep in the ship’s belly Jemma lays the baby down. She goes to the ship’s curved inner wall, leans toward an oblong hatch made out of new planking and turns a wooden peg sideways with an effort. It creaks and gives way quite suddenly. She does the same to another, straining a great deal but gesturing George to stand back. With many squeals of protest the second peg loosens also. Then she pushes the trap which gives way and opens only a few feet above the ocean. Without a word, she grabs hold of a rope tied to the side and shimmies down onto a very small boat that waits. Gaining her footing, she stands and holds up her hands to receive the baby. George bends down and gingerly puts his hands under the little creature to pick it up. It gurgles a little and its hands make odd movements like young ferns in the breeze. Very carefully, George lowers the baby into Jemma’s waiting hands. Then he shimmies down the rope with the basket. Once on board, he unties the boat. There is a single oar running across the tiny vessel. George turns quickly to survey the danger. The
Happy Adventure
, he sees, is the first of Easton’s ships to anchor. The others approach like giant bats in the darkness, their wings receiving the breeze as they slowly glide. George turns and scans the rugged shoreline in the opposite direction. His eyes fix on a dark cove beyond some rocky headlands. If they were to row toward it, the ship’s own shadow might protect them from the moonlight.

George picks up the light oar and with slow, quiet strokes, he makes for the cove.

The night is eerily silent. There is no thunder or rain, yet the heavy clouds grow, divide and merge as though preparing for some mighty judgment. George has never seen weather like this although he has read accounts of such by explorers who have been to the tropics. Moisture continues to drip down his face although there is no spray from the ocean, just the gentlest splosh and trickle from his oar, which he keeps under water for as long as possible with each stroke. Jemma sits in the stern, dead quiet and still. The baby makes a few dry attempts at crying, but the noise doesn’t raise above the level of the plunging oar. Still, Jemma makes a shushing noise and it seems to calm him.

The rocks below the headland are reached swiftly. Patches of moonlight show the water crystal clear. Rocks and weeds wobble beneath the wavelets and George takes it slowly, checking the depths with every second stroke, pushing off gently when he thinks himself too close. As they make their way into the sheltered cove George takes a last glance back at the vast, silent ship. It is dead quiet and dark—no lights showing from the cabins. It faces the cove like a great bird of prey, hovering. He catches Jemma’s eye; she looks anxious and turns around too, as though feeling the ship itself might cast a spell on them before they disappear from view.

Soon the darkness of shadow descends and George knows they are quite out of sight of the
Happy Adventure
. As he lets the boat drift forward with a prod of the oar, the cove opens up revealing several yards of beach. In a few more moments, George steps out and begins wading through the warm water, pulling the little boat onto the beach, sand sucking between his toes. He sees palm trees such as those he has seen in sketches and illustrations, with their hoary trunks and thin canopies like fans.

He pulls the boat hard upon the sands and then, breathing heavily, rests his hands upon the rim of the bow. He cannot see Jemma’s face clearly through the darkness, just an outline of a nightdress and the bundle with the baby in front of her. But he knows she is watching him just as he is watching her, perhaps wondering, also like him, who this person really is with whom her fate has become joined.

George’s hands slide over the rough and splintered wood of the bow.
All I have
, he thinks,
all I have is here
. He thinks of the articles that make up their joint possessions: whatever is in the basket, the boat, his sword, his pistol, his clothes. It’s true there are twelve gold sovereigns in his purse. But what use is money in a tropical wilderness?

A realization descends like a dark and silent wave; he has let go of that invisible cord which kept his life in orbit. He has let go of the rope and is now being flung into the furthest and darkest reaches of the universe. And how easy it was! Just an impulse, a determination to follow the dictates of his conscience, and the ties that connected him to all he has ever known are severed.

Without looking around he thinks of the rocks and hills behind him. He imagines scrambling over them before dawn, scree and pebbles skittering down as he helps Jemma and an infant escape a bloodthirsty-pirate-madman. What a far cry from the orderliness and the glory of his military school and from his first year in service! There have been rules and regulations to which he could adhere, standards he could uphold. And now he is beyond it all, a cowering outcast.

“We should get far from the beach,” Jemma’s voice comes soft and clear through the darkness.

He doesn’t answer at first. He doesn’t want to believe Easton will follow. But he knows Jemma would have a better idea of this than he. This thought brings him to.

“We must hide the boat first,” he says, his hands still on the bow.

“No, they will find it anyway,” she replies with a certainty George finds frightening. “It doesn’t matter where we hide it.”

George turns to look at the escape route from the beach. It is rugged and treacherous, but there are many footholds, and the need to leave the shoreline is suddenly more urgent. The waiting ship seems much more ominous with Jemma’s prediction.

“Let’s go then,” he whispers.

He leans into the boat and takes Jemma’s hand. She disembarks, holding the baby. George grabs the basket. Jemma stoops toward the basket, opens it and takes out an item of clothing—an old apron.

“Help tie the baby to me,” she says.

Between them they struggle with the cords of the apron, tying them over Jemma’s shoulders and around her waist in such a way that a tight pouch is provided for the child.

The sky grumbles and they begin to hurry as if this were a sign of danger, somehow heralding Easton’s search. The baby is secure now and apparently sleeping through it all. They empty the contents of the basket: bread, skins full of milk and water, and a sack of coarse wool. Placing the victuals inside, Jemma ties the top corners of the sack around George’s neck, leaving his hands free for climbing. George is amazed by the amount of forethought Jemma has put into this.

The sky grumbles again. George looks around, wondering if there is a more successful way to cover their tracks and if, despite what Jemma says, they could hide the boat just for a few hours. But Jemma is right, he decides. Their only protections are the remaining hours of night and a quick escape into the interior. Feeling naked despite his weapons and the weight of the sack around his neck, he sets off, gesturing for Jemma to follow.

They cross a shallow stream on the way to the first hill face. George bends and dips his fingers to see if it is fresh water. When he finds that it is, he cups his hands and drinks. Despite his desperate situation, there is a sparkle of freedom in the taste. There is a hint of earth and grit in its smell, the sense of nature on the run, refreshing itself. Jemma stands over him waiting, adjusting her pouch. He smiles but knows she may not see this in the darkness.

George gets up and they continue, climbing onto the first rocks. Jemma, despite a greater alacrity, moves with extreme care. Her sensitive hands feel the ridges of the rocks, judging the shape before she trusts them with her whole weight. Sometimes George sees her cradling the baby’s head, which lolls beneath the apron cloth. They climb in silence and George can hear Jemma’s hands slide over the surfaces of the boulders. When scree goes scattering down the rocks, George immediately knows it is his own action which is at fault.

They reach the top of a ridge. There is a wooded area ahead, forming a corridor of darkness. Bald hills stand on either side. Without a word they begin to make their way through the woods, which are more sparsely dotted with trees than they seemed from a distance. The ground is soft and marshy and sucks at their feet with each step. The thunder grumbles again. George looks up and sees the clouds change shape, stretching thin tendrils in the now paler sky. He hopes that the rain will hold off until they can find shelter, yet wonders what kind of shelter will provide safety against Easton if he and his men are as diligent and determined as Jemma thinks them.

He thinks of Whitbourne and the pistol. Did the admiral really have any intention of shooting him? How long before he tells Easton they have escaped?

He remembers the darkness of the ship as it appeared from the beach. The thought holds manifold comforts. It means they have some time. And it also means that his old commander decided to give them a chance of escape. He could have raised the alarm and informed Easton straight away, cementing himself in the pirate’s favour, but did not.

The baby begins to cry, little cracked noises giving way to persistent wails. At first they continue trudging through the marsh—the clouds groaning grey above, the baby crying, the dawn filling the sky with a milky paleness.

But soon Jemma stops.

“I’ll have to feed him soon,” she says, breathless.

George turns and looks at her. She is full of wiry energy, but tired.