Sacred Hunger

  This purgatory lasted most of the night. On the following morning, weakened but feeling light and purged —and ravenously hungry—Paris went up on deck. The weather had cleared. The light seemed strangely pure to him, like the primal light of the world. The sea was still choppy and seamed with white but the sky looked as soft as some small bird’s breast.

  He saw two men high up on a cross-piece of the mainmast. Others were hauling on a rope immediately below, to sway up the yards. Thurso stood on the quarterdeck with the helmsman directly behind him.

  Paris gave the captain good-morning, heard no reply and went directly to the galley, where he found Morgan, the cook, stirring with a long ladle in a deep and narrow-necked iron cauldron.

  “What is that?”’ he asked.

  Morgan removed the short, foul-looking pipe from his mouth. “Lobscouse, sir. That is what they call it.” Morgan’s face had a shine of sweat that seemed permanent. He wore a calico apron greasy with the wipings of his hands, and a ragged bonnet of dark red wool sat on top of his head. This cap was his badge of office on board. No one ever saw him take it off.

  “What is lobscouse?”’

  “That is according to what goes in it.”

  There was something sullen in this and Paris realized after a moment that the man distrusted him and perhaps thought his question some kind of a trick. “No,” he said, “really I do not know. What is in this particular one?”’

  “Salt beef, potatoes and onions in this.”

  “Please go on with your smoking. It is not ready now, I suppose?”’

  “No, sir. Only just got the fire up, after this dirty weather. It will be given out to the men at dinner-time—eight bells.” Morgan paused.

  He still had not looked directly at Paris.

  “There is burgoo left over from breakfast,” he said at last.

  “Burgoo?”’

  ” ‘Tis only boiled oatmeal, sir, with a bit o” sugar.”

  ‘I will have a good bowlful of that,” Paris said.

  “Make it up thick, will you?”’

  “Very good, sir. I will get the boy to bring it below.”

  “No,” Paris said. “I am unwilling to wait so long. I will have it here and now.”

  “Here, sir?”’ Scandalized into directness at last, Morgan permitted himself a stare. “In the galley?”’ He saw a smile come slowly to transform the surgeon’s white face.

  “Yes,” Paris said. “And as soon as may be.”

  From his place by the helm Thurso had watched the emergence of his surgeon with an ill-will tempered only by his weariness. He had slept hardly at all since the onset of the squally weather, undergoing the travails of storm baptism for his ship, a kind of agony commensurate with that endured by Paris, though on the plane of spirit rather than flesh. He had felt the gallantry of the vessel—she would strain and tear her own ligaments if kept too close-hauled. But to turn her away from the wind meant detours and delays, and this conflicted savagely with his wish to make good time on the voyage. Standing in the roaring darkness, hands fast to the rail of the quarterdeck, he issued his orders, heard Barton transmit them, heard the human voices blend with the voices of the wind. Rising from brief slumber he thought he saw the running glimmers of Aurora Borealis in the northern sky, fugitive traces of crimson and gold, gone as soon as glimpsed. It was earlier in the year than any man had reported seeing the Merry Dancers in these latitudes and Thurso knew it for a sign to him and had the cables clinched round the mainmast and the topgallant masts lowered.

  Sure enough, this morning the wind had abated and veered to the west, and the sea had calmed. The masts and lower yards were swayed up again and by noon they were making good progress with an easy breeze from westward. But the weather made sport of them still. Two miles round the head and just out of the road a whispering calm descended.

  The ship loitered, drying her sails in pale sunlight. Then the wind sprang up again but from the wrong quarter, from the southwest. Darkness fell as they made slow way southwards over a sea split with low ridges to the horizon.

  Next morning, savagely out of temper at these perversities of the wind, Thurso was approached by the boatswain with a complaint that one of the men had made to strike him.

  “James Wilson, the man’s name,” Haines said. “Others saw him raise his hand to me; it is not on my report alone.”

  “No matter if it was.” Thurso considered the bright, narrow-set eyes and the bitter mouth of the man before him. “I take your word until I know different,” he said. This was untrue—he trusted no one and least of all a man who offered to call witnesses before he was doubted. There were the lineaments of cruelty in the boatswain’s face. Thurso had seen them too often before in men of every type and cast of feature to be mistaken now. This was not necessarily a bad thing; if the men feared the boatswain they were likely to put more into the work; and they were at the beginning of a long voyage, the authority of the ship’s officers must be upheld. Thurso despised cruelty, as he did compassion, and all other redundant shoots of the human spirit. He knew he was not himself cruel but merely practical and obedient to the counsels of necessity. They came to him now: Reduce the man. Slight his grievance. Above all, do not seem to share it…

  He took two paces forward to the quarterdeck rail, presenting Haines with his back. From here he looked down over the deck below for some moments in silence. The half-witted landsman that Barton had netted sat cross-legged amidships surrounded by piles of junk rope, drawing out yarns and knotting them together. His mouth hung open with the effort of concentration. Useless aloft, but Simmonds had said that hauling on a rope he was worth two. Beyond him, well forward, people were getting up tackle to brace the foremast stays: some of the standing rigging had slackened under the assaults of the gale. He made out the hulking Libby with his black patch, the starveling boy and the little Tynesider—this last was a handy one, he noted with sombre approval, he was shaping to the work well. There was blood down the front of his nankeen jacket. ‘What is his name again, the little one there?”’ he said, keeping his back still turned on the boatswain.

  “Him takin” up the slack? Cocky little devil.”

  “I asked you for his name, not his character.”

  “His name is William Blair, sir.”

  “And that milk-faced fellow beside him, the tall one who always seems to be looking through the air for something?”’

  “That is Michael Sullivan, sir, the fiddler.”

  “Aye, we shall find a good use for his fiddle when we have the negroes on board. His clothes are falling off him. I cannot have a man walking about my ship in rags. I warrant he is verminous too.

  We will have vermin aplenty before we are done, we can try for a clean start at least.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He is not alone. I have seen others in the same case. That filthy little Scotchman -“

  “McGann, sir.”

  “When time affords, I want those men taken to the heads, stripped off and sluiced well down and their clothes burned. They can be given slop clothes from the stores and I want it charged against their pay.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “Come forward to me here,” Thurso said, turning slightly round. “Now regarding this Wilson, he is an able seaman, if I mistake not, a fore-the-mast man?”’

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What took place?”’

  “It was early today, the wind was just comin” round fair an’ we was swayin’ up the gallants. We had to look alive, every man of us, to get the benefit —them was your orders, sir. It seemed to me that the men were not puttin’ their backs into it, so I started “em up a bit in the normal way an” he turned sharp round on me.”

  ‘allyou are saying you gave them a stroke of the rattan to smarten them up?”’

  “Yes, that’s right, sir.”

  “One stroke, or more than one?”’

  “One here, one there.”

  Thurso observed with rising malignity that
the fellow was permitting himself a slight smile. “And the same to each man?”’

  “I don’t well remember, sir.”

  Thurso looked closely into the boatswain’s face. The dark eyes were unabashed, alight with an energy of their own. “You don’t remember?”’ he said. “Can you not count? You had better learn. He saw it was you and he raised his hand?”’

  “Aye,” the boatswain said, with a sort of bitter pride, “he knew it was me right enough.”

  Thurso considered for some moments longer. The man Wilson would have to be punished, so much was certain.

  A day in irons would meet the case. But was it enough? He thought again of the sign he had been given in the night, in the worst of the gale, those glimmers of crimson among the scudding clouds. And now these contrary winds and calms. Eight days out and they were not yet clear of the Dungarvon high land. A square-rigged ship in narrow waters… With unlucky weather they could be caught in this channel as long again, or longer. Something was clogging, preventing …

  “Have the man brought up on deck and put in irons,” he said. “I will make an example of him.”

  ‘Aye-aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Damn you, I don’t want your thanks.”

  Thurso turned his eyes on the boatswain and saw the man’s head retract slightly and the dark eyes open wider. “Hark to me, Haines,” he said.

  “Do not try to come too near me or you will get scorched. You take that tack and you will find your mistake soon enough. And you had better learn to count. Driving the men is one thing, but I don’t want bad blood on the ship, more than I can help. Now get off my deck and go about your work.”

  Billy Blair, hauling on the larboard tackle to set up the stays, saw the raw-boned Yorkshireman Wilson brought up on deck and the heavy leg irons fastened on him. “Christ save us,” he said. “We are not oot o”

  Georgy’s Channel yet an’ they are startin’ already. What has that poor lad done?”’

  Sullivan’s dazed and beautiful eyes regarded him through the mesh of the rat-lines. ‘What has he done?”’ he said. “He has committed the wrong-doin” of bein’ aboard of this ship.”

  ‘allye daft twist,” Billy said irritably.

  “How could he have knowed it when he stepped aboard?”’

  “Anyone who knows anythin” about the law knows that ignorance is no excuse. We got a flogger for a bosun an’ a hound for a mate an’ a divil for a skipper an’ a year o’ hell to look forward to an’ you ask me what the lad has done.”

  ‘allyor argument doesna” hold water,”

  Billy said, after some moments of reflection. ‘They canna put a lad in irons only for existin”dis”

  ‘Can they not?”’ Sullivan said. “Holy Mary, I wish it was dinner-time. Me hands is all comin” to pieces with these ropes, bein’ out of the way of it these days. Well, “tis me own fault, sure enough, I should have minded me own business, I should niver have taken your part.”

  “I wish you’d give over on that tack,”

  Billy said.

  Libby was passing by them, his arms full of chafing gear. “I heard you’re goin’ to get a nice new suit o’ clothes,” he said to Sullivan and gave a yellow-toothed grin that was too prolonged for friendliness.

  “I don’t know what you are talkin” about,”

  Sullivan said.

  ‘Shag off, blob-eye,” Billy said pugnaciously. Neither of them trusted Libby, who was rumoured to be on close terms with Haines.

  “Prick-ears.” Libby was searching for further insults when the second mate came up to them.

  “I don’t want to hear so much talking,”

  Simmonds said. ‘allyou—Libby—get aft with that gear. There is a man in irons already, do you want to keep him company?”’

  “Thank you for sendin” that man about his business, mister mate, he was hangin’ about an’ impedin’ our work,” Sullivan said, displaying a smile of gap-toothed charm.

  ‘That’s enough, get on now.”

  Eight bells were sounded shortly afterwards but before anyone could move to go below there came the boatswain’s whistle and his long-drawn cry summoning all hands on deck. The men of Barton’s watch came tumbling up. Barton himself took up a position on the quarterdeck a pace or two behind Thurso. Simmonds remained with the men on the deck below. Haines tilted his head to give his lungs free play. “All hands to witness punishment!” he shouted at the top of his voice, as if to include the sky itself and whatever beings might be dwelling there. The crew lined up against the rails to starboard or port according to watch.

  Thurso turned to Barton. “Everybody present?”’

  “The doctor is not here yet, sir.”

  The captain’s heavy jawbones become more prominent and he paused for a moment before speaking.

  “Haines, I want Mr Paris up here as soon as may be.”

  In the interval no word was spoken; no sound came from those waiting in line at the rails or from the sullen man in his fetters seated between them, who kept his head down, looking at no one. The wind had dropped again to a faint breath from the west. There was not sea enough to slap the ship’s bows. She dallied there, sails set to the topgallants and scarce enough breeze to give her steerage way.

  Paris emerged to this silence, climbed the companion ladder to the quarterdeck and took up a position alongside Barton. He knew what was going to happen without needing to be told, some blend of experience and instinctive knowledge informing him that this silent assembly was there to do or witness hurt to a fellow-being.

  “Glad you were able to get here, Mr Paris,”

  Thurso said with malignant sarcasm. “Strike off the man’s irons and rig the grating,” he said to Barton.

  The fetters were taken off by Haines, with Libby assisting. Wilson got stiffly to his feet.

  Hughes and the cooper, a man named Davies, dragged aft one of the wooden gratings used to cover the hatches. This was laid upright and secured to the bulwarks by the lee gangway.

  “Grating rigged, sir,” Davies said.

  “Mr Barton, ask the man if he has anything to say.”

  But Wilson had heard this; before the mate was finished speaking to him he raised his head and looked up steadily at the figures on the quarterdeck. He was a big-boned, powerful man with a gaunt face and pale, washed-out eyes. “Nowt that can help,” he said.

  “Aye,” Thurso said grimly, “your help comes when I stay my hand. Seize him up.”

  Haines and Libby were holding him still, but lightly.

  They would have stripped off his shirt but he drew back sharply, pulled it over his head and dropped it from him. Then he walked alone to the foot of the gangway and raised his arms so his wrists could be lashed to the grating. He was deeply tanned at the neck and arms but his back was pale and the scars of old floggings were visible on it.

  “Seized up, sir,” Haines reported.

  Deakin, standing to starboard with the others of his watch, witnessed these preliminaries with a familiar sickness, compounded of his own old fear and pain. He knew that pride of refusing to be manhandled to the grating-doomed pride, because the flogging always brought a man to his knees. Deakin had been beaten and seen men beaten for almost as long as he could remember and he knew that the Yorkshireman would be given extra for raising his head and looking steady—not for spite, but because flogging was meant to reduce a man. On a slaveship it would not be the boatswain that would deliver the lashes, or either of the mates—the grievance would be too strong for this looser discipline. Officers and men had often to work side by side with their hands dipping in the same grease-tub. Things could happen that looked like accidents. Or a knife between the ribs and over the side and nobody the wiser… No, it would be the skipper. He was talking now, in his hoarse, unchanging voice. Deakin took in the sense without paying much attention to the particular words.

  He had heard similar speeches on a dozen ships. Wilson had raised his hand against one of the appointed officers. This was to rai
se his hand against the captain himself. He, Thurso, was not the man to stand this. They did not know him yet. They would get to know him, by God. He could be a devil incarnate to them if they crossed him. If they went his way he could be sweet as honey. Let everyone see and take note what would befall them at any failure of duty or breach of discipline….

  Thurso divested himself of his coat and waistcoat, handing them to Barton, who came forward for them like a valet. Haines was undoing the red baize bag in which the cat was kept. To Paris, already bracing himself for what was to come, there was a horrifying elegance in this ritual disrobing, despite the incongruities of the captain’s thick figure and his big, square, weatherbeaten face. He might have been in his changing-room at a levee, his attendants about him, his petitioners below.

  He took the whip from Haines and stepped down the companion. He measured his distance, took two short steps and struck with full power of his arm. They heard the swish of the tails and the pattering crack of the impact. A loud, deep panting sound came from Wilson as the breath was driven from his body by the force of the blow. Paris saw the tendons of the man’s neck tighten with his effort to make no sound. The first blow had opened his back and a broken line of blood showed where the knots had cut. Thurso delivered stroke after stroke with unfaltering ferocity and astounding energy, his eyes staring and his face dark red and swollen-looking. Wilson still made no sound but he writhed against the grating. His back was a red slough from neck to waist. Drops of blood were scattered over the deck with each stroke. At the tenth, and each one thereafter, Thurso was obliged to pause in order to run his fingers through the tails of the cat to free them from blood and bits of flesh. The fourteenth blow broke Wilson’s resolve. His knees gave and he hung by his wrists. “Oh God,” he shouted thickly. “God help me.”