Bright and Distant Shores (29 page)

Terrapin jutted his chin to windward. “All up, a nice little agreement we made the other night. And let's just say that when you wants to study that dark race behind me that it's by appointment only. Due process, it is. Good day, now, Mr. Gray.” Terrapin threw a cracker into the air and caught it in the enormous grotto of his mouth.

One of the skulls in the bosun's store was larger than the rest and contained a gold tooth. The first mate claimed it belonged to an Englishman from the Royal Yacht Squadron who'd gone missing several years prior. The gold-crowned maw had been perched under the binnacle and Mr. Pym gestured to it with his foot as he lobbied the captain from the leeward side of the poop deck. He wasn't happy about sharing a berth with the second mate. Owen waited for his turn to speak.

Pym said, “We should be weighing the mudhook, captain. Before them savages come at us one midnight. Sitting targets we are in this bay. Ruddled as sheep before slaughter.”

Terrapin looked up at the high, cirrus sky and considered. “I'm as superstitious as the next mariner, Pym . . . I know that seabirds are the vanquished souls of dead sailors, that the bark lightens under the magnetic draw of a full moon—so of course an Englishman's gold-toothed cranium augurs bloody ruin.” He looked at the skull, then at Owen. “But these waters are proving tradeworthy, so let's linger a while and reinforce the middle watch, Mr. Pym. As a precaution against night ambush.”

Mandrake squared his jaw into the easterly billows and gave a curt nod.

“And Mr. Graves,” the captain continued, “three more days should do the trick. You should think about where we'll be heading next.”

“We'll work our way north through the island chain. But we'll head next to the government station in Tulagi. I'm expecting some correspondence.”

“Ah, yes, I've seen you writing letters in the moonlight . . . must be a beloved. Any man who pines in the epistolary form has yet to have his life plundered by a woman. They wait for us ashore, like goddesses juggling severed heads . . .”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Terrapin told the first mate to have the topgallants trimmed.

Jethro overheard all this from the quarterdeck railing, a sketchbook in his hands. He was elated that they would be visiting Tulagi. The Resident Commissioner, Charles Woodford, was the author of
A Naturalist Among the Head-Hunters,
a first edition of which graced the little orlop library. What a boon to have a naturalist reach such a distinguished government office. If there was going to be a collecting frenzy in the next few days, Jethro wanted to be a part of it. So far he had managed to gather a good supply of reptiles, birds, and marine life but he was sadly lacking in the way of mammals.

As if willed by the thought of mammals, Malini came down from the poop deck with Nipper trotting and panting at her side. He wondered if he might gain her interest. Wasn't he owed a debt of gratitude? After all, it had been he who'd stood up to the sous-surgeon with his medieval bone hatchets and knives. He'd given her the civilizing tonic of laudanum to ease the pain. And the captain—now her seeming protector—had been ready to kick her off the ship before she could walk.

The seamen were whipping lines aloft and they watched her
descend to the quarterdeck as if she were a doe edging out of a copse of trees. The hobble was gone and she had been returned to full, sorrel-skinned health. Part of her daily regimen was feeding the native stowaways. She crouched beside the wallaby and fed it oats from her hand. When it was done eating she rubbed the hem of its pouch and the marsupial nuzzled her arm. The men watched this display of tenderness and thought of their mothers and girlfriends, of sisters with a soft spot for lapdogs. Nipper was learning restraint: if he growled or barked at the wildlife, Malini removed the hibiscus flower from behind her left ear and tapped him on the end of the nose with its stem.

She placed some sliced mango onto the deck for the turtle and saw Jethro's long shadow spread over her. Along with the ship's brass bell, his shoes were among the shiniest objects on board— twin suns winking on burnished leather domes. The shoes were called Balmorals, which was also a place, Argus had told her. He made some lines in his notebook and handed it to her. It was a likeness of the turtle, down to its sharklike eyes and granulated skin.

“A present,” he said.

She knew that word because the captain had been teaching her English—
I am full, thank you, swimming is good for the heart, you are very pretty
. Then Jethro said some things she did not understand. She could remember the sight of him and her brother sketching and painting in the hold. But she could also remember him spooling a strand of her hair and pressing against her wound with his nail-bitten fingers. He was like somebody's unmarried uncle come up from the coast for a feast, staying too long and eating too much; the Poumetans used the expression
gives pebbles but wants stones
to describe his sort. She chased after Nipper, who was trying to corral the mongoose, a sport that would not end in his favor. Argus was arranging things at the front of the boat and she went to talk to him, the dog in her arms.

“Whose heads are these?” she asked, peering into a tea chest.

“From the islands.”

“What do they want with them?” She ran her fingers through Nipper's fur.

“They will take them to a museum in America.”

“What is
museum
? A kind of church?”

“It is like a clubhouse with many tools and weapons. You can look at other people's things.” Looking square at the dog, he said, “What does the captain tell you?”

“Nothing.”

“I see you have moved into a cabin.”

“He gives me presents and teaches me English. We listen to a woman singing in his wooden house. I like the sound of her voice.”

Argus reached into the tea chest, his words sounding hollow. “Make sure he does not touch you.”

The mongoose had retreated to the forecastle and Malini set the terrier back on the deck. “You have never been married or initiated, little brother, but you give me advice like an elder. I am widowed and childless and he likes to give me things. There is nothing dishonorable about that. He is old and fat but also kind.”

Argus straightened to look at her, but before he could say anything she was retreating for the shade of the chartroom.

Owen went to inspect Argus's stowage. He was wrapping skulls and artifacts in muslin and newspaper, tagging each with a square of cardstock that listed the date along with the island and tribe of collection exactly the way Owen had demonstrated. The boy was methodical and thorough and even the roughened seamen had taken a liking to him. One evening Owen had come from below to find Argus reading
David Copperfield
aloud to the starboard watch in the forecastle, an emphatic hand marking the orphan's trials in the salty air while the seamen listened rapt and boozy in their tiered iron bunks. Whether they saw him as an apprentice or ship's mascot, Owen couldn't say, but they made their affections known with hanks of cloth, cigarettes, nips of brandy. It was also
a statement: that this tribal deckhand was much closer to being a brother than the Harvard dandy could ever be.

“You're doing a fine job, Argus.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Owen.”

“Owen.”

They smoked a cigarette together, Argus producing a tin of Bryant & May wax matches from his trouser pocket.

“Do you think my sister is safe with the master of the ship?” Owen hadn't brought this under full consideration; he'd been too distracted by the business of trade. He wasn't sure if Terrapin's interest was lascivious or paternal, simple lust or some misplaced desire to be a surrogate father, to summon an ill-begotten native child from one of his tattooed forearms. “I'll keep an eye on her and make sure she's not dishonored. Her cabin is right next to mine.”

“Thank you.”

“We are heading on in three days. Be sure to get plenty of rest. It will be a lot of work.”

“Where will we go next?”

“North through the islands but then to New Guinea.”

Argus forced a smile. Since boyhood he'd been told that the New Guinea highlands flowed with rivers of blood. But perhaps he could read the villagers psalms while trading for basketry and shields.

Owen said, “First we have to go to Tulagi for some mail.”

Argus smiled. “Are you expecting a letter from your wife?”

“Fiancée.”

“You are betrothed. What is her name?”

“Adelaide.” It was the first time Owen had spoken her name at sea. Naming attachments made you vulnerable among seamen.

“I was supposed to marry a girl but I left Poumeta.”

“Maybe someday you will marry. You're still very young.”

“First I will need brideprice. The islanders say that one
eyetooth of a dog is worth fifty coconuts. Maybe you should give your fiancée a dogtooth necklace instead of diamonds or pearls. It would be like giving her a forest of coconuts.”

“Porpoise teeth are more her style.”

They laughed at this. Owen was surprised whenever Argus enjoyed a joke, never at anyone's expense but sometimes in gentle disparagement. And he seemed to know Owen's mood at a hundred paces, the way it registered in his face or hands or gait, ready with a comment to lighten or augment what was already there. Owen handed him the half-smoked cigarette and went below to consult the island charts.

Argus continued his winning streak among the Solomons in the days to follow. He always seemed to hold something in reserve, knew when to stand his ground. Not satisfied with merely listing the items of trade, he evangelized on their relative merits, the way things could be put to better use. There was the usual exchange of calico, beads, wax matches, knives, and tomahawks, but he also managed to swap clothes for handicrafts and tribal weaponry. The local term for whites was
men with the body of a parrot
; this referred to the colorful peacoats and weskits that spilled from the anchored brigs and missionary sloops. Since clothing for the villagers was more ceremonial than practical—there was a hinterland chief who wore a ragged admiralty jacket to annual festivals—it stood to reason that its value depended on the need for status and prestige. Owen had Fennimore Jauss, the sailmaker, tailor a range of gaudy attire from the slop chest and they took it ashore. Argus convinced one of the shamans to model the clothing, dressed him in patched gingham and retired sail canvas. The elders and the children, anyone not working the taro gardens, made him parade around and doff his plug hat like some tribal court jester. Argus told the elders that trousers ensured a better price during trade negotiations with whites. Then they all watched as Argus taught the shaman how to shave with a hand mirror and soap,
the old man nicking and bleeding his way through the afternoon to delighted cheers. Mirrors had other applications as well, Argus reminded them. A man could use them to see who was walking behind him on a pathway. For every objection to trade he had a prepared response, just as the Reverend Mister had an armory of fixed rejoinders for every flavor of heathen doubt. The trick, Owen saw from the sidelines, was to imbue each item of trade with an expanded significance. Wax matches were more than a convenience; they could be used to light funeral pyres or conduct sorcery so that the brand of Bryant & May could be spoken aloud like an appeal to the twin ancestral gods of fire and light.

The running luck petered out their last night in the southern islands. Jethro, on the premise of needing to collect nocturnal animals, convinced Owen to overnight on one of the islands. Owen agreed, partly because it meant more hours of trade. He brought Dickey and Giles along and the landing party camped at the edge of a mangrove swamp on the periphery of a coastal settlement. The villagers agreed to let the clayskins stay, as long as they kept to themselves. The people were overrun with ague, their children riddled with ringworm. The few hours spent in the settlement, before heading a mile up the coast, yielded nothing. A young warrior was having chevrons tattooed on his face with the dismembered claw of a flying fox, the clan's totemic animal. Jethro hand-cranked several minutes of the tattooing ceremony with the cinématographe before they were asked to leave. They were escorted to a beachside grove since the village couldn't risk further infection.

Argus built a fire in the triangle of pitchtents and made a pot of coffee. They ate beans and hardtack while Jethro prepared for his night-time expedition. They heard the throb of tree frogs and the surf breaking on the coral reef. Thunderheads scraped in from the south, low and bruised, blotting out the Southern Cross for the first time in days. Owen barely looked at the stars back in Chicago but out here he found himself constantly looking
skyward, leaning against the mizzenmast during a watch or roped to a yardarm.

The fireside talk ran to cursed ships and the perils of the South Seas, the barquentines, clippers, and yawls that lost men on each and every voyage, the widowmakers of the Cape, the
British Enterprise
and the
Annesley,
rammed by steamers or scuttled on uncharted reef heads. Or stories of escape and shipwreck, of the Aberdeen woman who was taken captive by the Mulgrave Islanders, kept for years as tribal pet and clan princess until the HMS
Rattlesnake
delivered her from that fate. Dickey held forth on the discovery of a human tooth in a tin of Malay beef, leaning forward to spit in the fire.

“At least it wasn't gold-crowned,” said Owen.

Giles drank from his flask of rum and passed it around.

Argus could remember many a night of glass-eyed reminiscence with the preacher and wondered if these stories would also end with nostalgia and self-remorse. Would they run aground on the shores of a blighted boyhood? In the case of the Reverend Mister, single-malt whiskey was the sea for that particular voyage.