CHAPTER FIVE

Captain Illiam Quülian Kewley JULY 1857

I DARE SAY there was bound to be some fussing from the boys when they learned that they weren’t on their way back to Man Island after all, but were now bound for furthest Australia. The ones that had scolds for wives—these being, fortunately, a good portion—weren’t so bad, but the rest got themselves into a proper huff wailing and threatening in Manx, till I had to tell the Englishmen that they were wanting more pay. Why, I even worried they might curdle completely, and that I’d find myself set adrift in a boat, the Captain Bligh of Peel City. There’s nothing like a fear of gaols, though, to bring a man around. After a day had passed they grew quieter, and before long they were just in sulks, which was their natural, everyday state.

Three days’ sailing and we were off the Isle of Wight, with no sight of our good friend Captain Clarke of Her Majesty’s coast guard cutter Dolphin, nor any oceangoing bloodhounds sniffing for Maldon furniture. The wind was blowing nicely and at this rate it wouldn’t be long before we were past the Scillies and safely out of range of Englishness, excepting, that was, the Englishness we had aboard. Curious it was to walk on the quarterdeck, knowing it would soon be lurching about under some strange tropical skies, the like of which none of us had seen, nor much wanted to neither. My worry was Ealisad. Hadn’t I promised I’d be back within the month, with jink enough to spoil her better than Queen Victoria? It’d be weeks before I could so much as send a letter and tell her I’d be the odd year late. I’d not be easily forgiven for that. Not that there was much to be done about it, mind, so I tried not to think on it, keeping myself busy with the ship. There was enough to do, besides, as I needed to be sure we really were ready to go playing Captain Cook. Fortunately the Sincerity was in a good state, having been nearly murdered to death with repairs in Peel, so she had new yards and canvas, and spares enough for a hurricane or two. Why, for that matter she even had a spare hull to help her float. Thanks to our fussing vicar we had fresh water and eatables to last, and proper documents, too. It was only when we were well out to sea, in fact, and I started wondering about laying down a course for the rest of the voyage, that I remembered the one little item that we were lacking.

Charts.

I blamed the Reverend. The silly scriss had fussed us all across London buying every kind of store, so why hadn’t he thought to moan me into a mapmaker’s shop and finished the job? It was pure neglectfulness. Trouble it meant, no denying. A ship’s captain needs charts like a lawyer needs sin, as to go sailing about the globe without is dropping right back to Chris Columbus himself who mistook America for India. Even the chief mate, Brew, who was smooth enough to smile his way through his own funeral, fretted at that one.

‘‘We’ll just have to put in somewhere,’’ he said, all frowns. ‘‘Portsmouth isn’t far.’’

It was never so easy, though. Portsmouth was customs men, and would also be a stroll around the town for our three passengers, which meant newspapers for them to stare at.

‘‘Let’s put a sight on the chart locker,’’ I told him. ‘‘You never know, we might be lucky.’’

I’d never given any serious study to this spot before, just piling my own charts of the Irish Sea, English Channel and such on top of what was left there, and now I took a more careful look I found it was a proper mess, looking as if it hadn’t been cleared out for half a dozen captains. First was a thick layer of pencil drawings, all of the same ill-tempered-looking cat, which I guessed was the leavings of a heavy dose of sea boredom. Next was worse, being a pile of rhyming verse, all concerned with passionate Spaniards named Alphonse and Esmeralda, who were forever stabbing at one another and dancing in the moonlight. After that were pages of scribbled figures, together with a long, crabby document blaming pennies lost on some long-forgotten chief mate. Finally, under this, I found a few charts.

One of these caught my eye straight off, being nothing other than a handy little portrait of the Cape Colony, where we now hoped to find ourselves in a couple of months, and might even sell a few certain casks of something to whatever Africans were loafing about there. The map was hardly recent, still marking the place as Dutch—which Brew said took us back to Napoleon himself—nor was it especially pretty, looking as if its owner had used it as a plate for his dinner once or twice, but for all that a chart was a chart.

We were less lucky with the West Indies, which was a mighty shame seeing as they were our first halt. We had to go across the Atlantic to catch the breezes southwards to the Cape, and it was part of our agreement with the Englishmen—an agreement which I’d hardly troubled myself with at the time, seeing as I thought we were only going to Essex— that we were to call in at Jamaica. All that I could discover that even pictured the island was a map of the whole world, and this was a Merca-tor besides, which meant Norway was as long as my hand while whole of the Caribbean hardly covered two penny pieces.

‘‘We ’ll hardly find our way into Kingston harbour with that,’’ said Brew, screwing up his face.

I had a little thought. ‘‘Perhaps we don’t need to.’’

The Reverend Geoffrey Wilson

JULY–AUGUST 1857

THREE DAYS into our journey Captain Kewley and his chief mate, Brew, suddenly strode into the cabin without so much as knocking at the door. Hardly had I begun to register my displeasure at this invasion of my privacy, when the Captain began trying to persuade me that we should not, as planned, drop anchor at Jamaica.

‘‘It’s just that I remembered the chase you were in to get to Tasmania, you see, Vicar, while the fact is we never need to go there. We’ve got supplies enough to carry us to Africa nicely.’’

While I regard myself as a man ever open to suggestions, I confess that this particular proposal held little appeal. In the first place I felt that an agreement, once entered upon, should be properly adhered to by both parties, if only as a matter of principle, while it had been amply clear that we were to stop at Kingston. There was, in truth also another consideration. Ever since the Sincerity had reached open waters and so encountered the full motion of the seas, the pleasing prospect of our first landfall had been greatly—even ceaselessly—in my thoughts. The possibility of this now becoming even further removed, and of my remaining aboard ship continuously for two months or more, was therefore far from welcome.

‘‘I believe we should keep to our original course,’’ I told the Captain firmly.

‘‘It’s to your own advantage,’’ Kewley insisted.

Assistance came to me from an unexpected quarter. Potter’s head loomed down from his bunk bed. ‘‘But we must call in at Jamaica,’’ he declared simply. ‘‘Besides, I cannot believe it would add so greatly to our journey, seeing as we have to go near.’’

I must confess I had found the behaviour of the expedition surgeon far from helpful—a matter which I will recount more fully later—and yet his words at this moment were welcome enough. Kewley tried to threaten us with sea technicalities, but when I warned him that I might be forced to reconsider the charter fee that we had agreed, his face, which normally displayed a kind of beaming slyness, quite scowled. ‘‘I’ll see what I can do,’’ he promised sourly, and with this he and Brew marched away, grumbling to one another in that infuriating language of theirs.

I am never one, I must insist, to indulge in self-pity—I have, indeed, observed that this quality can be as much the undoing of a man as drink, leading him into ever greater aimlessness and despond—and yet I confess the days after we departed from the river Blackwater had hardly been my happiest. The start of my difficulties was, I believe, the dinner we were served the evening we set sail, which was excessively fatty, while matters were not helped when, on retiring that night, I found the cabin became filled with a most noxious smell, much like some terrible gaseous pond, and which, I was later told, was caused by water in the bilges becoming disturbed by the movement of the ship. It was true that the Sincerity was rolling and pitching ever more wildly. Within the hour the wind seemed to be blowing little less than a full gale, and, feeling suddenly unwell, I found myself journeying up to the deck, shivering stoically by the rail in my nightshirt and overcoat.

Sadly this proved only the first of many such visits. The weather seemed obstinately resolved to grow worse rather than better, and by morning waves were crashing against the bow so hard that the whole vessel reverberated with their force, and that a man more lacking in courage than myself might almost have feared that the ship would capsize altogether, or simply fragment into so many splinters. Rather to my surprise my two colleagues appeared unaffected by the fatty dinner, and would both greedily march off to the dining cabin on every occasion. Despite my discomfort I was most happy for them, naturally, though I did take exception to the way Dr. Potter would insist on loudly describing the meals he had just consumed, even though it must have been evident that I was feeling still delicate.

Apart from sickness, the other matter that was much in my thoughts was sleep, or rather my own lack of this essential sustenance. I do believe that, with the exception of a field of battle, there is hardly a place on earth more poorly suited to the gaining of rest than a sailing ship. Every night, just as I was falling into much-needed dreaming, there would be some shout in Manx and all at once the ceiling of the cabin would shudder with the stamping of heavy boots, so loud that it sounded as if the crew were revenging themselves upon some tiny scampering creatures. Next they would then set to work upon some operation of the ship, such as bringing round the sails to obtain a change of direction, which could occur numerous times in one single night. Timbers would creak, ropes and blocks would squeal, officers would bellow, boots would thump and the crew themselves would begin singing at the top of their voices, seeming unable to tug at any rope without wailing some unspeakable shanty song.

I tried my best to induce the Manxmen to show a little consideration but it was to no avail. When I struck upon the ceiling of the cabin with a stick they pretended not to hear. When I asked Captain Kewley, in a most friendly manner, if his crew could not engage more quietly in their nocturnal operations, he was nothing less than uncivil. Nor did the behaviour of my two fellow passengers, I regret to say, help matters. While I am never someone to judge others with undue harshness, and it is my greatest delight to find goodness in my fellow men, I confess I found my patience increasingly strained. Though Renshaw had a tiny cabin of his own, the wooden partition that divided this from ours was of such poor construction that there were large gaps between the timbers, and one could hear his every movement, while frequently during the night I would be disturbed by the sound of his fidgeting with his person in some curious, twitching way, quite as if he had some ailment. Dr. Potter was more distracting still, and would insist on keeping a light burning late into the night so he could scribble notes in his notebook with that infuri-atingly scratching quill. ‘‘I’ll just be another moment, Vicar,’’ was his ever repeated cry when I requested, with all the gentleness I could muster, that he cease.

I did my best to regard the man charitably, despite his many provocations. When he insisted on draping his clothes, that he had just washed, around the edge of his bunk, so they dripped seawater directly onto my own cot, leaving large damp places, I told myself this was not the result of some lawless nature, but only of his having been brought up without the advantage of fine manners. I even thought to help him improve himself, drawing up a few simple rules with regard to domestic matters, which I then placed in written form on the wall just above his own berth, so he might observe them with convenience. One might have supposed he would welcome such a kindness, but no, he instead showed a maddening forgetfulness as to my little suggestions—a forgetfulness so pronounced that I could not help but doubt its sincerity—while he would insist on referring to them as ‘‘the parson’s laws,’’ in a tone of voice that was little less than offensive.

Some men might have answered such behaviour with anger, but I preferred to seek solace through faith. These were days of much praying, and I found myself often moved to seek guidance from Him with regard to my two colleagues—often in their own presence—perhaps dwelling upon some little trait of character of theirs that might, I believed, with His help, find improvement. Thus I would pray that Potter would find in his heart greater kindliness and consideration towards his fellow men, and that Renshaw would sleep soundly without disturbing any with his restlessness. I did have hopes that these humble efforts might help them both to find a greater understanding of themselves, and that, with time, they might even join me in these little ministrations. To my regret, however, they seemed wholly to ignore my endeavours, quite as if they had not heard me at all.

My humble efforts did not go entirely unheard, however. It seemed beyond mere chance that, as I prayed, I found my own life aboard the ship growing slowly less burdensome. Little by little my sickness began to pass until finally the great day came when I made my way to the dining cabin, with its many delightful, if cheap, prints of the royal family (a man could find no keener monarchist than Captain Kewley), where I dined for the very first time since leaving Essex. The lurching of the vessel, likewise, became less strange to me, until I was able to walk from place to place quite without suddenly clutching for support, and even the nightly din of work upon the deck grew less irksome, until it was hardly more distracting to my sleep than so much birdsong. Before long the prospect of the many miles and months of voyaging ahead seemed of little account, as I became accustomed to living upon this vessel, viewing it hardly as a machine of travel, but rather as my home.

By then our steady progress southwestwards had begun to bring noticeable changes, which resembled the alterations of the seasons, but strangely intermixed, as if May and September were occurring at one and the same time. While the sun grew stronger—care soon had to be taken if one did not wish to suffer a pinkened nose—the hours of daylight steadily shrank. Time itself seemed fluid, indeed, in this strange liquid world. Every midday a curious ritual was performed, when the Captain and his two mates—the smooth fellow Brew and the small, angry one, Kinvig—would stand side by side, pointing their sextants southwards. Finally, when each had lowered his device, Captain Kewley would call out, ‘‘Noon it is,’’ and at once the bell would ring out eight times, hourly sandglasses would be set, and the new ship’s day would begin. Without fail the hands of my watch would require adjustment by a minute or two to match this new noon.

I found myself much intrigued by the many curious ways of shipboard life. Why, I quite wished I could understand the crew’s strange Celtic language—vile though it sounded—as they frequently spoke it when I was near, and always with such cheerful laughter that I would gladly have given a penny to know the subject of their happy bantering. They were, I observed, a people of strong and yet puzzling traditions. They quite insisted, for example, that we must never call the pigs aboard the vessel by their correct name, but should instead refer to them always as ‘‘swineys,’’ as a matter of some seagoing protocol, though this seemed a most foolish requirement, and I quite wondered if they might be playing a joke upon their new passengers. Then again I observed the Sincerity to be a place of no small formality, where every man had his exact post, quite as in some court of law. The Captain and the chief mate, Brew, would be found on the quarterdeck, to the rear of the vessel, where Kewley would have pride of place on the windward side, giving him a clear view forwards, with all the great sails billowing away. This was despite the fact that he himself rarely issued an order to the crew, such work being the preserve of Mr. Brew, who had to suffer the leeward side of the deck, from where it was hard to see anything except vast curtains of canvas stretching up to heaven. If, however, the Captain went below, then Brew would at once usurp his position.

Forward of the quarterdeck one would find the crew, and the second mate, Kinvig, angrily issuing instructions. His rank seemed much inferior to Brew’s and he was often required to clamber into the rigging with the crew, while Brew hardly stirred from his comfortable spot upon deck. Further forward still lay the galley, a kind of rough hut upon the deck, which was the workplace of the cook, Quayle: a moody soul, who seemed to find companionship only in the shipboard animals. These beasts, I should explain, were numerous—at least at the start of the jour-ney—and were housed in the various ship’s boats, though it did occur to me that this was not the best arrangement, as, were the Sincerity to strike disaster, it would be no easy thing speedily to remove four bullocks from the long boat.

Prevention is better than cure, of course, and I was ever impressed by the concern shown towards the maintenance of the ship, which seemed to consume the majority of the working time of the crew. The deck was thoroughly scrubbed down as many as three times each day, which struck me as obsessively cleanly, until I learned that it was to prevent the planks from shrinking, which would permit water to seep below. To the same end the crewmen were frequently to be found hammering strands of old rope between the planks and pouring on hot pitch as a seal. Each and every rope of the ship’s rigging was regularly examined, and perhaps painted with tar, while constant adjustments were made to maintain their tautness: a painstaking business, as the ropes formed quite a cat’s cradle, and to tighten one invariably meant altering half a dozen others thereafter. There were frequent expeditions aloft to oil the blocks, through which the ropes moved, or to chip and repaint the ironwork. It seemed, altogether, that no sooner had some lengthy chore been completed than the order would be given for it to be begun all over again.

When not busy with such drudgery the crew either would be found in a state of semi-somnolence, dozing in the sun and smoking pipes, or would be high in the rigging, engaged in some display of skill worthy of circus acrobats. Often and again they would clamber, in hardly more than an instant, to a dizzy height above the deck, where it was a mystery to me how they managed to cling on at all. On one occasion the ship met an especially heavy swell that caused it to roll like a fearful seesaw, wildly tipping from side to side, so that the ends of the yards actually dipped into the ocean, and though it was hard for me even to keep my place just upon the deck, still the crew carried on quite as usual. One of them, whose place was at the very edge of the mainsail spar, was repeatedly plunged waist-deep in seawater, only to find himself a moment later propelled skywards as the vessel righted itself, until he was higher almost than the crow’s nest, with the whole ship leaning crazily beneath him. All the while he was quietly at work fastening a rope.

It was, as it happened, as I looked upon the men on that day, and witnessed their perilous toil, that a most pleasing notion occurred to me. I dare say that for many men there is some special activity that is essential if they are to feel a sense of completion in life. For some this may be adventure, or the pursuit of wealth. For others it might be family bliss and the comfort of routine. As for myself, nothing is quite so pleasing as the prospect of honest work, through which I may bring a little joy and comfort into the lives of others.

I wasted no time but mentioned my idea to Captain Kewley that same afternoon. Convincing the Captain of anything was never easy, as, like his compatriots, he possessed an obstinate reluctance to be impressed by another’s enthusiasm. A favourite word of the Manxmen was middling, which they used to display a seemingly limitless absence of concern in anything. If some furious typhoon were to strike, threatening to sink the ship, they would likely say only that it was middling bad weather. If there occurred a wondrous tropical sunset with colours to dazzle the eyes, it would be only middling fine. Why, if the four angels of destruction themselves were to appear before a Manxman, toppling mountains like so many flowerpots, I dare say he would think them only middling troublesome. With this in mind, I should not perhaps have been surprised by Kewley’s response to my proposal.

‘‘Sunday sermons, eh?’’

‘‘I feel it is nothing less than my duty,’’ I explained. ‘‘These men who face danger every day would, I believe, find no little comfort in their being brought closer to the word of God.’’

Kewley frowned. ‘‘I dare say it’s harmless enough.’’

It was, at least, no prohibition, and this was enough for my purpose. I set to work with cheerful determination. Before I could begin labouring on the sermon itself there were a number of small matters to which I had to attend. It seemed only right, for example, that I should be provided with a few simple shelves placed in the cabin, on which I might keep my books, my papers and writing implements. Likewise, the table in the dining cabin being irretrievably gashed and stained with grease for my purposes, I proposed that a tiny desk be attached to the dining cabin wall. The Captain, though he grumbled, eventually agreed to have the carpenter work upon these, and soon afterwards it occurred to me that it would be delightful to have a little platform constructed, perhaps upon the quarterdeck, together with a stand for the Good Book itself which would serve as a kind of sea pulpit and sea lectern. What was more, it seemed only logical to have constructed a number of simple yet sturdy benches, so the crew might listen in modest comfort. Here, however, the Captain proved wholly uncooperative.

‘‘I’m not having any deck of mine turned into some floating chapel,’’ he insisted, in a tone of voice that was, I regret to tell, hardly polite. ‘‘This is a ship, not a preaching house.’’

Sad to say, he was not the only one whose help in these little matters proved wanting. Dr. Potter became quite sulky when my little writing desk was set onto the wall, as—by purest chance—it happened to lie just behind his place at the dining table, and he made the greatest fuss that it interfered with his sitting. His mood did not even improve later when I tried to raise his spirits, sitting down beside him on his cot and quietly praying for the Lord to help us to find that kindliness that lay somewhere in every man’s heart. In fact he seemed if anything to grow worse. It was about this time, indeed, that I began to wonder if such a man was suited to take part in an expedition of such great importance as our own.

Dr. Thomas Potter AUGUST 1857

The Celtic Type

The Celtic Type (instance: Manx) is altogether inferior in physique to the Saxon, being smaller, darker and lacking in strength. Typically the forehead is sloping, showing evidence of the ‘‘snout’’ characteristic, noted by Pearson as an indication of inferior intelligence. The skull is marked by deep eye sockets, expressing tendencies of servitude. Cranial type: G.

As to his general character, the Celt is wanting in the industriousness and nobility of spirit of his Saxon neighbour, his dominating characteristic being indolence. He is content to wait upon events rather than moulding them, and suffers a fatal patience, hoping that fortune may smile upon him. In his favour it can be observed that the Celt possesses a rude sense of creativity (instance: songs and stories). He also possesses a simple physical courage, which has provided him with his most enduring role, as the foot soldier of the Saxon.

The moral qualities of the Celt are poor, being characterized by idleness and resignation. Towards foreigners he is clannish and habitually secretive, preferring to converse in his own primitive tongue (instance: Manx) though he may be perfectly capable of speaking in English.

In conclusion, the Celt has his place at the lowest station within the European Division. This is indicated not only by his physical and moral qualities but also in his dismal history, which is typified by disorder, disunity and decline. It may be assumed that within the womb the development of the Celtic embryo is arrested after no more than thirty-six weeks, or a full three weeks sooner than the Saxon.

The Norman Type

The Norman (instance: priesthood, aristocracy and monarchy of England) is similar in physique to the Saxon, though on close examination he will be found to be slighter and altogether lacking in the latter’s rugged hardiness. His complexion is pale, and his hair often inclines to reddishness. His facial shape is typically long and narrow, indicating arrogance. Cranial type: D.

The character of the Norman is one of decline. He has ever relied on inherited advantage, a state of affairs dating back to the lucky accident of conquest. He is idle and lacking in any spirit of industry or application. Likewise he is prone to weaknesses from which sturdier types would not suffer (instance: seasickness). He is entirely without creative talents.

The morality of the Norman is poor, being typified by concealed selfishness. His dominating characteristic is cunning. He strives to maintain himself at an exalted station within society through scheming manipulation with others of his race. Any display of moral purpose will be fabrication. The Norman is, most of all, of a parasitical nature, feeding upon the simple kindliness of nobler types.

In conclusion, the Norman place is hardly higher than the Celt within the European Division. The development of the Norman embryo can be assumed to be arrested after thirty-seven weeks, or two weeks fewer than the Saxon. The Norman’s enduring control of that triple curse of Aristocracy, Priesthood and Monarchy can be ascribed not to his ability but to the great abhorrence, among his Saxon subjects, of any form of disorder.

Timothy Renshaw AUGUST 1857

SO THERE WE WERE, stood on the deck in the hot sun, waiting for the wondrous joy of Wilson’s sermon. The one consolation was that at least there would be something to keep my eyes occupied while the old goat stuttered on. The lookout had called out the news just an hour or two before, with a great shout of ‘‘Land ho.’’ It was hard to see what he was crowing about at first, the day being so hazy, and only when I screwed up my eyes tight could I make out a faint line just above where the horizon should be. With time, though, the line grew darker and easier to catch until, quite suddenly, it turned itself into a good-sized piece of land, not even very far away, with cliffs and hills.

It might not sound much to anyone spoilt for solid ground, I dare say, but after all those weeks without anything to look upon except wind and water and seabirds, it was as welcome as could be. Others may like the thought of sitting aboard some ship for months at a time, but not me, and I would have given more than a little to be magicked to Haymarket, for a drop of fine liquor and perhaps a little intimate company from the wrong kind of female.

The company I had could hardly have been more different. It seemed ever to be my fate to be surrounded by people who thought they knew every answer. My parents, and my brother Jeremy too, were always ready to deliver a disapproving lecture upon the virtue of hard work and my need to improve myself, while my fellow expedition members delighted in exactly the same game. The one point upon which they seemed agreed, indeed, was that I was lazy and foolish and should be treated as their junior. Wilson was the worst, and was forever making scornful remarks as to my reluctance to raise myself from sleep at the hour of dawn.

It was not as if I had even wanted to come on this voyage.

‘‘A little hardship should knock some sense into you,’’ my father had promised kindly.

My mother was not to be outdone. ‘‘It is our hope that it may also help you gain a greater sense of the spiritual.’’

All I had gained till now was a greater sense of boredom. Six weeks we had been sailing, and still we were hardly started. I had long read the few books I had brought, and read them once again. I would have borrowed more, but Wilson had only the driest tomes, either theological or geological, while Potter had brought no books at all, seeming content to scribble his endless notes. I even tried to pass time by making friends with the Manxmen, but with no great success. They might join me in smoking a pipe or two, but they would always keep themselves a little distant, and would suddenly break into Manx among themselves, as if to discourage me from remaining too long.

Land was a welcome enough sight, certainly. I wondered how many days I would have still to wait before I might stride into Kingston, and be free of my tiresome colleagues.

‘‘So which of the Indies is this?’’ I asked the Captain as we regarded the new shore. I was hoping it might be Jamaica itself

Kewley, rather to my surprise, seemed not greatly interested. ‘‘One of them, I dare say.’’

‘‘D’you think we shall make land today?’’ asked the vicar.

‘‘I very much doubt it.’’

Wilson looked even pleased. All he seemed to care about was that nothing should interfere with his sermonizing. All day he had been busy thinking up new ways to make a nuisance of himself clucking and fussing. His chief demand had been that a temporary stand be created on the quarterdeck, so he could play the giant parson at everyone. As if he were not bothersome enough already. ‘‘I’m simply concerned,’’ he told Kewley, pressing his hands tight together as if he were trying to squeeze out some kind of juice, ‘‘that the men may not be able to hear me clearly.’’

The Captain, to be fair, did not give up without a fight. ‘‘They hear me well enough.’’

‘‘It would seem hardly fitting for the word of God to be bellowed out like some shipboard order,’’ answered Wilson, twittering at his little joke. ‘‘Surely it would be possible to devise some temporary arrangement, perhaps made from a few of the cases containing our stores?’’ Next he gave his toothy smile, which, in my experience indicated he was getting ready to stab. Nor was I mistaken. ‘‘Unless, that is, you feel your men should not benefit from a little Christian instruction.’’

There it was, the vicar’s killing thrust. Kewley could hardly protest further without making himself look like some Antichrist. He frowned at the sea, knowing himself beaten, then grumbled assent.

Wilson beamed. ‘‘I’ll just need four of your men. It won’t take them a moment.’’

Potter had sat himself on a coil of rope just below the quarterdeck, writing in his notebook and I supposed this was where he planned to remain. The spot was almost out of view from the temporary pulpit, so Wilson would not be able to see if he was listening, while the doctor could never be accused of hiding away and playing heathen. I was surprised to see him making even this careful concession, in truth, so bad had matters become between the two. There had been times when I had hoped I would have proper hitting fight to watch, especially on that morning when Wilson sat next to the doctor in the dining cabin and started praying for ‘‘all men’’ to ‘‘overcome their petty hatreds and listen to the words of wisdom of their brothers.’’ Potter’s face looked dark with rage. Mind you, he’d given as good as he got, especially at the start, when Wilson had been seasick and Potter had driven him half mad with goading. That was purest Potter. If Wilson would annoy to death with his pushing and twittering, Potter was all quiet danger.

‘‘Oh no, I’m afraid that one won’t do at all. What about one of the cases of champagne?’’ Wilson said this with a touch of sadness, quite as if it were he who would be heaving and sweating crates up the stairs. A champagne case was duly brought and laid beside the others on the quarterdeck, but still he was not satisfied, peering at it from different angles, then having it moved from one side to another, only to shake his head again. ‘‘Perhaps one of the ones with cutlery?’’ Finally, though, even he could think of no reasons for fussing and he declared his platform ready.

The Manxmen seemed divided over the question of his service. Some, such as the Captain himself looked none too pleased at this sudden interference in their Sunday, which had previously been a preserve of lounging and pipe smoking. Others, though, appeared content enough, and gathered themselves beneath the quarterdeck, bright-eyed at the treat ahead. I had never seen Wilson at work before and, rather to my surprise, he showed himself to be quite a player, acting out his drama. First he raised his hands in the air to make everyone hushed. Then, when there was no sound except the wind, the birds and the light flapping of the sails, he suddenly changed his mind, shook his head and stepped back down from his platform. For a moment he stood at the rail, cupping his chin in his hand and frowning at the ocean, so we could all observe his state of contemplation, and then, just as some in the congregation were beginning to fidget, at once he clapped his hands together, as if he had found the answer to whatever question that had been annoying him, and he jumped back to his place.

‘‘As you all will know,’’ he declared, ‘‘there is no greater mystery than the sea.’’ Now he leant forward onto an upturned case of portable soup that acted as his lectern, so he could stare at us more thoroughly. ‘‘The sea! The sea! That great wilderness which…’’

It was bad luck for him, there was no denying. Just when he had caught the moment nicely there was a cry from the topmast, ringing out clear in the light breeze. ‘‘Sail. Sail to the northwest.’’

The Captain looked pleased at this chance for a little belittling, and strode straight up onto the vicar’s platform, all but pushing him to one side. ‘‘Teare, bring my telescope.’’ Wilson himself had to smile and look as if he never minded.

This new ship must have emerged from behind a headland of the island, as it was not very far off being easily near enough to be seen from the deck. It was a large schooner, with two triangular sails, both coloured grey. As for direction, it was pursuing a course parallel to our own. His telescope brought, the Captain retired to the rear of the quarterdeck to take a good look.

This time Wilson did not trouble us with another miming act but simply leant forward onto the lectern. ‘‘As all of you will know, there is no greater mystery than the sea. The sea! The sea! That great wilderness which appears to possess…’’

It was not his day. All at once the Captain strode back onto the platform looking fierce, and, without so much as a by-your-leave, bellowed out an order in Manx. Whatever this was, it could hardly have been better calculated to wreck the proceedings. In an instant every member of Wilson’s congregation was dispersed, some scampering up the rigging, others gathering about the base of the mainmast unfastening the ends of ropes. I could not help but wonder if this were a case of deliberate wrecking, a suspicion evidently shared by Wilson himself

‘‘Captain, is this really necessary?’’

‘‘It may be and it may not, but I’m taking no chances with a ship like that.’’ With this mystery Kewley handed his telescope to the vicar.

‘‘It seems an ordinary enough vessel.’’

‘‘She’d be more ordinary still,’’ said Kewley, with too much patience, ‘‘if she carried a flag or two from her masts and had a name and port painted on her prow.’’

Shielding my eyes, I could just make out that the mast was bare and the prow was black and nameless.

Wilson seemed still unimpressed. ‘‘There’s probably some quite harmless explanation.’’

Kewley shrugged. ‘‘Let’s hope so.’’

By now the crew had begun to pull the yards about and China Clucas was turning the wheel spokes, bringing the ship slowly round, until she was veering away from the other vessel. All eyes looked aft. For a moment all seemed well, but then the two grey sails began gradually to change shape, until she was once again aligned behind and parallel to us: a narrow strip of dark woodwork with a great expanse of grey sailcloth stretching out above. For a second or two we all remained silent. Then Brew bellowed to the crew, and they jumped into activity, unfurling more canvas.

‘‘It looks a poor sort of vessel,’’ Potter declared, almost petulantly. ‘‘I’m sure we will outrun her.’’

It was a pleasing thought, but, as matters turned out, well wide of the mark: as I watched, it was soon evident that they were gaining upon us, if slowly, in the light wind. How strange it felt to be stood thus at the rail, among the smells of pitch and wood and damp that were now grown so commonplace, knowing that just a mile or so distant was a vessel filled with strangers, who were hoping to rob, or even murder, us all. It was no catastrophe I had imagined. Nightmares of storms and shipwreck I had had, but never had I thought we might find ourselves pursued by some form of freebooter pirates. I felt my pulse quicken, and yet I found myself also somehow unmoved. I wondered, with some shock, if I was simply numbed, or if I even cared what fate might be awaiting me. Potter also seemed subdued, quite slumping over the rail, and only Wilson had lost none of his spirit.

‘‘Have no fear,’’ he called out to any who would listen. ‘‘I will use all powers to intercede with them. I will beg them to treat us mercifully. I will tell them of our Christian purpose. God will help us.’’

I was, in truth, far from sure his mediation would improve our prospects. Captain Kewley was engaged in more practical measures. He had the crew form a human chain, lowering buckets over the side and then passing them along the deck and up into the rigging, so seawater could be hurled against the sails.

‘‘It helps the canvas catch the wind,’’ Brew explained. ‘‘In a light breeze like this it could make a good difference.’’

How effective an advantage this might be, sadly we never discovered, as within only a few moments our pursuers could be observed doing exactly the same. Their advance upon us seemed undiminished. Borrowing the Captain’s telescope, I could now see their vessel in some little detail, its deck crowded with dark figures. These, a little to my surprise, showed no signs of shouting or working themselves into some frenzy, simply standing thus, unnervingly still. Among them there was a constant glinting, as the sunlight caught bright metal strips by the dozen. Cutlasses?

‘‘D’you think they may be freed slaves?’’ I wondered.

‘‘They cannot be,’’ insisted Potter, suddenly animated. ‘‘Slaves would never show such resourcefulness.’’

Captain Kewley shrugged grimly. ‘‘I can’t see it much matters what their profession was.’’

‘‘Perhaps we should lower a couple of boats and try and haul ourselves out of trouble,’’ suggested the chief mate, Brew.

Kewley shook his head. ‘‘By the time we’ve cleared out the creatures they’d be on us. Besides, the wind looks like it’s freshening again.’’ This was true enough. As he spoke, another gust came, flapping the sails into greater life. Kewley frowned. ‘‘Can we get that cannon going?’’

‘‘We’ve no shot,’’ Brew answered grimly.

‘‘How are we for guns, then?’’

‘‘There’s a couple of old muskets in the stores locker, but I’m not sure they’ll fire.’’

My only surprise was that nobody had thought of it sooner. I suppose we had been so preoccupied with escape that we had hardly been thinking of anything else. ‘‘What about the rifles?’’ I asked.

Suddenly we were all hurrying. It was not until this moment, curiously enough, when something could finally be done, that I felt something like panic. All at once I felt myself seized by a curious clumsiness, bumping my way down the stairway quite as if I were drunk. The case was heavy as a coffin but eventually Potter, two Manxmen and I managed to haul it up to the deck. Kinvig, the little second mate, ripped open the lid with a hook, and we found ourselves staring at six gleaming rifles and a revolving pistol.

Potter frowned at a cartridge as it sat, trembling slightly, between his fingers. ‘‘I’m sure there was some trick with these. Let me see…’’ He ripped at the greasy paper with his teeth and black powder poured out. When the paper was torn further, the grey nose of a bullet became visible. ‘‘But that can’t be right. The bullet is pointing at the charge.’’

‘‘Perhaps it was made wrongly,’’ I wondered. I tried a cartridge each, fumbling with the paper, but it was just the same. If it was dropped down the barrel powder-first, as it must be for firing, then the bullet would be shot out pointing backwards, which would hardly do. There’s little worse than trying to think through clever puzzles when time’s running short and your mind’s full of fears of being murdered, and it was sorely tempting just to despair and think everything impossible. Glancing back, I could see the men on the sloop’s deck quite clearly now, as they stood regarding us, so still. Most were holding cutlasses, but some had what looked like grappling hooks.

It was Wilson, of all people, who had the answer. ‘‘Wasn’t there something about pouring the powder out and then turning the bullet round?’’

‘‘That was it.’’ Potter emptied the powder into the barrel of his gun, then tried the bullet, which was still wrapped in its cartridge paper. It fitted nicely. Using the spindly ram to press it well home, he raised the gun and aimed it, for some reason, at the mizzenmast. All at once there was a violent report—causing squeals of alarm from the pigs and sheep— and a small cloud of smoke filled the air. As for the mizzenmast, this now had a mightiest hole smashed into it, quite as if it had been punched by some metal fist.

Captain Kewley gave him a hard look. ‘‘I thought it was their vessel we were shooting?’’

‘‘At least it shows it works, and very well too.’’ Glancing aft, Potter now looked disappointed. ‘‘They’ve lain down. How cowardly.’’

Sure enough, our tormentors had all now vanished from sight, though their vessel continued its progress just as before. An instant later a shot rang out and a bullet whizzed through the air somewhere above our heads, causing us also to drop to the deck.

‘‘What about the Reverend’s pulpit?’’ called out Brew.

The platform could hardly have been better suited to our needs, it was true, and we all hurried behind its shelter. Still it was hard to know what we should do.

‘‘Perhaps we should just shoot at their vessel,’’ proposed Potter. ‘‘The bullet seemed to cause a good bit of damage.’’

‘‘It might only make them more violent towards us,’’ insisted Wilson, who seemed to be looking forward to the chance of lecturing them into mercy.

Captain Kewley looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘‘I suppose we could aim at their wheel. That’s the part that might notice.’’

It was visible enough—though the helmsman had dropped out of sight, guiding it, I imagined, from below—and so we began. Wilson refused to take part, protesting that it was no business for a man of God, but I took a rifle, as did Potter, the Captain and three more of the Manxmen, while the little second mate, Kinvig, took the revolving pistol. I had never fired a gun before and cannot say I found it much of a pleasure. First there was the biting into the cartridge, which gave one a mouthful of grease, and the pouring in of the powder. Next came the fiddly business of placing the ram into the end of the long barrel, so one could push home cartridge and its bullet, this last being surprisingly large and heavy. Then there was the awkwardness of keeping the gun aimed against the motion of the ship, and all the while taking care not to accidentally shoot our own helmsman, the huge fellow Clucas, who was lying flat grasping the lowermost spokes of the wheel. Finally there was the firing, which jolted one’s shoulder hard as could be, caused a fine ringing in one’s ear and filled the air with smoke. For all this it seemed a good deal better than being robbed and murdered, and soon we had going a proper fusillade. As to the guns, they were quite as fearsome as Jonah Childs had promised, and every time the smoke cleared away the woodwork about their wheel looked a good deal more smashed. Their shots, by contrast, were few and seemed to come hardly near us. Thus we fired away, round after round, till the ammunition box was a good deal emptier, yet still they gained on us, the freshening wind speeding their progress. Then, just when I was supposing we would have to try and shoot them as they jumped aboard, the chief mate Brew gave out a shout.

‘‘Some of them are standing up.’’

I saw a number of them had done so, and were hurriedly working on the booms of the triangular sails.

‘‘Let’s have them,’’ said Potter, lunging for another cartridge from the box. ‘‘They’ll be easy as can be.’’

‘‘Where’s the need?’’ answered the Captain. ‘‘It looks as if they’re trying to turn away. We must’ve scared them off’’

He was right, and as we watched, the other vessel began gradually to turn away towards the wind, the crew hauling the two sails round as she moved. The other Manxmen began cheering, and in a moment we were all letting out a roar.

‘‘It could just be a trap,’’ Potter insisted. ‘‘They’re still very close. I say we fire once more, just to be certain.’’

‘‘We might as well,’’ agreed the little second mate, Kinvig, who appeared to be enjoying his taste of warfare. So, as much from habit as decision, we loaded our guns once again.

‘‘Fire,’’ shouted the doctor.

We did so all together, almost in the manner of some squad of execution. It was then that something most curious happened. Our pursuers’ rearmost boom suddenly and violently swung free from its place, doing so with such speed that it caught two unwary crewmen, knocking them clean over the side. In an instant it was swinging back, the canvas above wildly flapping, and the vessel’s deck became a scene of pandemonium, as crewmen tried to catch the boom’s rope, only to dive away as the spar beat round upon them once again.

‘‘I rather think,’’ said Kewley coolly, ‘‘that one of us has shot away their boom’s block.’’

All at once I felt quite weak. I dare say some form of subdued fear had finally bubbled over, while I felt also a little sickened by the thought of the wrecking we had done. I could not help but wonder if during the last few minutes, I had unwittingly killed someone.

Dr. Potter was untroubled by any such worries. ‘‘We have conquered them,’’ he declared in triumph.

Wilson had to outdo him, needless to say. “We have been delivered,” he added, in a correcting tone of voice. “I believe it would be only fitting if we held a little service of thanks, that we might…”

Before he could say another word Kewley waved his arm to interrupt. “But tell me, shall I set us a course for Cape Colony? It doesn’t seem safe to stay in these waters, after all, that are filled with pirates and marauders.”

Potter opened his mouth just a fraction, but then seemed to change his mind. Wilson merely shrugged, while I was too shocked to care greatly. So it was that, grinning as if he had pulled a white rabbit from his cap, the Captain shouted out orders, and the crew went about their work setting a new course, away from whatever joys might be found in Kingston, Jamaica, and south, towards Africa.