Bright and Distant Shores (26 page)

Jethro smiled into his soup. “Your English is excellent.”

“Thank you. Transitive verbs used to give me grief but now they don't bother me.”

Owen laughed and said, “I'm not sure I even know what a transitive verb is.”

“A verb that desires an object to go with the subject. Like I
give you
the book,” said Argus.

“That explains it,” said Owen. He watched the sister touch the sides of the table with her fingertips. “What is your sister's name?”

“Malini.”

“And does she speak English?”

Argus shook his head, his mouth brimming with soup. “She is heathen but I try to teach her hymns and Bible verses. She wants to become a governess in a mission because she is barren and likes babies. Will the doctor look at her again?”

“If he needs to,” said Jethro. “But you and I can take very good care of her. Wash her wound three times a day with salt water.”

Argus looked at Malini. “We are very grateful.”

Owen placed his hands together. “Where did you come from before the mission?”

“Poumeta. Up near the Bismarcks.”

“Are there lots of your people still back there living in small villages?”

“Not my village but on other islands.”

“We are headed that way on a collecting expedition.”

“To collect birds and snakes?”

Owen shook his head and noticed Jethro's smug grin. “No. To collect artifacts. Weapons and art for a private museum in America.”

Argus nodded extravagantly. He knew about America and museums.

A full minute of soup spooning.

Owen said, “Maybe you want to work for us to help trade in the villages. Do you speak other native languages?”

Argus looked up. “Many languages,” he said definitively. In fact he spoke three: English, Poumetan, and a strain of bastardized pidgin that was only good on a handful of trade route islands. “I also cook and clean and can mend clothing such as coat buttons.”

Owen said, “That might please the ship's master. I would need
to get his approval, of course. Perhaps when you aren't trading you could help the apprentice. Would you like to learn how to sail?”

Argus thought of the infernal rowing he'd endured and wished to never feel the ocean beneath him again. “Very much,” he said.

“A general sort of trading hand and cabin boy,” said Jethro. As soon as he'd seen the native siblings he'd hoped to study them, to measure their bones and write down their customs.

Owen said, “He's not for helping you collect wildlife. Understand that. Objects only. Don't get any designs, Mr. Gray.”

“Of course.” He'd been
mistered
into place.

“And what will my sister do on the ship?” asked Argus.

A quiet fell over them and they were suddenly aware of Mali-ni's fitful breathing.

“A ship isn't much of a place for a woman,” said Owen finally. “We can arrange safe passage for her to anywhere you like. When she's better, of course. But I am offering you a job. Twenty shillings a week plus meals and clothing.”

Argus let his soup spoon rest at the edge of his bowl and Owen couldn't help recalling Adelaide in all her midday refinement. The boy had a womanly introspection and grace about him.

Argus said, “I must decline.”

“Why is that?” asked Owen.

“Poumetan sisters are like mothers. They must be honored by the brother. This is proper conduct. I promised I would look after her and find us both jobs. Our parents are dead. We are orphaned like the two Davids.”

Both white men looked confused by this reference.

“How old are you and your sister?”

“I am just eighteen years and I think she is twenty-five and one-half years.”

Owen said, “This would be a good job for you. Just for a few months.”

“I am declined,” said Argus. “Unless the sister can come on
the collecting exposition.” His English faltered and he sounded flustered.

Owen worried about the ramifications of having the sister aboard but admired the brother's loyalty. He pushed off the workbench with two hands and headed for the door. “The captain says we can anchor here one more day. I will speak to him before we leave. That's all I can do. It's his choice to make. But either way, we'll make sure your sister is on the road to recovery.”

Argus nodded and Owen turned for the hatchway ladder that provided a shortcut to the main deck. They watched him disappear up the ladder one rung at a time.

Dreamily, Malini saw a pair of clay hands and black boots ascend through a timbered canopy.

J
ethro came knocking on Terrapin's stateroom door just before ten that night, when he knew the river of rum and brandy would be ready to brim its banks. From inside he heard Terrapin's vespertine piano playing. He was admitted by way of a distracted voice and entered to see the captain in a floral sarong, sitting naked to the waist at the old church upright. The piano, like Terrapin's face and chest, showed the ravages of age and life at sea. The lid was ajar and it was split along the uppermost rail, exposing hammerwork that was both frayed and bowed. Terrapin trebled into a morose refrain, his eyes brimming. Through a wedge of rosiny light Jethro could see dust motes cascading off the dampened piano wires and hitchpins. Terrapin lifted his hands slowly from the keyboard and took a sip from his mug of liquor, two-handing it like a goblet of mead. “Is there a duel on the fore-deck?”

“How's that, sir?”

“The fencing glove.”

“Ah,” Jethro said, feigning amusement. “Ever since the snakebite I've felt the need to keep it covered.”

“Let's see it then.”

“Excuse me?”

“The snakebit finger.”

Jethro hesitated before slowly working the glove off his left hand. He was standing a few feet away.

“Closer, please,” said Terrapin.

Jethro came forward and Terrapin couldn't resist playing a
dramatic progression on the left side of the keyboard. He smirked while the purplish finger edged into a cone of kerosene lamplight. After a moment of squint-eyed consideration, Terrapin said, “I take a great deal of ownership for my men and what goes on above and below decks. In some ways I consider a man's bodily parts to be extensions of my very own corpicus. We is all one organism and such. A metaphorical illusion you can appreciate from all your botanizing and taxidermy, no doubt. May I touch it?”

Jethro blinked. “Very well.”

Terrapin ran a finger tenderly over the rucked tip. “If you are not careful with this turnip it will end up topped and pickled in one of your jam jars. Ha! Consider collecting your own digital whatnot in some of that glassware. That would be a turn. Keep it away from the cook and ventilate the ghastly bugger or it will fester like the Moroccan clap. Understand me?”

Jethro pulled his finger from the light. “I'd rather keep it hidden from the men but I'll air it at night. The glove helps protect the injury when I hoist or reef sail.”

Terrapin smiled, belched, puckered. “You almost sound like a sailor except there's still a hint of eastern custard in your voice. Have a drink.”

The captain handed his own mug to Jethro, who, sensing this was a test, took a sip and returned it. Terrapin got up and went to water a tendril of leaf that sprouted from a pot under the foremost porthole. “I also enjoy a spot of botanizing. Sweet potatoes is about all that will start in this gloomy fug. The other darlings died off. I understand your father has built the world's tallest skyscraper? Ain't that a thing! That air must be sweet and Himalayan up there. You could bottle it, I reckon. I've always been partial to mountains. In Tassie we've got mountains.”

Jethro rested a hand on the top of the piano. “I've come to talk to you about the natives on board.”

Without turning from his potted plant, Terrapin said, “Do we need another round of delousing?”

“No, sir. Mr. Graves has offered the boy a position as guide and translator for the purposes of trading, but the brother won't leave the sister. They are very close and he wants to protect his sister. Admirable, really.”

Terrapin turned on his heels. “First I've heard of it. Nice if somebody kisses the bloody papal ring every once in a while.” He came forward. “That aside, what business is this of yours? Do you have lusty designs on the carbuncled sister? A little basket-making in the orlop, hmm, is that your campaign?”

Jethro was taken aback, his temper idling below a tight-faced smile. Then he realized he'd beaten Owen to the captain's door and saw an opportunity. “I just think we could help them and proceed with the trading at the same time.”

Terrapin hefted onto the piano bench. “We ain't runnin a fuckin quarantine or malarial hotel here, lovelace. Who knows what pox and plague those two are carrying. Don't misunderstand me. I've loved many a native woman and borne fruit by such labors and erudition. But they turn when you cage em up. Their souls rot from the bowels up. Give a native a piece of cheese and see what Armageddon looks like.”

Jethro looked at the list of children's birth dates running down Terrapin's forearms. “Blood families are very close on their island. Brother and sister is a sacred bond. More sacred than husband and wife and father and child.”

Terrapin folded his arms. “And how do you know so much about island life, Illinois?”

“I've been speaking with the boy. He speaks English exceptionally well.”

“Christ, sometimes you sound like a tabernacle boy what's been castrated and taught to sing high. Naturally, the Irishmen and San Quentin blokes take offense up top and sometimes you curdle my breakfast. I won't lie to you. The fact that you can punch a man flat is one of the lasting mysteries on this green and blue earth. You look like you'd tucker out trying to open a box of chocolates.”

Jethro pulled his shoulders tight. “I'd like to study the natives as the ship's naturalist.”

“A woman on a ship is like a dog that chases a mud wagon. Sooner or later the show ends with blood and entrails.”

Jethro pitched his hands into his cotton trousers. “I am willing to pay for the opportunity to study them both. I can personally guarantee the girl's safety because I will guard her myself. And as for the brother, when he's not trading he can help the apprentice. He'll be paid out of Mr. Graves's trading allowance. I believe that's the proper accounting for it.”

Terrapin ran his calloused hands along the edge of the keys. “Aw, pikelet. Not everything can be bought with hempen paper. Do you realize that if your father weren't funding this seagoing jaunt that you would have been keelhauled by now? Fish would be feeding on your pasty parfleched hide. You may be able to knock a spud to the ground fair and square but those seamen have a burning genius for revenge. It's what keeps them alive out here—thinking about the scores they'll settle back in port. The ocean is a playground for slighted men on the comeback. So much time for doggery and bucket-shop plotting.” Terrapin belched some brandied air between his lips and appeared startled; he'd tarried out beyond his own moorings. “Where was I headed?”

Far from feeling slighted or wary, Jethro wiggled the fingertips of his left hand into the fencing glove and said, “My father always taught me to put things in writing. So if you decide on the requisite amount I'll be happy to fetch the ink bottle.”

Terrapin said, “As captain and maritime luminary I'm in favor of the advancement of science—three hundred dollars, I believe, is the correct figure.” He played a big fat chord with his left hand.

They anchored two days in the bay at Djimbanko before heading north toward the Solomons. The men had been sated, the wind was abeam, and the
Cullion
was fully clothed, the sails trimming out over the waves like a hundred silken pitchtents. Owen didn't
know of the retained natives until the ship was about to weigh anchor and the captain made no attempt to get them ashore. He'd planned to talk to Terrapin that morning, when he knew the captain would be sober and distracted by the routine of departure. Owen went to find Jethro amidships.

“You talked to Terrapin, then?” asked Owen. “About the natives?”

“A few words,” said Jethro absently, leaning on the rail. “I told him you needed the brother's help for trading and that the sister wasn't well enough to go ashore.”

“It wasn't your place to do that.”

Jethro looked up from the churning waters with a blank expression. “My apologies. I was only trying to help the cause.”

“Which cause?” Owen asked, anger rising in his voice.

“Trading, of course.”

Owen saw that the heir was undaunted, possibly even sincere, in this last statement. Perhaps he was being unnecessarily harsh with Jethro. Softening, he said, “I'm glad we can ensure the sister is properly healed. I will need the brother to work, though. Perhaps you can keep an eye on the girl. Keep her away from the men as much as possible. You know how they get.”

Jethro nodded with vindication. “I'll do my best to keep them at bay.”

Sixty miles out of the bay and with eight bells sounding the end of the forenoon watch, the wind died off and the sight lines bent with a mirage. They sailed into a bowl of warm, moist air that played havoc with the helmsman's sense of direction. A blanket of atmosphere hung above the water. Islands shimmered, hazed in front of the horizon even though the charts showed them to be a hundred miles off. The riffled, blue expanse became a sheet of murrhine glass, distorting the helmsman's view. It was as if the
Cullion
were sailing under a bell jar, into a dome of vapors. Terrapin came onto the deck and told the helmsman to heave to. The foresails backfilled and she
pointed toward the wind, idling up from a close-reach. “Are you sailing by feel or by chart, Mr. Ricketts? Because the bark is backing and filling like a frigid bride peeling back the bedsheets.”