Tidetown (35 page)

‘Aha, you ask the judge who is to judge,' he replies with a chuckle.

The air suddenly chills as the sun disappears behind a cloud, perhaps not wanting to hear the answer.

‘You may have heard of the thinker who encouraged his paymasters to be indifferent to good or evil and to act purely from the premise of what was most pragmatic and practical. He was looking to the greater good, the survival of the society. In essence, his message was that it is far safer to be feared than to be loved, laying claim to the higher moral duty of political leaders, under whom the greatest evil is seen to be the failure of the state to protect itself and its citizens. To paraphrase, if I remember correctly, he wrote that there will be traits considered good that, if followed, will lead to ruin. On the other hand, he posited that certain other traits, while considered vices by some, if put into practice will achieve security and wellbeing to the ultimate good and preservation of all.'

‘Like war?' asks one.

‘Yes, like war. If, and here's a whole new debate, the cause is just.'

Mrs M stirs the steamy pot of chicken and vegetable soup. Joshua sits at the table holding a big metal spoon at the ready like a sentry on guard. He taps it on the side of the empty bowl.

‘Hubble bubble, Mrs M, hubble bubble.'

He cocks his head, awaiting a response, but Mrs M is used to his peculiar ways and knows he needs no encouragement to continue.

‘All is not well in this vale of tears, this sometime sweet country of ours.' He taps his nose with the spoon, playing with his upturned image on its shiny surface. ‘You ask me how so? As you stir your broth of indescribable deliciousness? Well may you ask.'

Looking over the spoon he sees she has no intention of taking the bait. She stirs on; he stands up and peers over her shoulder into the pot of simmering soup.

‘Ah, what delightful aromas, Mrs M. If only the soup of this town would smell as sweet.'

She takes a sprig of thyme and crushes it into the broth.

‘But no,' he remonstrates, strutting around the kitchen, addressing the sharpened knives, the colanders and copper pots that hang from the bare brick wall. ‘A rancid stench of treachery against all we value. The smell of pus … of decomposing flesh. No need for plague and blackened death for us, oh no, we bring pestilence upon ourselves. The reek and sickening odour of those who cheat and thieve. The mayor is divested, nay robbed, of office. And now he tells me, though I am afeared the drink and stupor were behind his words, that now he has no money to speak of. Doubly robbed, Mrs M.'

He stops in full flow to look in the reflection of a huge steel pot for any sign of response from the cook.

‘Worrisome indeed,' sighs Mrs M. ‘But your soup, Joshua Barnum, your soup is ready to be served.'

‘Then serve ahead, Mrs M. Sad and worrisome times. But soup can sustain us through all our travails. For what is oration without the nourishment of soup and leavened bread?'

And he sits back at the table, spoon ever at the ready.

Settled back in the coach, the judge can see the colonel is pondering their conversation. In his decades at the bar he has learnt to read faces. Faces hiding guilt and contrivance. Faces confused and dejected. Faces that think they are keeping secrets. Here, he is sure, is a face intent on understanding. He leaves his companion to his thoughts. Looking outside he sees the midday sun is giving way to a cooler afternoon, with a blanket of steely grey clouds emerging from the west. Fields and gently rolling hills and meadows pass by the window. Farmhands stop their work, lean on their hoes and rakes to stare at the grand coach and its fine escort as it passes by. Children at play run to the roadside to cheer and wave, eager to catch sight of the noble people inside the coach and to marvel at the uniforms of the hussars and the majesty of their muscular steeds.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Your Honour,' says the colonel, ‘but I have a question that is troubling me.'

The judge sits back in his seat, ready to continue the discussion. ‘No apology needed,' he says encouragingly. ‘An eager mind will never disturb, only excite me.'

‘I was thinking about all the things we talked about when we stopped to rest. And I still do not know if evil really exists or if it is something we have created. Something that helps us to explain a part of the way we are.'

‘Let me do my best to address the issue you raise,' says the judge, touched by the depth and sincerity of the young man's questioning. ‘Is evil a fixed and objective concept or just a precept of a moral viewpoint that shifts between time, place and fashion? One that is determined by culture and context? I would contend that what is truly good or evil can be determined by examining what is commonly held true among all humans. Selfless acts of kindness. These are universally held to be good. As for evil, a prime example is cold-blooded or wanton acts of slaughter. Not in warfare, not in self-defence, but murder without purpose. I have seen many people brought before the courts of law for acts deemed to be evil. I can only answer this from experience, but I contend that no person is truly evil, that only acts may be properly considered evil. It is the act, not the person, we are describing.'

‘In other words,' replies the colonel, trying hard to understand, ‘is what you are saying that people are not themselves evil?'

‘That is what my observations tell me. A wicked thought can lead to a good action. Equally well, an evil action can be turned to good.'

Aimu had warned me that once we entered the Beltic Straits and the direct route to Tidetown the northwesterlies would be capricious and unpredictable. In half a day we move from tranquil, steady sailing to a maelstrom that terrifies all on board. I've ordered all but the crew to remain below deck as we plough through the heaving seas. The tumultuous night cedes to a grey and fog-filled morning, making navigation a skill of instinct over science. Visibility is poor, so one of the crew keeps his eye fixed on the coastline, calling out each time it emerges from the cover of mist. If we get too close he hollers from the crow's nest, knowing full well the dangers of reef and rock.

With my hands on the wheel, steadying our course and keeping a safe distance from the rugged coastline, my mind drifts northwards to Tidetown, the only home I have ever had. What will be there for me? What purpose might I find? I think of Aimu, of Pangi and their sense of belonging, to land, to people, to family. And then of my passengers, torn from their country, hoping, searching, for somewhere to settle.

After another day of stormy weather, a calm descends. We head back to the open sea to avoid the sandbanks and soon the coast is out of sight. With the helmsman steering, Deni and I share a simple meal of dried fish and biscuits as we sit at the table in the captain's cabin.

‘This is where we will make land,' I say to him, pointing to Alphonso's Bay on the map. ‘I know the spot from my time on the island. We can anchor the boat close to shore. It's secluded and sheltered and it's only a day or so walk for me to get to the monastery.'

‘And us?' asks Deni.

‘It's best you wait until I get back. Once we land there's plenty of food to be found in the woodlands behind the sand dunes and there are caves for shelter. I'll travel ahead and speak to the monks. Just to make sure everything is well. I'm sure it will be fine, but it's best I go first.'

Deni nods in agreement.

‘The monks are good people. They won't let us down,' I add to reassure him.

Jeremiah Clissett is drowning his sorrows in dark brown beer. He's been sitting by the empty hearth of the Half Way Inn since the market closed three hours ago. His horse is in the stable feeding on oats he can barely afford.

‘Forty ducats for a one-year-old!' he repeats to himself, lamenting the price he was paid for his lambs.

At the long table in the middle of the room the hussars are enjoying a well-earned supper of roast pig and ale. Colonel Baptiste rises to toast the regiment, as is the custom, commending his men for their commitment to duty.

‘As always you have acquitted yourselves with honour. An escort in protection of our people's life and health is as purposeful a mission as a cavalry charge in the heat of battle. My great pride is confidence in the knowledge that I can rely on you all whenever, wherever, whatever, duty calls. Tonight you will rest well and tomorrow we will continue on our journey as if we were heading into battle. Our tradition is noble, our calling unbroken. To the hussars!' he says, lifting his glass.

The men stand as one and repeat the call.

‘The hussars!' they chorus, lifting, then drinking from their glasses.

Jeremiah watches all this, the camaraderie, the unity of purpose, wishing his life had thread a different course. To be an adventurer, a voyager, anything but a man who herds and slaughters sheep and frets over ducats at market. He deeply envys their easy complicity, the adventures that await them. He slumps forward and lays his head on the bar, overcome, not by the drink, but by sadness and a familiar pang of loneliness and longing.