English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  The wind had been mostly fair and I reckoned we must be almost at Cape Horn by now, or halfway back to Potter’s England, as I supposed must be our destination. There was a pretty thought, and one I hardly could believe. Brew should have seized the vessel seventeen times over by now, in a mighty rush of Manxmen. Why, he could have caused a fine bit of havoc just by doing nothing—which any Manxman can do easier than kicking—as Potter and his three fritlags wouldn’t have been able to sail the Sincerity two yards by themselves. For a while I supposed he must just be biding his time and waiting his moment, but as days passed it grew harder. The Reverend and me were taken on deck every morning and evening for our visit to the heads—Skeggs and Hodges jabbing us on our way with their rifles—and each time I’d throw scrutineering looks at Brew and the rest of them, watching for a Manx wink or two in return. I got hardly a stare. Well, that sort of thing will set a man to thinking, and I often found myself recalling that old Peel saying, Never trust a Brew at the Fair. Or I remembered the little fritlag’s countenance that morning in Melbourne, when he’d been weighing up which would pay him better: to stay aboard in the hope of catching his share or to turn traitor and join those runaway dirts looking for gold. Wouldn’t it just be my luck if that sleetch was looking to drop all the blame on me—just like Potter had coaxed—and had carried the rest of those useless blebs with him.

  A proper lawyer’s feast we’d make, for sure, if Potter got us back to his England, with passengers playing mutineer aboard a smuggling boat, and all those skulls and bones besides. How would that play before some crab of a London judge? On the one side there’d be Dr. Potter, educated Englishman, with his three creatures and a boatload of turncoat Manxmen. On the other there’d be Captain Kewley, proud owner of a smuggling vessel, and his fine friend the gibbering vicar, who was turning more crazed by the hour. All in all I could guess who’d be served up on a plate for a long spell in gaol.

  That sort of thing will work on a man’s mind, and it got so that I was sore tempted to try and make trouble even just by myself, as anything seemed better than just sitting waiting day after day. After a week Potter finally allowed us to have cots to sleep on, rather than just raw floor timbers, and I took a board from mine and had a try at forcing the door. The bolts were strong, though, while the Reverend wouldn’t help, being all in a huff now he’d found out I’d been trading in that certain rum and tobacco (I think he was worried my sinfulness might all rub off on him and catch him dirty looks from his fine friend the deity), and though I tried once and again I couldn’t even force the board through the doorframe to get leverage. Worse, my work left scars on the woodwork that Skeggs noticed. This brought a visit from Potter, who gave me his snurly look and had Christian fix three more bolts to the door. Our cots were taken away, so we had to sleep on floorboards again, which had the Reverend scowling seven times over. That was the end of my escaping for the while, as the door was fast as iron, while Skeggs and Hodges were careful as lawyers when they came with our food, standing well back when they pulled open the door and not coming inside till they’d had a good sight of us both looking harmless.

  So I had the pleasure of Reverend Wilson’s company, and by the weekload. That fellow really was the end. Why, I do believe I’d have forgiven Potter his ship stealing if only he’d been kind enough to fling the old article quietly overboard. The man just wouldn’t stop. There I’d be, having myself a fine old time counting nails in the timbers, or listening to some interesting sound, you know, just to pass the time, when up he’d start again, wittering fit to rob a man of reason. His favourite was praying, and there wasn’t a thing under the sun the old fool wouldn’t pray for, from ‘‘the souls of our persecutors’’ to ‘‘hope in this darkest hour.’’ Worst was when he prayed for me, as he’d make all kinds of little dirty snipes as he did so, saying how he forgave me for running the brandy, and even for my snoring in the night, which I’m sure I never did. There’s few things worse than being forgiven, as you never have a chance of answering back, and if I tried to defend myself he’d just turn all sanity and never-minding. Besides, there were times when I could have done with the odd prayer myself things being how they were, but I never had a chance with him droning away day and night. It was as if he’d hogged God all for himself

  His other delight was to start fights with Hodges and Skeggs. This was pure showiness—not to myself naturally, but to his friend up in heaven—and it drove me distracted. Those four bodies had the guns, and the food, and a curious liking for collecting men’s skulls besides, so the way I saw it there was no great cleverness in troubling them with taunts, but no, Wilson had to have his way. The moment they came through the door he’d be preaching at them with all his charm, telling how they were a pair of low dirts to go following Potter—who was, it seemed, the devil himself come to call—and that they’d burn in hell for sure. Hodges would take it quiet enough, usually, being a dull sort of body, but Skeggs was another pair of oars entirely, and often he’d be tempted to give the Reverend a batting, which wouldn’t have mattered except that I was sure to get a nasty pelt or two myself though it had none of it been my idea. Worse still was when Wilson started playing martyr, which he did generally on Sundays.

  ‘‘Take your filthy food away,’’ he’d declare all snurly, though he needed feeding. ‘‘I have no need of it. My sustenance is of a higher kind.’’

  It was all very well him being the grand hero but that was my food too, and I wanted it. We were never brought that much, while eating was one of the few joys to fill those empty days. At least he could have asked me before starting up, but no, not him: why should he consult a mere ship’s captain when he had divinity cheering him on. I’d have a try at saving my ration, perhaps making a little joke, calling out, ‘‘As for me, my sustenance is ordinary as seawater,’’ but it never worked. Skeggs would just have himself a good laugh.

  ‘‘Just as you like, Reverend.’’ Then he’d take himself a great mouthful of my dinner and offer some more to Hodges.

  All in all it was getting so I almost hoped we’d sink, as that would be better than watch Potter smirking in some Englishmen’s courtroom as I was led away to gaol. By the looks of it we might be doing just that, too, if the weather had its way. All night waves had been hammering at the stern loud as cannon, and the ship was rolling and pitching wilder than the horse that’s trod on the snake’s tail. That would fit with what I’d heard of Cape Horn, for sure. If it got worse then, with so few crew aboard, anything was possible.

  I’d supposed our gaolers might give our morning visit a miss in such weather but no, there they were just as usual, with our feast of hard beef and old ship’s biscuit, and a shrivelled lime besides, all of it flavoured nicely by the dousing of seawater it had had on the way. After we’d finished we were nudged up the stairway for our visit to the heads. This was a proper bit of weather, for sure. One step onto the deck and I was soaked by the spray, while there was a sea roaring over the prow so big that it looked almost as if the ship was playing porpoise and diving down to put a sight on the ocean bed. Our poor Englishmen weren’t liking it one little bit. Up on the quarterdeck Potter looked pale as death, and had his arms round the mizzen shrouds as if they weren’t ropes but his dear lost ma. As I watched, a great roar of sea came rushing over the stern, knocking him onto his knees. For all that he still had a firm grip on that revolving pistol of his. Hooper must’ve been waiting to put a sight on us, as the moment the water started emptying into the scuppers he took his chance and skulked away below.

  More curious to my eyes than the Englishmen, though, was the crew. For one, there was Jamys Kinred, the body at the wheel, and lashed to it too, to stop the seas from carrying him away. Now, Kinred was a decent enough seaman, no mistaking, but he was no giant. If it’d been me giving orders I’d have had China Clucas at the helm in a drop of weather like this. China wasn’t far off, as it happened, being up above, repairing the mizzen ratlines. Well, wasn’t that just another fine little mystery? Repairin
g ratlines is a handy enough sort of chore but it’s a fair-weather job and shouldn’t be troubled with in hurricanes. Why, to my eye they didn’t even look as if they needed fixing. Brew was just below, and d’you know, this time he did throw me a wink. That was enough to get me watchful. It seemed I’d got the little fellow all wrong. He must’ve just been waiting for a good dose of dirty weather.

  Skeggs didn’t usually bother himself to shepherd the Reverend and myself forwards, leaving Hodges to do the work while he kept an eye, while today, the wet being so bad, he crept back into the stairway. The truth was it seemed hardly needful to fight our way to the head to piss and shit into the ocean, when the ocean was coming to us. Just as we started on our way the ship plunged down clean into a departing wave, and a rush of water all but vanished the heads from sight. That was enough to start the Reverend whining.

  ‘‘You can’t expect me to go up there,’’ he moaned at Hodges.

  I could have knocked him down, so I could. It hadn’t escaped my notice, you see, that, despite all the wild dousings he was catching, Chalse Christian the carpenter was stood just behind the heads, where he was fiddling away tightening one of the jib guy ropes, though it looked right as rain to me. Fortunately Hodges just gave Wilson a sharp nudge with his gun, and so we staggered on, stopping to grab the rail and taste some ocean as another wave broke from behind. We were just arrived, and Hodges was standing back to let me open the door, when Christian took a belaying pin from his belt, and caught him the tidiest little knock on his head. I didn’t need telling what to do next. Christian jumped on him, and I jumped on him too, and we both tried to get a catch on his gun. Not that our problem was Hodges—who was hardly your fighter—but the next wave, being a proper monster, which struck the vessel so hard that we were all knocked sprawling.

  That was when the Reverend started up. ‘‘Hurrah!’’ he yelled, loud as his little nasty piping voice would go. ‘‘Hurrah, hurrah! Praise be to God!’’

  Now, there are times for hurrahing, I dare say, and this was not one of them. Glancing aft, I saw our friend Dr. Potter darting a look at our little mess, and then taking a look upwards. What did he see there but China Clucas, just getting ready to fling a belaying pin at his own sweet skull? A handy sort of look that was, too, as it let Potter dodge clean out of the way, so the pin brained nothing but deck timbers. Potter made a lunge back to the rail before the next sea came, and though Brew’s belaying pin knocked him in the shoulder, he didn’t lose hold of his revolving pistol, which he fired off at the sky, scaring Brew back. Here was trouble.

  ‘‘Hurrah, hurrah!’’ shouted the Reverend.

  I’d have hurrahed him myself if I’d not had better things to do. I made a lunge for Hodges’ gun. By the time I’d got hold of it and turned about there was a fine proper battle raging. Skeggs had poked his head out from the stairway, only to find himself in a tussle with Tom Karran over his rifle. Meantime Potter was gripping the rail and pointing his pistol at anyone and everyone, his aim looking mighty wild, as the Sincerity bucked and rolled over the waves. There were four stood facing him, including Brew and China, and even that old fool Rob Quayle, the cook, all waiting their chance, and I reckoned if he didn’t dare fire off a shot it was only for fear that if he hit one, the others would have him.

  I might be able to give them a little help. I swung Hodges’ rifle round till I had the good doctor nicely lined up in the sights, and I pulled the trigger. Now, it must have been loaded for sure, as otherwise what was the point in Hodges carrying it about night and day? D’you know, though, all I heard was a little click. I could only think it had suffered from getting drenched. There was a fine rotten piece of cheating. Day and night your Englishmen go boasting about how clever they are with their steel and railways and ships that they’re saying the whole world wants to have, and now it turned out their rifles couldn’t even take a little wet. Did they expect everyone to go fighting Russians and hunting tigers only in fine sunny weather? Truly, it was a miracle to me how they’d ever managed to conquer half the world like they had.

  As it happened, that was the end of our little war. In a moment Hooper had darted up from wherever he’d been skulking below and gave Tom Karran a nasty crack on the head with the fat end of his rifle, which in turn ended Skeggs’s troubles, and all of a sudden where there had been only one Englishman pointing his gun there were three, which was a power too many. Brew, China and the rest sort of slumped and started backing away. Nor could I blame them. Next Hodges was pulling himself up from the deck and grabbing back his useless weight of rifle, which he used to give me a good jab in the ribs, just to show his thanks. There was a rotten, dirty sort of moment. Nor was it helped any when the Reverend gave me his mad, snurly look.

  ‘‘If only you had prayed forgiveness for your sins, Captain, as I have many times urged, don’t you think matters might have turned out rather differently?’’

  Dr. Thomas Potter

  APRIL 1858

  The Destiny of Nations

  Chapter 4: On the Future Fate of the Races of Men (correction)

  The Celtic Type, like the Black and Norman Types, is fated to become wholly extinguished during the Great Conflagration of Nations. The Celt may try to beguile all with his idle, servile manner, but the stolid Saxon will not be deceived. He will recognize the dominating characteristics that lie beneath that foolish smile: the cunning, the deceit and, above all, the delight in unprovoked and malevolent violence. The Celt lacks even the simplest faculty of reason, and this omission alone shall cause him to perish. The Saxon, provoked ever and again by acts of belligerence and trickery, will reach the limit of his mighty patience, and slap away his foe like some troublesome fly. Thus will the Celt himself be the cause of his own complete and utter destruction, till hardly one will remain upon this earth.…

  New Rules to govern the ship Sincerity: Manxmen

  For the prevention of further acts of violent mutiny upon the members of the Force of Command, the following rules will henceforth apply. All rules shall be rigidly enforced.

  Rule One

  No repairs to the vessel shall henceforth be permitted, from scrubbing the deck to tarring the spars, as it has been observed such work is merely a means to conceal intended attacks upon members of the Force of Command. The only exception shall be daily use of the pumps, while those working these shall always be lashed to their places.

  Rule Two

  The mizzen mast is no longer to be worked by crew under any circumstance. Mizzen sails are to remain permanently furled.

  Rule Three

  Manxmen shall not be permitted on quarterdeck under any circumstances except the following:

  i. The crewman taking the helm (who will be lashed to the wheel).

  ii. The acting chief mate (who will be lashed to the mizzen mast).

  Note: Any violation of this rule will be met with harshest punishment.

  Rule Four

  All crew except the tillerman and the acting chief mate shall henceforth remain locked in fo’c’sle except when Dr. Potter agrees that they are required on deck to work the ship.

  Rule Five

  Prisoners held below shall henceforth be permanently shackled to their places. Chamber pots will be provided.

  Rule Six

  The use of the Manx language is banned at all times. Any infringements of this rule shall be regarded as intended mutiny.

  Note: Any violation of this rule will be met with harshest punishment.

  New Rules to govern ship Sincerity: Members of the Force of Command

  Rule One

  All members of the Force of Command must carry loaded guns at all times.

  Rule Two

  At least two members of the Force of Command are to be present upon quarterdeck at all times of day and night (see new system of watches).

  Rule Three

  All four members of the Force of Command must be present on deck whenever the Manx crew are at work aloft (tacking, taking in sail etc. etc.) and must rema
in throughout such operations.

  24th April

  Self locked all crew in quarters, but then obliged release they, as storm growing worse (fore topsail and main topgallant both burst). Selves kept watch v. carefully with rifles ready.

  25th April

  Weather finally calmer. Hooper proposed selves should throw Brew + Kinvig overboard as ringleaders. V. tempting. However, self decided would be dangerous re own circumstances when (if) reach England. Also require they re working of ship. But permitted Hooper give both thorough lashing with all other Manxmen assembled to watch (Hooper made own lash from ship’s stores: v. effective). Afterwards sent Brew below with Kewley + Wilson. Had carpenter Christian thoroughly shackle all three to floor timbers to prevent further trouble.

  Afterwards self fortified quarterdeck with barricade of crates, ballast etc. etc. Also made use of old cannon from prow. No rounds for this aboard but took gunpowder from rifle cartridges + wrapped in paper to make explosive packet, then made second packet of loose bullets, small stones from ballast etc. etc. Assembled Manxmen on deck for demonstration. Self concerned if had guessed quantities correctly but in event went v. well. Hooper lit fuse (string dipped in oil + little gunpowder), then all watched as cannon roared + fired mighty spray of shot out across the sea. Manxmen pleasingly awed. Self then reloaded + set weapon atop barricade so surveys main deck. Lamp to be kept burning in sheltered part of barricade at all times.