We, the Drowned

  "I do what all sailors do," he said. "I take things to the places they're needed. That's the way of the world. I don't make it better and I don't make it worse."

  "Slave trading?" I asked.

  "In case you don't already know, I can inform you that the slave trade's illegal in this part of the world. I'm a law-abiding man."

  He gave me a wry smile.

  "Plantation workers?" I asked.

  It was a well-known fact that there was widespread traffic in Kanak laborers, who were tricked into working on the large plantations where, instead of earning money, they ended up in bottomless debt. Their employers owned everything, including the houses the workers rented and the shops where they bought their food. A plantation worker's contract might be for two years, but he'd end up working ten before he returned to his native island, penniless and broken. If he ever found his way home across the sea, that is.

  Jack Lewis shook his head.

  "This is an amusing game we've started. But don't think that I'll provide you with the answer. You're not a practical man. And then there's that sensitive conscience of yours. With one of those, it's best to turn a blind eye."

  Jack Lewis always relieved me at midnight, precisely when the middle watch began. I wondered about it at first, then decided there had to be a secret side to him that forced him to be alone with the stars. One warm evening, when the sails hung limp and the calm surface of the sea mirrored the Milky Way, making its white starlight seem like surf breaking over a submerged reef, I fetched my bedding in order to sleep on deck.

  Jack Lewis immediately ordered me below, his voice sharp.

  "Kanaks sleep on deck. It's not appropriate for a white man." I hesitated. I felt no urge to return to the muggy cabin below. "All right, stay here and get some fresh air." His voice was conciliatory now, and I could tell he wanted to talk. I seated myself on the rail. It was very quiet, apart from the squeaking of the rigging. "I've lied to you," Jack Lewis said. I could hear him chuckling to himself in the darkness. "I know very well who Jim is. But you won't believe me."

  "Out with it. I'll believe you. But tell me, why do you want to tell me the truth now?"

  "Oh, so I've got your blessing, have I? Lucky me. Why do I suddenly feel like telling you the truth about Jim? Because the story's too good to keep to myself. That's the strange thing about a good story. No pleasure if you can't share it. So listen to this: Jim's real name is"—here he paused for dramatic effect—"James."

  I gave him a disappointed look. "So what?"

  Jack Lewis laughed. "I'm guessing his surname will mean more to you than his first name. Cook. James Cook."

  I gasped. "The James Cook?"

  "Yes, the James Cook. Captain of the Resolution and the Discovery. The man who discovered the Tonga Islands, the Sandwich Islands, and the Society Islands. That James Cook."

  "But that's impossible!"

  "Show me his grave, then. Go on, tell me where he's buried." I shook my head. I didn't know. "James Cook was killed on Hawaii. In Kealakekua Bay. He was strict but fair. You have to be if you're dealing with Kanaks. When one of them stole a sextant, James Cook cut off his ear." He fixed me with his eyes to make sure I'd understood what he'd just told me. I had. One of his own Kanaks had an ear missing, and I didn't doubt who'd inspired him. "James Cook shot a chief on Hawaii who'd tried to steal a boat from him. Thousands of natives surrounded Cook and his men, but he could have been all right. The natives thought he was their missing god, Lono, making a return."

  "He shouldn't have shot their chief."

  "I thought you might say that. But the opposite's the case. Shooting the chief was vital. By making an example of him, Cook showed his strength. His mistake was that he showed them his weakness too. The natives were scared of attacking—though they had Cook and his men well outnumbered. But then one of them fired an arrow. Maybe it was an accident. No one knows. But the arrow hit James Cook. It didn't cause any serious injury. That wasn't what killed him. He died because he blundered." Jack Lewis sent me the look he always used when he wanted to educate me. Though I couldn't see how James Cook had blundered, I guessed that some cynical remark about mankind's wretchedness was about to follow, and I wasn't mistaken. "In the eyes of the Kanaks he was a god, and gods don't flinch. But Cook screamed when the arrow hit him. That gave them their signal to attack. Fifteen thousand men came at him and tore him to pieces. Literally. They roasted his flesh over an open fire—except for the nine pounds they sent back to the Resolution. They hung his heart inside a hut, where three children found it. They ate it, thinking it was a dog's. Some of his bones were discovered later by his officers, and they buried them at sea. But his head was lost."

  "So how did you find it?"

  "It wasn't easy. The Kanaks kept it secret, you see. It became a trophy in their internal wars. Finally the head left Hawaii and started wandering the Pacific—almost as if it was copying its owner's voyage all those years before. At one time no fewer than five heads were rumored to exist in the Pacific region, all attributed to James Cook. But I found the real one. I've got sources. I finally tracked it down on Malaita. The chief who sold it to me was an educated man. He spoke and read English. He'd been taught by a missionary. Whom he later ate with great relish, or so he claimed. He knew exactly who Cook was and what his head was worth. Besides, he saw nothing barbaric in headhunting. "I've read in your Bible," he said, "about David, the great warrior. After he defeated Goliath, didn't he cut off his head to show to King Saul?"

  Shortly after this conversation I returned below deck, and soon I'd fallen into a restless sleep on my narrow berth, inhaling the sultry air and dreaming about Isager's house in flames that New Year's Eve, all those years ago. I was in the street, looking through the window—and I saw the schoolmaster's severed head sitting on the dining room table, staring back at me.

  Then I heard the murmur of voices and the sound of bare feet against the deck. Confused about whether or not it was just a new dream taking over from the previous one, I woke with a tight feeling in my chest. I swung my legs out of the berth. The ship groaned and the waves heaved: the wind was no longer calm, and I decided to return to the deck to feel the fresh breeze on my face. I found the door to my cabin was closed—though I could have sworn that I'd left it open when I went to bed. I turned the handle—but the door was locked from the outside.

  There was something going on that I wasn't allowed to see. And I now had a good idea what it might be. I banged on the door and called Jack Lewis's name, but no one came. I couldn't break it down, so eventually I gave up and returned to my berth, where I surprised myself by falling asleep again.

  When I woke, light was streaming in through the open door. I found Jack Lewis in his cabin with a cup of coffee. He looked as if he had been expecting me and smiled broadly when I entered.

  "Coffee?" he offered, and gestured to a chair opposite him. I made no reply. "Are we about to go another round? How about one of our Socratic dialogues about ethics? Trust me. Everything I do, I do purely to protect your delicate conscience."

  "An unused conscience is no conscience at all."

  "How philosophical we are this morning. Nothing makes a man more reflective than a locked door. If it weren't for this delicate conscience of yours, your door wouldn't be locked. But you're always welcome to come up on deck and enjoy the night. As long as you remember that I'm your captain and that my word is law on board."

  "So it is slaves? The Flying Scud is a blackbirder?"

  "Certainly not. There are only free men on board the Flying Scud."

  "Who are locked in the hold during the day?"

  "They can leave the ship whenever they want. Only I don't want them jumping overboard into the middle of the sea. They'll drown. Not even the strongest swimmer could ever get as far as any land. But the Kanaks are superstitious, and they're afraid to swim in the dark. So at night they're safe on deck."

  I understood nothing at all.

  "Leave the ship whenever they want?"
r />   My voice was thick with anger and disbelief. Jack Lewis was making a fool of me.

  "Yes. Once we reach land, they're free to leave the ship."

  He got up and held out his hand. "The captain of the Flying Scud gives you his word."

  I remained standing, with my hands at my sides.

  "If they're free men, why have them on board? I presume there's a purpose?"

  "Everything has a purpose."

  "Yours or theirs?"

  I glanced at the cupboard behind him, which contained the Winchester rifles. I knew he had no need to give me an answer.

  That same evening I was at the helm when he came on deck to relieve me.

  "I'll do a couple of hours of the next watch," I said.

  "As you wish."

  In the moonlight his face looked like a carved wooden mask.

  Nothing happened during the first hour. The Kanak crew were sleeping around the deck, for the nights were still warm. Then Jack Lewis roused them. They got to their feet without complaint, though it was the middle of the night and the moon was the only source of light. I could see that this was their routine. They disappeared into the galley and returned with jars of water and bowls of cooked rice, which they placed on deck before lifting the hatch. A black hole appeared in the center of the deck and I wondered if all my questions would finally be answered. At last I was about to clap eyes on the "free men" who spent their days locked in the hold.

  One of the Kanaks hollered down the hole and a chorus of voices responded. One by one they emerged. I tried counting them, but it was hard in the dark. I don't know how many there were, but I think they were all male. Their skin was as dark as a moonless night, and their faces were hidden behind great clouds of woolly hair. In the moonlight they looked like Negroes from Africa, but I knew they had to be Melanesians from the eastern Pacific—the darkest of all the races spread across this vast sea, and notorious among white men for being not only the most bloodthirsty warriors but also the keenest of all headhunters.

  Now they were wandering peacefully around the deck, where scenes soon unfolded that I imagine you'd experience in their villages. Some sat down around the bowls of rice. Others drank from the water jars or poured the water into their palms to wash their faces. Others went to the rail to relieve themselves. Soon they were all sitting on the deck in smaller groups and a monotonous murmuring spread among them.

  One started singing, and others joined him until soon they were all singing a song that seemed to use the Pacific as a metronome, rising and falling with a slow dignity that matched the immense swelling rhythm of the waves. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, for no apparent reason the song ceased and silence descended over the deck again as the Flying Scud sailed across the sea toward a destination known only to Jack Lewis.

  I looked around for him. He was leaning against the deckhouse with a Winchester rifle.

  The same scene was repeated each evening. The hatch was opened and the black shadows, otherwise known as free men, moved around the deck, going about their everyday business. Then they'd disappear. I had no idea what fate had in store for our free men. But Jack Lewis had told me too much about his philosophy for me to believe it would be anything good.

  Why did he so adamantly refute the suggestion that they were going to be sold as slaves? After all, he was no hypocrite: I had to give him that. So what were they doing there?

  "I've told you before, Madsen, and I'll tell you again: they're not slaves and they're not plantation workers. They're free men, like you and me."

  That was his answer the next time I pressed him on it. After that I gave up asking.

  A few days later he sought me out. The look on his face told me I was in for a surprise.

  "It'll do no harm to reveal it now, Madsen," he said. "We're heading for Samoa. That's where your father is."

  "So now I know," I said, though I'll admit I felt no urge to thank him. Instead I said, "So what's stopping us from going our separate ways? There's nothing to keep us together now."

  He laughed and flung out his arms as if to embrace me. "Of course there is, my dear boy. Look around you. The sea! That's what binds us. How will you get to Samoa on your own? Swim? Get off on one of the desert islands that don't figure on any sea chart, and hope to obtain passage from there? No, you're tied to this ship. Just like the free men in the hold."

  Jack Lewis was right. Knowing where my father was—knowledge that I feared I'd paid for dearly even if I benefited from it—changed nothing.

  "We'll make a single stop along the way," Jack Lewis continued, in the same triumphant tone. "But I trust you won't feel the need to desert me."

  "And why wouldn't I?" I retorted.

  "Don't be insubordinate, my boy. Because you're too smart to live out your days on a desert island."

  "If the island is deserted, what are we going to do there?"

  "The same thing I always do wherever I go: trade."

  "Who with, if there's no one there?"

  "A good question, my boy, more profound than you can imagine. Yes, who with? That question I can answer only with a new one. What's a human being? Yes, what?" He looked directly at me. "Can you tell me that?" Jack Lewis laughed in a way that signaled he was uninterested in my answer and that our conversation was at an end.

  TWO DAYS LATER we spotted a seagull: our first in three weeks. But there was no land in sight. I took out my chart and found not a single island mapped in our vicinity.

  Jack Lewis sent a man up the rigging. Shortly afterward an affirmative shout came from above—and some hours later a palm-fringed coastline appeared on the horizon.

  "Your desert island?" I asked Jack Lewis, who was standing alongside me by the rail.

  He nodded but said nothing.

  Once we got closer, I could see that there was another ship off its coast. I pointed toward the island.

  "Someone seems to have beaten us to it."

  "She's a wreck," Lewis said. "She's stuck on the reef. Been there for years. The Morning Star. That's where I got the portraits of the red-nosed lady and her husband."

  "And the crew?" I asked.

  "The crew was long dead when I found the ship."

  "What happened?"

  Jack Lewis shrugged. "Only they know. And as they say, dead men don't tell tales."

  "Mutiny?"

  He turned to give one of the Kanaks an order. I realized that I wouldn't learn more, but I couldn't tell from looking at him whether he was holding something back.

  We crossed in front of the reef, looking for a way in. Jack Lewis steered toward the wreck. Just before we reached it, we saw a gap in the thundering surf—which the crew of the Morning Star had clearly been aiming for. They'd paid a high price for their lack of perfect accuracy. The ship sat high on the reef, as if she'd been flung there with great force. And her position explained why she still appeared undamaged, so that at first I'd assumed she was anchored off the lagoon. She barely heeled, and all three of her masts were intact. Her name was still legible on the stern. A weather-beaten figurehead in flowing white robes held out her hands beseechingly toward the shore, the sole, stiff survivor of that wreck.

  The next minute we'd negotiated our way safely into the translucent water of the lagoon, where we could see every fish that darted across the seabed. Beyond the reef's white surf the water was a deep blue, as if in shadow, but in here it was emerald, so dazzling you'd think the sand below contained a source of energy as strong as the sun. The beach was white and fringed by lush undergrowth, which melted into jungle. I sensed that this dense vegetation was the wall behind which Jack Lewis kept his secret.

  My thoughts must have been drifting because I didn't notice we'd dropped anchor until Jack Lewis suddenly reappeared next to me, clutching a pair of binoculars. He was searching for something on the beach. I saw nothing—but he grunted in contentment.

  "Now's the moment."

  "What moment?"

  "The moment when I prove to you that I'm a man of my word. Yo
u didn't believe me when I told you that the men in the hold were free men and not slaves. Now you can judge for yourself."

  "You've got a gun in your hands."

  "A man needs to take precautions. But I don't plan to use it."

  He ordered the Kanaks to remove the hatch from the hold and then make themselves invisible in the fo'c'sle in front of the mast. It was a strange command, but they didn't look ready to question it, so I guessed it wasn't the first time they'd participated in the ritual, or whatever it was I was about to witness.

  Jack Lewis signaled to us to hide behind the deckhouse and pressed a finger against his lips. He looked tense, and I noted that his other finger rested on the trigger of the rifle. Soon we heard voices and footsteps on the deck: the "free men" were emerging from the hold. Lewis gestured at me to keep still, and for a while we just stood listening. Then I heard splashing, and his face lit up in a smile, as if everything was going according to plan. He nodded and grinned silently at me. A second splash followed, and then a third.

  I could see from the way Lewis moved his lips and fingers that he was taking some kind of tally. When he'd counted through all the fingers on one hand four times and reached twenty, he slapped me on the shoulder in high spirits.

  "So, my boy," he said. "Any questions?"

  I glanced across the lagoon where the men, who until a few minutes ago had been trapped in the hold, were now making for the beach. They all reached it almost simultaneously—and then disappeared into the jungle. None of them looked back.

  I didn't know what to say. I felt more baffled than ever. Jack Lewis cocked his head and studied me. "Look," he said. "Free men. Did you see anyone trying to stop them from running off?"

  "You're a practical man, Mr. Lewis," I said. "And I don't understand why you've fed these men for so many weeks only to see them disappear. What's in it for you? And what are the men doing on a desert island?"