The Voyage of the Dolphin (20 page)

‘I was born, the last of six children, on a small farm in the northwestern corner of the county of Tyrone, in the early hours of the tenth of March, in the year eighteen hundred and thirty-eight. It was the tail-end of the worst winter for decades, snow as high as a man for a month, then a false spring, then the blizzards back with a vengeance. The night my mother laboured with me, my father was out in the fields pulling perished lambs out of the drifts; Easter was a lean affair that year. Our neighbour's son, who was helping him, lost three fingers to frostbite and my father was lucky, they said, not to lose his nose.

‘It was a long and difficult birth, and my mother was a whisker from death by the end of it, but, to all appearances, I was a normal, healthy baby. There was nothing about me to hint at the extraordinary life that lay ahead. And nothing, indeed, for the best part of my childhood – an idyllic time, I can't deny it, lived between hedgerow and river, without a care in the world.

‘But then, when I turned nine, it all changed. I began to suffer terrible headaches, sometimes for weeks on end. My limbs ached constantly. And I began to grow. Very rapidly. Within a year I was bigger than everyone in the family. At the age of twelve I was six feet six inches tall and had to have my shoes made specially for me. By my fourteenth birthday I stood well over seven feet and was too big for school. Luckily I had already learned to read and write. My father built an extra-long bed for me in the barn and from then on I spent my days helping out on the farm. I was strong, ' he held a fist in the air, ‘like Goliath. I could do the work of three men. And I did, and I enjoyed the outdoor life, but I found myself drawn also to the kitchen, or, perhaps more accurately, to where my mother happened to be, for it was my impression, rightly or wrongly, that growing so large, so fast, I had missed out on the physical affection shown to other children. It was
her
attention that I craved, my father being a somewhat austere man. Of course, to be with her, I had to make myself useful – a farm is a busy place – so, I learned to work with food.

‘My mother was a marvellous teacher, and one of the most instinctive cooks I ever met. She had only basic ingredients but she understood how to use them, how to – it sounds almost foolishly elementary to say it —
make them taste good
. My love of food, and the excitement I still feel about the art of seasoning, the science of baking, the…' he screwed his eyes shut, ‘the
alchemy
of flavour, comes from those mornings, the pair of us working side by side, the smell of scones on the griddle pan, little clouds of flour settling through the sunlight.' He lapsed into silence, a faint smile on his lips, for such a long pause that they began to suspect he may have fallen asleep. Then he continued.

‘I was over eight feet by this time, and people were coming from all over the county to “see the giant”. On Sunday mornings, after church, a crowd would gather at the gate, shouting and laughing. Pointing. They'd bring picnics, make an outing of it. Most of the time, I would hide in the barn, but one morning I could hold back no longer. I took up a pitchfork, burst out of the doors and ran down the lane at them, roaring like a mad man.' He threw his head back and let out a shout of laughter. ‘By God, they scattered like mice! You should have seen their faces. As though they'd encountered the Devil himself.' He sighed. ‘Unfortunately, that little temper tantrum was my undoing. My fame, or rather, my infamy, spread like blight. Soon people were coming from as far afield as Dublin to catch a glimpse. And not just on Sundays, it was
every
day: morning, noon and night. As time went on they grew bolder, marching up to the door, staring in through the windows, demanding that I appear. It became unbearable.

‘Eventually, my parents were at their wits' end. My father sat me down – we'd been stacking bales together — and took out his pipe, very quiet, very serious. He told me it grieved them greatly, but that it was no longer possible for me to remain at home. I would have to leave. Fend for myself. I was a big boy now, he said. Hah! I was devastated, as you can imagine. I may have been large in stature but temperamentally I was little more than a child.

‘Anyway, I learned that it had been arranged, through a relative, for me to join a variety troupe in Belfast, where, in return for five public appearances a week I would receive lodgings and a small wage. At first I was heartbroken at the thought of leaving the farm, but after a while the prospect of being in a big town for the first time, earning my own living, was...'

He pushed his fingers upwards through his silky hair, which glimmered white in the firelight. He cleared his throat. The whisper of a page turning came from further up the room.

‘In all, including myself,' he said, ‘there were ten “acts” that paraded daily across the stage of that dingy little music hall in York Street. Let's see if I can remember them – there was,' he began counting off on his fingers, ‘the Bearded Lady, Baron Blue-Face, Ratboy, the Double Duchess, the Human Owl, Luigi the Legless Acrobat (how could I forget him?), Crocodile Girl, the Balloon-Headed Baby and,' he was snapping his fingers, ‘oh yes, and a dwarf called Eric. Extraordinary people, and all very nice – well, apart from Eric, he had a bit of a temper – but they'd all seen better days, and admitted as much. We all rubbed along together well and helped each other out. I was particularly fond of the Crocodile Girl – Freda, her name was -- who was extremely cheerful despite her painful skin condition, and an excellent singer of ballads.

‘As for the excitement of the town, I experienced very little of it. The owner of the show didn't like his
artistes
out in public, you see, he said it diminished the element of surprise for the paying customer. So we were confined to our quarters most of the time, icy rooms in a disused sanitorium near the docks. Every night, after work, we'd all gather around the furnace in the basement for warmth, and swap stories about our lives. I was the youngest so I didn't have much to tell, but the others had travelled the world and seen many strange and wonderful things.

‘Sometimes, in the early hours,' he went on. ‘Me and the Human Owl, a Hungarian by the name of Konrad who could turn his head through a hundred and eighty degrees, would slip out and wander around the backstreets of Sailortown. Most people were drunk by that time, so they just thought they were seeing things anyway. We'd watch the ships coming in, from Liverpool and Rotterdam, the Americas, the Indies, cargoes of linen and tobacco on the quayside, convicts on their way to Van Diemen's Land and Botany Bay, the sailors staggering in and out of the bordellos. It was a far cry from where I was reared, I can tell you.

‘In the centre of town, there was a hotel, the Grand Hibernian, and one morning as we made our way back there was a notice in the window:
KITCHEN PORTERS
REQUIRED. ACCOMMODATION PROVIDED
. It had been six months since I joined the troupe and, while the others seemed to consider the way of life reasonably agreeable, or at least not as hard as it would be otherwise, I found it humiliating in the extreme. As far as I was concerned we were not performers, we were exhibits, curiosities, figures of fun for novelty-seekers. It was
infra dignitatem
. (Though I never said as much to the others, it was their bread and butter, after all.) A few days later I presented myself at the head porter's office and offered my services. He was surprised, to put it mildly, but all credit to the man, he set that aside and asked me all the questions he would have put to anyone. “Well, I can see you're strong,” says he at last, “but I'm afraid we wouldn't have a bed to fit you.” I replied: “Just give me a bit of floor,” and that was that.'

(He paused to direct a quizzical stare at Fitzmaurice, who, seated closest to the fire, was having difficulty suppressing his yawns.)

‘The Grand Hibernian was founded by linen traders confident of a prosperous future for their rapidly-growing town, and was built on a lavish scale – mosaics, marble pillars, chandeliers, the lot. Most importantly, from my point of view, the ceilings were high, even in the kitchens, which were in the basement. It was a busy world below stairs, and the labour was hard: unloading fruit and vegetables at all hours, ferrying sides of meat, hauling barrels. The hotel had a reputation for food, and the dining room, which was vast, was always full, thanks to the talents of the head chef, a Frenchman by the name of Jean-Claude. His parents, fleeing the cold kiss of the guillotine in seventeen ninety-four, had taken him to London, where he was expensively schooled. Thereafter, shunning a career in banking, he had dedicated himself to cooking, working his way through the kitchens of lowly inns and taverns to become second-in-charge at Brown's of Mayfair, from where he was lured to Belfast by the Hibernian's owners. He was a Catholic, but a French one so that didn't matter. He was also a genius. Pure and simple. And so far ahead of his time that...'

The giant succumbed to another short, beard-stroking reverie.

‘Sorry, I was just remembering the fragrant little shell-shaped cakes he used to make… so delicate. Where was I? Ah yes. That winter there was an outbreak of influenza and half the hotel's staff were out. One morning, I was hanging beef in the cold room and Jean-Claude called for me. He had noticed I had an interest in the goings-on of the kitchen. Did I know anything about baking? Could I make a loaf of bread? Well, I rolled up my sleeves and started kneading, and in an hour six perfect loaves, if I say so myself, were cooling on the rack. He was impressed. “Le grand homme a les mains d'un ange,” he said, slapping me on the back. I spent the rest of the week at his side and when one of the under-cooks failed to rise from his sick-bed, I took his place.

‘I don't need to tell you that my life after that was transformed, but for the first time in a good way.' McNeill held his hands in the air. ‘I was apprenticed to a great craftsman, to someone with sublime vision and uncommon talent, and I dedicated myself to learning everything I could from him. He had studied and absorbed the writings of his countrymen: La Varenne, Massialot, and the other one, Carême; and he used this knowledge to develop his own cuisine. Under his tutelage I mastered what he referred to as “the mother sauces”: the
béchamel
, the
velouté
, the
espagnole
, the
allemande
– the four fundamental emulsions from which all others come and which, in themselves and by their variants, can elevate any vegetable or victual. This was just one of many revelations. I also learned about the applications of heat and cold, how to extract rich stocks and glazes, how to bake and fill sweet pastries, how to balance opposing flavours, and how to make food look elegant on the plate. The Frenchman was a hard taskmaster, a perfectionist – he wasn't above saying hurtful things — and it was a slow process: I worked night and day for three years, rarely leaving the hotel, but eventually, through practice and close attention, I was sufficiently skilled that he would leave me in charge when he went off on his travels, to London, Paris, Milan, all over Europe, in search of inspiration.

‘Shortly after he returned from a trip to Bilbao, where he had been very excited by the local fondness for elvers, he was adjusting the mother sauces for the first service when, with the words, “Une autre plaquette de beurre dans ça”, he dropped dead, right there on the kitchen floor. He was not a young man, of course, and had become very portly and afflicted with gout, but nevertheless, it was a terrible shock to everyone. His funeral brought the town to a halt, the streets lined with distraught traders weeping and waving linen napkins. Or so I'm told. I stayed away. I was afraid my attendance might cause a fracas. But the rest of the kitchen staff, all wearing black aprons, marched at the head of the cortège. I believe it was quite a spectacle.' The giant sighed. He sat forward. ‘Do you know, I think if I'm to finish my story I'll need refreshment. Walter, would you mind having a look in that dresser?'

Crozier located a terracotta flask, poured its contents into five cups and handed them round, (having first to nudge Fitzmaurice, who had nodded off). He gave the largest to McNeill who, even when seated, was taller than him.

‘Ah, that's better.
O, for a beaker full
of the warm South,
eh? To your health.' The giant drank deeply and gestured for a refill.

‘So, there I was, barely twenty, and in charge of the finest kitchen in Belfast. Business was good. The town was thriving, despite the occasional donnybrook between Protestants and Catholics. It had a theatre, a railway, botanical gardens, its own newspaper. People were flocking from all over to work in its mills and factories. The merchants had money to spend, and where better than in the dining room of the Hibernian? We had the best meat and fish and an unrivalled wine cellar, and there was always something new to delight the palate.

‘One evening past closing time, I was preparing dough for the following day when one of the boys appeared, sent to request my presence in the dining room. This was a rare occurrence and one that I would otherwise fend off with pleas of exhaustion or modesty, but this time, knowing there could be few remaining there, I went up. In fact, only one table was still occupied, and by a solitary drinker, his party having said goodnight. He was a large man in a white shirt and dark waistcoat, high of forehead and florid of complexion, and with a brightness to his eye that hinted of the outdoor life. He looked me up and down, then addressed me.

“Are you the man responsible for the food?'

There was a sharpness to his tone and my mind began racing back through the evening's service. Had something slipped through? Had I missed something?

“I am, sir,” I replied. “I trust all was satisfactory?”

He regarded me a while longer, and I must admit I had no clue as to what he was thinking, though I noted that he seemed to sway a little in his chair.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I am a little taken aback by your…”

“Height?” says I.

“Youth,” says he. “I had expected someone more experienced in charge of a kitchen of this quality. It has quite a reputation.”

“I hope you weren't disappointed,” I said, still braced for criticism.

“On the contrary,” he replied, smiling at my nervousness. “I have to tell you, I am a well-travelled man and have dined with princes, potentates and panjandrums of all description, but what I ate at this table tonight knocked every one of those dinners into a cocked hat. It was, beyond a doubt,” his words were somewhat slurred, “the finest meal I have ever eaten.” And with that, his head hit the table with a bang, and he passed out, dead drunk.

‘That, my friends, was my introduction to Sir Hamilton Coote: gourmand, explorer, naturalist, scholar, mercenary, veteran of wars in Zululand and Burma, and owner, twelfth generation, of one of the finest estates in County Tipperary. A restless man (a razor without a strop, one might say), he had led expeditions to the Amazon to gather specimens of birds and insects (he discovered an unknown species of waterproof butterfly), to Mexico, in search of the Lost City of Gold (its name, unfortunately, remained unchanged), and to China where, disguised as a coolie, he spent two years attempting to steal tea plants for the East India Company.

‘He had come to Belfast to check on the progress of a ship he was having built to replace his previous vessel, which had caught fire off the coast of Malabar, and while in town he ate at the Hibernian every evening. On his last night he called for me again. “I have a proposal for you,” he said. “I've made no secret of my admiration for your food, and I would pay handsomely to have ready access to it. At present my house is without a cook.”

‘I knew what he was about to say and my head swam. I had little need of money – most of what I earned I sent to my family to help with the farm – but I was intrigued by this impulsive man and the aura of adventure and possibility that surrounded him. I was yet young, and although my employment gave me good satisfaction, my activities beyond the Hibernian's underworld were severely constrained by public curiosity. I felt a pang of guilt at the thought of leaving my co-workers, but it was fleeting. I accepted his offer.'

McNeill sipped his wine, savouring the aftertaste. In his pod of light at the end of the room, the old Inuk stirred; murmured to himself. Fitzmaurice snored gently.

‘Life at Ithaca Hall suited me well,' the giant said. ‘The kitchen might have been better equipped, but it was workable. More importantly, there was a mature vegetable garden, a teeming lake, and copious amounts of game (I later secured my brother a position as a keeper there). The Cootes were extremely sociable and I was kept busy with dinners and shooting parties, but there was also plenty of time for me to fish and hunt. The children of the house, a boy and a girl, had a governess and she was kind enough to help me brush up my education. Over the years, the family had built up a magnificent library and I spent many spare hours there. To commune with other minds, with great writers, in that way, to escape from the prison of the self… it was the greatest revelation of my life: literature, history, poetry, the classics: Homer, Chaucer, Milton, Shakespeare; I devoured them all.

‘Meanwhile, Sir Hamilton's new ship, the
Antaeus
, a three-masted schooner of some four hundred tons, was nearing completion, and he was planning her maiden voyage. Would I, he wondered, consider accompanying him as ship's cook? He understood that, given the cramped circumstances of life at sea, this would be no light undertaking, but if I agreed, he would order modifications – opening up the galley, for instance – to make me as comfortable as possible. He valued my culinary skills but he had also come to regard me as a friend. It was a chance to see the world. How could I refuse?

‘Our first expedition, under the auspices of the Royal Society, was to the banks of the River Nile where, with the assistance of a well-known scholar, Coote was to carry out a survey of the Valley of the Kings. It was a difficult voyage. A couple of days in, the second mate fell overboard and drowned, we had a skirmish with privateers, and a whirlwind near the Pillars of Hercules nearly sank us. Cooking for fourteen people in a galley no wider than a broom cupboard, sieving the flour for maggots and mouse droppings, was challenging, and more than once I regretted my decision. But, as time went on, I adjusted to the routine and became used to the moods and rhythms of the sea.

‘After ten months in an encampment in the Theban hills, where we endured intense heat, sandstorms, and dysentery – and I became an expert in goat charcuterie – we retraced our steps and set sail for home. Our expedition had taken two years. The survey had been a success.
Topography of the Tombs
was published the following spring and hailed as a milestone in the study of Egyptology.'

The giant set down his cup and, with effort, stretched out his legs.

‘Central Africa was our next destination. A grand palm house was planned for the National Botanical Gardens in Dublin and Sir Hamilton was engaged, via a relative on the board, to travel to the rainforest and bring back plants to put in it. After a slow voyage – the best part of a year – we arrived at Bagamoyo on the east coast, near Zanzibar, assembled our equipment, hired bearers, and began the perilous journey into the interior. There were many adventures along the way, far too many to detail here,' he paused, ‘but for one, which I'll sketch briefly.

‘We were deep in the forest, searching for a carnivorous plant to complete our collection, when we came suddenly into a clearing at the centre of which was a brackish pool. To our utter amazement, gathered around the edge of it, filling their water-gourds and chattering among themselves, was a group of tiny dark-skinned men, not one of them more than three feet high. It was an extraordinary sight. But only momentary. One of our party stumbled over a log and alerted them and quick as a flash they disappeared among the trees. Coote sent two bearers in pursuit and they returned with one of the little fellows wriggling and yelling between them. He was completely naked but for a girdle of leaves around his middle, and impressively muscled despite his diminutive stature – it was all they could do to hold on to him. The poor creature was beside himself with terror, especially when he saw me, but Coote was delighted and resolved to take him home and donate him to science, saying we had “plucked something marvellous out of the mists of legend”. Our captive was trussed and slung from a pole and, despite my personal misgivings, in that manner accompanied us on our journey.

‘Or part of it. His friends had other ideas, although it was several days before we realised, so stealthy and invisible were their ways. Traps and snares, indistinguishable from natural hazards, hampered our progress out of the forest; two members of the party became lame from stings and punctures in their flesh; strange noises in the night spread unease among the bearers. At last we ran into an ambush, though we could not see our attackers: a rain of tiny arrows, shower after shower, like swarms of hornets until, in fear of our lives, we scattered in disarray. When we regrouped, our captive and his rescuers had vanished like steam off the river. We had not sight nor sign of them again.'

The giant sat up and looked at each of his audience in turn.

‘Which brings me to the story of how
I
came to disappear.'

He motioned to Crozier, who went around again with the flagon. Rafferty, who was nearest to the fuel, tossed another lump of turf onto the fire, which seethed and flamed with a bubbling sound. Fitzmaurice mumbled in his sleep.

‘Coote was much intrigued,' McNeill continued, ‘as were many others in those days, by the fate of the explorer Sir John Franklin, who went missing, along with his two ships and one hundred and thirty men, in the Arctic Archipelago in eighteen forty-five. Although there were a number of search expeditions (spurred largely by the prospect of a handsome reward) only a few clues materialised. Coote wasn't satisfied. He decided to join the hunt himself. At great expense he had the
Antaeus
reinforced, insulated, and fitted with steam boilers, and assembled a crew of a dozen hardy men. I was in two minds myself – our previous outings had put us squarely in the face of mortal danger, but this… this seemed particularly foolhardy. Eventually, however, I was persuaded.

‘The voyage was arduous, I need hardly tell you, and we made slow headway following Franklin's route, passing several months at various junctures trapped in the ice. When we rounded Somerset Island we found Peel Sound locked solid. Utterly impassable. But rather than abandon the expedition, Coote proposed that we should instead navigate south through the Gulf of Boothia and cross the peninsula towards King William Island, Franklin's last known whereabouts, on foot. This plan did not go down well with the men, but Coote was adamant.

‘The Gulf proved hazardous, and we couldn't even get near the coast, so extensive was the ice. Finally, we were nipped again and it seemed all was lost. Food was running low and even the seals had become scarce. One day, while out hunting on the pack, the mist cleared and the men had sight of an island –
this island
– not marked on any of our charts. Coote organised a party, including myself, and we took the jollyboats and a team of dogs and, after some difficulty, found a landing place. The island was abundant in game and we returned with a bagful of ducks and hares that went some way to restoring morale.

‘With the ship stuck fast we had plenty of time to divert ourselves and soon returned to the island. Venturing up into the hills one morning to get a better sense of the landscape, Coote and myself came across a caribou, a lone male, grazing among the rocks. He bolted and the dogs set off in wild pursuit with us trailing behind, trying to load our muskets as we ran.

‘The chase took us across a series of little peaks and higher, into the mountains proper. I wanted to give up and let the dogs take their chances but Coote was very attached to one hound in particular, whom he had named Rex, and refused to turn back. We pressed on, following the sound of baying, further into the range for an hour or more until at last our way became blocked by a wide wall of rock. We could still hear the dogs but only faintly and could not tell the direction.

‘What happened next, neither of us really knew. There was a cracking beneath our feet that we strained for a moment to make sense of, then the ground gave way and we found ourselves hurtling, as if on a chute, for some distance into the earth. When we came to, we were in complete darkness. As we began to despair, we saw a burning torch in the distance, and to our amazement a group of Eskimos appeared before us. I think it's fair to say they were even more amazed, but they helped us through the mountain and brought us,' he gestured with out-turned palms, ‘to this place.' He picked up his cup and drank, then peered into it, swirling the lees.

‘The first thing you notice is the air, the warm breeze, then the green, so vivid after the eternity of white. And the trees…' He looked up, his eyes shining in the half-light. ‘They had never seen an outsider, but they took us in nonetheless and tended to our wounds and fed us, and we stayed for several days. We had no words, but communicated well enough through signs and by drawing in the earth with sticks.

‘In the following months Coote and I made a number of visits, bringing goods from the ship – axes and pocket knives, sugar, tobacco, a spyglass – in return for fresh fruit and meat. It was strange, after a while I began to notice that when I was there I no longer suffered from the ailments — the headaches, the pains in my limbs — that had plagued me all my life. I couldn't explain it. I also became enamoured of a young lady named Pinga whose eyes bewitched me from the moment I saw her.

‘When the ice that gripped our ship finally began to loosen, it became clear to me that I could go no further. What was there to go back for, anyway? To be followed through the streets by laughing idiots? To end my days as an object of curiosity? A freak of nature? I took Coote aside and we talked for a long time. He used all his arguments to dissuade me but they simply stiffened my resolve. He wept most piteously. At last he accepted my wishes. We agreed that I would stay and that the existence of the valley would be kept a secret, to prevent others coming in search of it. He would record my death in the ship's log and this would mark the beginning of my new life. My rebirth. He was a true friend.'