Neptune's Fingers (8 page)

T
ell me about Grandfather,” said Jack, when he sat down to eat with his father that night.

“Which one?” The answer was guarded, giving nothing away of Henry Lambeth's thoughts.

“Mum's father, Edward McPhail. Is it true he came from Ireland?”

“Yes,” said his father. Jack felt annoyance at the short answer so he prodded his father for details.

“On a sailing ship?” suggested Jack.

“Yes. They were all sailing ships in those days. He was a very young boy at the time. Younger than you.”

Jack was fourteen and knew he was quite grown up, ready to take on a man's job. He ignored his father's comment. If he wanted facts, there was nothing to be gained by getting irritated.

“How old?” he asked.

“About eleven years, I believe.”

Henry Lambeth always answered Jack's questions. Why was he so reticent about a relative?

“Why did he come here? I heard he ran away from home.” There, it was out in the open. He, Jack, knew about that. His skin tingled as he waited for a comment. There was a niggling feeling he could make sense out of his confusion with the right answers. The boy on The Kestrel put thoughts of his grandfather into his mind. The young ones got to climb the rigging, he said. Did his grandfather do that?

“His life at home was intolerable. He had no parents to call his own and nowhere to be welcome.” Henry spoke softly. It was hard to come to terms with that. A displaced adult often had only himself to blame. A displaced child, unwanted and unloved was another thing altogether. Henry rarely thought of Edward McPhail. “He died when you were quite young – about two years old. His kidneys failed and there was nothing could be done for him. Stubborn man! He wouldn't take the help offered by doctors and so faded rapidly. An angry, difficult man he remained till the last.”

“Jim told me he was an orphan. Is that right?”

Henry thought for a moment. “Yes, I guess he was,” he said. “He had two people who were his legal guardians, but they were not parents in my view. They neglected him and imposed on him a disposition hard to live with. He ran away on a sailing ship, bound for Australia. He couldn't have gone further from home if he tried. That shows how much he hated it there. Needless to say, he was found out and put to work. From what I hear, he was not allergic to hard work so he was fed until he arrived here. He even acted as a cabin boy, I believe.”

“Did he come on The Kestrel?” Anticipation soared in Jack. Was Edward McPhail really the other survivor?

“I don't know, son. Shouldn't think so. Lost all hands, I heard.”

“Jim said there were two survivors.”

“Ah, Jim! Don't know how he'd know anything. He likes to fantasize, does Jim. He needs more company.” Henry was a closed shop sometimes. He took up his pipe and began his nightly ritual of packing it and lighting up, the aroma filling the room. Jack knew this line of enquiry was at a dead end. Perhaps his father knew, perhaps he didn't. No matter. There were other things he wanted to know.

“How did he survive when he got here. He still had no family and he was only a boy.” Jack looked around his comfortable surroundings and wondered what it would be like to have nothing, even less than those in the shanty town at Sandy Beach.

“He went bush, at first. His bush skills ended up being pretty good. He learned to hunt, fish and cook. Until he was about eighteen, or so, he lived in a lean-to up the Bridle Track. No one else lived there so he didn't get disturbed and his food was all about him. He lost the ability to communicate with people.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jack.

“I don't mean he couldn't talk. He just forgot what to say. He only nodded to people when he had to, otherwise he kept to himself.”

“Gosh, that must have been awful,” Jack did not have Bill's powers of speech but he contributed a fair share to any conversation. It seemed to Jack, his grandfather had been punished for being alive and for no other reason. He knew the agony of having no mother. He felt incomplete especially when he saw other families. Here on Narrowgut, it was easy to think there was no deficiency in his family. Until he was with others it was just how things were. Learning of his grandfather's nightmare bonded him closer to this mysterious man no one wanted to talk about.

“He would have stayed a hermit except for the fact he saw your grandmother. For some reason, she saw merit in him. She called him her barefoot boy. Romantic nonsense, I suppose. Still, that's what she called him, according to your mother. You could get by on a lot less in those days if you stayed away from the city. She was the only person he spoke to. He married his Emma Cross and she persuaded him to live in a place closer to the beach. All his life he kept to himself, apart from with Emma and his children, while they were growing up. He and Emma had four children that lived. Your mother, Amy McPhail, was the second eldest. Her mother died giving birth to her youngest, Minnie. She's a hardy woman, if ever there was one.”

Aunty Min had seven robust children of varying ages and lived on the opposite side of the harbor, happily out of their reach. ‘Hardy' seemed a conservative description of her. She worked like a man and more often than not looked like one with her hair tied severely back in a knot at the nape of her neck.

“Wasn't he a good father?” Jack could not imagine it.

“He had no idea how to be. He had no one to model himself on. Men he knew didn't treat him as a father would. He was expected to act like a man from an early age. He demanded more than his children could give. He demanded more than his wife could give and she died young and worn out. His children were cared for by his eldest girl, Elizabeth.

“Aunt Beth? Every time I see her she's cleaning the house.” Jack visited her once and vowed never to return if he had any say in it. She followed him, straightening everything he touched. He shuddered.

“You do what you learn to do, Jack. She was never a child in the same way her father was not a child. She was a housekeeper from a young age.”

“Oh,” said Jack, humbled. “Mum was beautiful,” he said, suddenly.

“So she was, and always will be.” Amy Lambeth's portrait hung on the sitting room wall. She was dark, pretty and had a shy smile. Jack wished he could have had her longer. She was another missing piece from his life. Perhaps he could find her again through his father's memories.

“No one wants to talk about grandfather. Why not?” Jack understood grumpy men existed but he was sure most of them were not ostracized.

“He did it to himself. When his children grew up he was alone again. His wife was gone and his children dispersed. He never learnt the art of conversation. Most say he was a cantankerous, unreasonable man. I think he had a dreadful, lonely life. This place is lonely, too, Jack, but we see folk. Look at the fun you had today. I enjoyed it too. I would be surprised if Edward McPhail had a pleasant day in his life after his parents died, except for when he was with Emma Cross. Can you imagine that? Your life from here on in, lonely and isolated?”

“No. I can't,” said Jack. A future like that was too terrible to think about. It would be like plummeting around space for eternity without seeing a living soul.

“Why will no one talk about him, Dad?” he asked.

“We didn't know him, is the sad truth. We say nothing because there is nothing we can say. There must be more to a man than that he was a bully. What I have just told you is all I know. I am not proud of that.”

Jack could stomach no more. He felt his emotions tumbling inside. He was grieving for the man – a man no one knew. His grandfather. Henry made no comment as Jack left the room, his sudden departure an effort to hide his uncertainties from his father. He knew there would be no peace till he found this man and said hello.

J
ack lay in bed wide awake, for some time. He could not dismiss the events of the day as a dream. He was not given to flights of fancy. Everything about him was very real. The poverty, the struggle and the austerity he saw on a daily basis allowed no room for idle imagination. To dream was to be disappointed and there were enough disappointments without dreaming up more. The inconvenience of losing his shoes was not a dream, either. They were gone, lost on a sailing ship now languishing amongst the rocks and seaweed of Narrowgut.

What did he know of The Kestrel? Precious little, it seemed. Until a few days ago, he had no idea there were any survivors of that wreck. Now, he learnt, there were two. There was small doubt of the identity of one of them. Who was the other one, the mysterious boy? Records were flimsy, at best. Since the construction of the lighthouse, records of all passing ships and smaller craft were logged, whether they foundered or not. In 1853, Narrowgut was a barren island off the coast, part of Neptune's Fingers, and no lighthouse sent a comforting signal warning of the rocks that lay in wait. Any ship's log kept by that ill-fated Captain disappeared with his ship

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what it must have been like on a vessel like that. The short experience of the afternoon sent his thoughts wheeling in a direction they might not have chosen otherwise. Sailing ships were romantic things. They were a picture with wind filling the massive sails carrying them from one side of the world to the other. Climbing up the rigging sounded like fun but being up there, even on a calm day, gave him a different perspective. The boy was younger than he, but he was at home clambering all over the mast and the yardarms, as agile as a monkey. Jack wondered what it must be like in a gale. No voyage was complete without one at least. Being on the open sea with monstrous waves rearing over the decks battering the masts and men alike, was a thing he had previously not considered in any depth.

Jack knew the wreck well. He looked at its familiar sight exposed by low tide each day. Tonight, the waters were calm and it defied his imagination how it could come to such an end on the cruel rocks. Yet, Jack knew the reverse of this weather when howling winds and torrential rain pounded the coast in fury.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on images of the sea in a rage. Water turned a deep cobalt and writhed and heaved in confusion only to end in tattered waves thundering over the battered rocks. Trawlers caught short in gales had to fight to stay on course and depended on the lighthouse to give them their bearings.

There were many fingers of rock stretching out towards the sea, lying submerged beneath the water ready to ensnare the unwary or the unfortunate. Trawlers had motors to power them along and could fight against the wind better than a sailing ship. Most of the them could tell of a few frantic struggles with the elements on their way to port. Harry Landy was a library of tales, all on his own. Jack watched these contests from the lighthouse, safe and dry.

The Kestrel had only the wind and a rudder. What fear must pass through men with little to come to their aid but their own brute strength and belief in their skills and the mercy of the Good Lord! Jack no longer thought of the impossibility of the boy. His mind had moved along to where it accepted his existence.

He knew he was on board at this minute, somewhere in the dark night in another time. The sudden shift jolted him but he was curious enough not to question the event. Instead, he felt excited. The ship played on his mind ever since the race so in a strange way, it felt quite natural to be on its decks again. It was dark and quiet on board. The ship was easy in the water, the sails full in a fair breeze. Most of the crew were below decks for the night and would stay there unless an emergency occurred. The helmsman was at his post and a lazy lookout, aloft in the crow's nest, peered into the darkness with unseeing eyes.

A Barque had a small crew, about ten or twelve men. It was large compared to Harry's trawler, mostly in its length. Its decks were spotless and ropes neatly coiled. Jack could see this was the ship of a worthy Captain. A moderate swell pitched the ship from fore to aft, the sharp prow pointed into the oncoming waves, causing the vessel to climb up and then slide down the gentle walls of water. Silver stars peered down like icy diamonds in stark contrast to the black of the sky. The moon hid momentarily behind a sable cloud.

There was no sign of the boy. Jack felt an urge to be hidden from view, unsure. He felt out of place. The boy was his security. He felt sure the watchman in the crow's nest could see his progress on the deck even though he moved like a wraith as he searched about to find a safe place to hide. There was no scurry of sailors as they performed their tasks. It was like being on a ghost ship and Jack's skin prickled, from the cold, the fear, the excitement – or a mixture of the lot. He had the same sense of surprise he felt on his last visit to this time. Doorways in time had opened at will and he was swallowed up to stand like a spirit on a long dead ship. The boy was nowhere in sight. Was he summoned here or was this an accident? How could he know? His mouth felt dry.

The shadows afforded a good shelter from prying eyes until he discovered a few more details. He presumed it was the same ship. It defied even the scant logic he could muster that he was on another vessel. There was a connection somewhere linking him to this time and place. He could see no sign of land in the dark nor was there a light winking warmly from a friendly settlement. Jack had never felt so isolated. He knew by instinct he would cause pandemonium if he was discovered. His trousers were not of the same cut as the boy's. He looked foreign amongst the sailors. If he was caught, he might never get home again – where ever that was.

Drawn by the darkness under the stairs leading to the bridge he scrambled into its comforting shadows, trusting to their security, and took in his situation. The smell of tar filled his nostrils mingling with the damp, salty air. It smelt wonderful. Masts straining against the wind creaked and ropes protested as they pulled taut. Harry's boat made these contented sounds so Jack felt assured. He breathed in a huge draught of air, filling his lungs and savoring the sensation. For a minute he understood Bill's need to be on the water.

A movement, just beyond the center of his vision made Jack start. What was that? His heart raced. His eyes tried to penetrate the darkness to where a longboat lay, lashed on the deck towards the stern. Something moved he was certain. He stayed stock still, his eyes peeled for any sign of life. Everything was silent save for the fretting of wood and the creaking of the masts. Water slapped against the sides and splashed away again in a constant swish as the ship rode the waves. Not a human sound anywhere. Jack waited. Suddenly, the sailor at the ship's helm broke into song, claiming a place for himself in the quiet night.

The water is wide, I cannot get o'er

Neither have I the wings to fly….

It startled Jack. He had forgotten about him. He was sure his position was undetected by the helmsman so he returned his searching eyes towards the longboat. The shadow had paused, frozen by the helmsman's song; a dark shape, furtive in the black. He blended with the night like a part of it. Jack shook his head.

“I don't know when I'm dreaming and when I'm not,” he mused. “I can't see anything now.”

The singing sailor had a fine tenor voice and Jack listened a while, mesmerized, while he strained his eyes to see what had moved.

Give me a boat that can carry two,

And both shall row, my love and I.

It must help pass the time, he thought. It must be a lonely business on your own in the dark.

There is a ship and she sails the sea.

She's loaded deep, as deep can be.

Occasionally, the sailor forgot the words and a merry whistle filled in the gaps. There used to be music in Jack's home when his mother was alive. She loved it above all else and played her piano of an evening while he listened, snug in its warmth. The crisp air ceased to bother him and had to find someone else to annoy as he listened to the song, wrapped in its spell. Without realizing it, tears filled his eyes until his vision blurred and he wiped them away, a little surprised to find his hands were shaking. It was not from the cold.

But not as deep………..

There it was again. He was certain of it. A movement, furtive, covert, flickered above the longboat. He sat very still, unaware he held his breath, watching the movement take shape and evolve into a person. The figure cast surreptitious glances about as he moved, darting from one dark patch to another, clinging to the shadows as though his life depended on it. Jack watched in awe. Suspicions grew in his mind. Someone lay concealed in the longboat, probably under ropes, canvas and oars until the night hid him better. Now he was free to wander.

There were no prizes for guessing where his feet would take him. He must be starving. He was getting closer to the stairs. He would have to go below to get to the galley. It was late and the cook's snores mingled with those of the rest of the crew, he supposed. Cautiously, silently, as deftly as a cat, the small figure moved. At that inauspicious moment, the moon lost interest in the cloud it hid behind and sailed out into clear sky sending brilliant shards of light across the deck. The figure reacted like a frightened gazelle and skittered away into the remaining shadows, under the stairs.

Jack crouched deeper into its recesses, pretending to be invisible. Maybe he was invisible. Best not test that theory, though. The stealthy person could be anyone. What if he's a lazy lay-about hiding from duty. He might be a thief or a cut-throat waiting his chance to pounce. Or, thought Jack, sympathy welling up inside him, he might be a frightened boy, far from home, with no one in the world to care where he is or how he fares. Jack took shallow breaths, wary, for fear he made a sound. He needn't have worried, however, as it was not the sound of an intruder that gave him away, but his smell. Sailors take on the smells of the hemp ropes and the tar, the salt and the sweat of their labors. Jack had none of these. He smelt of soap.

The boy, for boy he was, cocked his head and sniffed. He was alert and tense, assessing his position. Slowly, he scanned the space under the stairs. He was a creature of the dark and his eyes were adjusted to it. He looked long and hard when his gaze met the back of the cramped space, tucked up under the furthest stairs.

Jack froze. The boy was looking straight at him, a puzzled frown between his brows. He tilted his head the other way, trying to focus better, as though he did not believe what he saw, only believing what he should have seen. Jack was sure his trembling would give him away. He did not want to be seen. He had no idea if he was safe or not. Even a small boy could inflict harm if frightened enough.

The frown relaxed and the boy turned back towards the deck, although his head lingered in Jack's direction a little longer than the rest of his body. It appeared he did not believe his own faculties as his eyes revealed no one to account for the foreign smell of soap. What he would give for soap, even the most carbolic!

A short pause and he had turned again for he felt the eyes of a ghost on him, boring into his back. He shuddered and opted to get out of his hiding place as fast as he could. His stomach rumbled in protest, giving him further cause to be gone. Long dark hair, greasy, by the smell of it, hung about his shoulders, escaping from a tie of some kind, long rendered useless. He wore breeches, much like Jack's ‘boy', for so he called him to discern the difference. His short jacket of a tough material covered his loose shirt and he had a scarf knotted about his neck. The sweat and stale odor of his clothes were overpowering.

While Jack struggled to breathe, he kept his eyes on the boy, and realized, with dismay, he was quite young, no more than a child. His thin body was testimony to the scant meals he had seen on the voyage and he was not well. His breathing was labored and his breath bad. In spite of a Depression that turned the world into a family of paupers, Jack was well fed. Food wasn't an issue in his life. As long as they could fish, free food was available. The boy could guarantee he'd miss more than a few meals along the way.

The treacherous moon was playing a great game. Threads of cloud streaked the sky and it sailed through them, sending alternate light and shadow across the deck. There was no pattern to it, only a random flashing of light, ready to snare a rabbit in its trap. The boy waited for it to glide beneath the next cloud. As it did he scuttled out from the stairs, clinging to the ship's cabin like an extra skin, until he reached the hatch leading below deck where there was food for the taking. He moved silently, an extra shadow cast by the fickle moon. Jack crept to the edge of his hiding place and watched his progress. It was fascinating. Not in his wildest dreams could he imagine such stealth. Then again, Jack had never been hungry enough for the need to arise.

The whole episode made Jack think very hard. He was still thinking when the waif emerged from the hatch and scurried to the longboat once more, something held securely in his tightened fist, a prize he would savor in the safety of the longboat.

Once more, the moon sank behind a cloud, blocking out all light. He closed his eyes, overcome with a turmoil of emotions. Life was not meant to be like this for a small boy. Surely there was food enough in the world for even this starving, frightened creature. A voyage of this length took over six months. Imagine not having a soul to talk to in all that time. He thought of his friends with gratitude. They could be difficult at times, but they were always there. He would never complain about Bill's ceaseless chatter again. He would prize it.

It was a comforting thing. Sapped of energy, Jack lay down and curled into a ball to keep the night air out. It was cool out on the sea at night. Even the rocking of the ship failed to keep him awake, indeed it brought on sleep faster than he would have believed. The morning found him in his bed, bedclothes awry from his tossing and turning and his legs hanging over the edge of the mattress. A faint smell of tar and hemp wafted through the open window.