‘Top him before we see the white cliffs,’ said a voice that Cornelius recognised as belonging to the carbuncled sailor.
‘Hit him over the head with an empty bailer.’
Jester, I’ve warned you before! You spoil everything.
‘This is fascinating. Jim Hawkins in the apple barrel on the Hispaniola listened to talk of mutiny. Of course there is a fine line between homage à Stevenson, pastiche, parody and plagiarism … ’
‘It’s all shite if you ask me … ’
No one is asking you, Bastard. There is a story to be told. Back off!
The men were arguing among themselves.
‘Throw him overboard with his fornicating nuns.’
‘Leave the nuns. The crew will want their new loyalty rewarded.’
‘I could do with a good nun now … but I’m still poxed from that Amsterdam whorehouse.’
‘Stick his head down a cannon and roger him with the powder lance.’
‘Hang his arse from the nest and let the gulls peck his eyes out.’
‘Drag him under the boat, let the barnacles shave his face.’
The men’s spirits picked up as they concocted incrementally more lugubrious punishments for the Leader. Eventually they hauled themselves back to their feet, spat in the barrel and wandered off to resume whatever duties they had temporarily abandoned. Cornelius waited until he could hear them no more, stuffed the remaining apples into his jerkin, wiped the spittle from his face and climbed out of his hiding place.
His companions were pleased to see him return. ‘Thought you’d been tempted into the deep by one of those sirens,’ said Johannes.
‘Or were shagging a mermaid,’ contributed Balthasar. ‘Slippery creatures, mermaids.’
‘What would Geertje say if I went home with a mermaid?’
‘She could get a little one in the pot, invite the village round. Use her scales for pearls.’
‘Anyway you’d stink of fish,’ said Balthasar, between bites of his apple.
Grinning, the men applied themselves once more to untangling the ropes. It was Cornelius who was the first to notice Ulriche standing stock-still and pointing towards the sea.
FORTY-TWO
A distant freight train rumbled somewhere in the distance. Normally the sound comforted John. As a child during the time of his incarceration he would hide under the false security of the blankets and listen to a faraway locomotive struggling over the moor. He associated the sound with escape, the possibility of travelling far away from his then life. He would project himself into the cab, having befriended the driver who, in contravention of all railway protocol, had helped him aboard. The few illuminated metres of track quickly converged to an apex that was sucked inexorably into the night as the train hurtled into unknown lands.
At other times like his hero Jan from Ian Serraillier’s The Silver Sword, he would position himself under a goods wagon between the screaming axles, frozen rigid, a human icicle destined to thaw in a better place. Tonight the sound of the distant train offered no respite or comfort. In any case it had gone now; all he could hear was the blood coursing through his temples.
He leaned out of bed fumbling for the light switch. As he stretched, his cheek came to rest on the bedside table inches away from the Good News Bible. It hadn’t been there before. Some Holy Joe must have sneaked into his unlocked room. It was in ugly leather binding with the texture of old skin. He had no time for either Testament. The Bible featured as an intrusive prop in the dimly remembered tableau of abuse and misery that sometimes played in his head, a symbol of power, chastisement and spurious justification for a raft of sins. As he fingered the silver-painted edge he knew what was coming.
‘Ah, the, Bible, John … Well now, what a discovery!’ The Bastard slapped his own head as the enormity of the connection dawned on him. ‘You ARE Bible John. You murdered those women in Glasgow, didn’t you?
John was stunned, completely unprepared for this new line of attack. If he lay there and waited patiently perhaps one of the other less malignant Voices would intervene or at least distract the Bastard. Where were they?
‘Followed them home from the bingo, lured them up an alley, all the while savouring the delicious smell of perfume and fear. The twist of the knife, their final breath, a prolonged letting go, a surrender, tainted with peppermint to hide the fags.’
Where were the other Voices?
‘An impressive lineage, Jack of course, the Master, then Neilson, Myra Hindley, Fred West, and now, you!’
‘Could be a sign … ’ Rarely had the Tempter put in a more welcome appearance. ‘You know, things written in the Bible and all that. What do you think? Worth a try?’
Powerless to resist, although he did so with a sinking heart, John half sat up in bed and, opening the Bible at random, stabbed his finger at a page.
‘And they said everyone to his fellow. Come, let us cast lots, that we may know for whose cause this evil is upon us. So they cast lots, and the lot fell on Jonah.’
‘Oh well,’ said the Tempter.
‘Told you, told you!’ screeched the Bastard. ‘Evil, pure evil!’
‘A classic oxymoron,’ chipped in the Academic, who was not normally available for comment during the night.
‘Keep reading, keep reading, there’s still a chance,’ prompted the Tempter.
‘So they took up Jonah, and cast him forth into the sea: and the sea ceased from her raging.
‘Then the men feared the Lord exceedingly, and offered a sacrifice unto the Lord, and made vows.
‘Now the Lord had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah. And Jonah was in the belly of the fish three days and three nights.’
‘Count your blessings, you could be eaten by a bloody great whale,’ smirked the Bastard triumphantly. ‘Yes, life’s looking up isn’t it, John?’
‘Hang on a minute,’ interrupted the Academic, gradually warming to the topic in hand. ‘Herman Melville quotes Bishop Jebb who suggested that Jonah merely lodged temporarily in some part of the whale’s mouth which, if I remember correctly, he said was big enough to accommodate a couple of whist tables. He also cites a German exegetic who believed that Jonah must have taken refuge in the floating body of a dead whale just as the French soldiers during the Russian campaign turned their dead horses into tents.’
‘A bit like living here,’ commented the Jester.
For some reason the Voices started mumbling and then faded altogether, leaving John alone. He switched off the light, turned to face the opposite wall and tried to sleep, considering the implications of living in a whale’s belly. At least it would be warm and he might feel safely cocooned. There might be something exhilarating about the motion of the whale as it dived through the raging sea. A child on his first roller coaster, aware of his stomach and unusual physical sensations for the first time, something akin to a prematurely early sexual wakening at the hands of the Commandant. The whale’s belly became a prison with hot, pulsating walls. It was pitch dark and stank of rottenness.
FORTY-THREE
The sea assumed a brown hue that for Johannes evoked the ploughed fields of home with seagulls a feature of both. Because of the unusual light they seemed whiter than usual as they flew towards each other, banking away at the last moment. As Johannes leaned over the wooden rail a large gull came within an arm’s length and by flying into the wind moved in exact harmony with the ship.
He had never believed in angels, even in the old days when they poked their wings into every aspect of Church business. Cast in stone and clinging to the pulpit, hanging round the edges of every painted crucifixion, fawning on saints, consoling martyrs pierced by thorns. He had jested to Antonia just before Michel’s birth that he would not welcome any holier-than-thou Gabriel turning up with an announcement. She had tutted and crossed herself at his blasphemy. Johannes had always far preferred the imps and swollen-headed trolls who danced attendance on Beelzebub.
He felt that by reaching out he could grab the angel bi
rd, hang onto its talons and be flown to wherever Michel was being held. Like Icarus, in a way, he wanted to fly close to his son before being consumed by his love for him. Was he in service, servitude or slavery? Had he resisted his persecutors who stripped the clothes off his back and beaten him until he bled? Had he escaped only to sleep in rodent-ridden hedgerows, a prey to every passing beak-faced beggar, avaricious mounte-bank and snivelling charlatan?
As Cornelius stared at the brown sea he tried to work out which combinations of dyes would best capture the exact colour of the waves. Ochre for certain, a pinch of sulphur, and if he could lay his hands on them perhaps sea urchin hearts and cuttle fish. He would make a secret batch and then surprise Geertje with the sheer beauty of the coat he would weave for her. She would be grateful, put her finger to her lips and lead him to the alcove opposite the glowing stove … He sighed, dredged the phlegm from the back of his throat and blew it into the sea.
Balthasar drew the attention of the others to the fact that they were no longer alone. A small flotilla of similar ships was slowly materialising from the heaving waves. As one craft disappeared into a brown trough another was thrown upwards to straddle the adjacent crest. Several of the crew emerged from below decks to point excitedly, waving exaggeratedly as if unfurling sluggish flags for the benefit of acquaintances on the new ships.
‘Victory for the village of Zutphen!’ shouted one of the geuzen though cupped hands into the wind.
‘The wives of Zutphen are whores and sluts!’ came the muffled reply.
Some made to drink out of imaginary tankards while the carbuncled one gripped his breeches and made bucking, taunting gestures signifying his carnal intent once ashore. Balthasar shook his head, pitying whatever Dover wife would soon find herself press-ganged into unwanted close proximity with the suppurating face.
It was Johannes who was the first to notice the whale, a hill of glistening flesh rising from the spume. Water spouted into the air from the front of the beast, shot upwards as if escaping from a rathole in a dyke. At its zenith the spout slowed and opened into petals that fell heavily back into the sea.
By now the others had noticed, and panic spread among the crew. Sailors collided with each other as they ran away from the monster, bigger than the ship, contentedly flicking its tail in their direction. One of the nuns emerged from her captivity and rushed to see what the commotion was before fleeing, screaming back into the sanctuary of the fo’c’sle. She was knocked out of the way by the Leader who was pulling the buckle tight on his belt. ‘The barrel!’ he shouted. Eventually several of his crew moved towards the empty barrel into which Balthasar had fallen earlier. Groaning and cursing they wheeled it towards the edge then hoisted it over into the sea where it bobbed towards the monster.
‘Well blow me down with a feather!’ said the Academic.
‘Particularly nasty weather … ’ retorted the Jester.
I’ll knock you both down with a stick if you interrupt like that again. Apart from anything else you gave me a terrible fright and I’ve lost the thread of what I was trying to say. This is a moment of some tension if I say it myself.
‘But don’t you see? We have changed pictures again. This is word for word, you know what I mean, taken from The Storm at Sea which is also in the Kunsthistorisches museum in Vienna. Brueghel shows how sailors toss a barrel over the edge to placate or otherwise distract the whale that is following them. In 1921 M.J. Friedlander suggested that the artist may have been illustrating a proverb. This notion was subsequently confirmed by L. Burchard who wrote “Fleeing ship, whale and barrel are the three elements which together form an emblem that can be interpreted from the following passage in Zedler’s Universal-Lexikon: If the whale plays with a barrel that has been thrown at him and gives the ship time to escape, then he represents the man who misses his true good for the sake of futile trifles.”’
This has nothing to do with the narrative. You are only concerned with flaunting your own erudition. What you say is of no interest to anyone. Sometimes I think you are worse than the Bastard.
‘Leave me out of this. I haven’t said a thing. There’s actually no need. It is all utterly pointless, hopelessly episodic, lacking structure or interest. In fact, bollocks!’
Eventually, curiosity proved stronger than cowardice, and the crew reappeared in time to see the leviathan flick the barrel into the air with its tail before diving under the ship to the hurrahs and cheers of the geuzen.
The flotilla of small ships which moments earlier had filled the entire horizon on the port side had been smudged out by the stealthily advancing mist.
The Leader started issuing orders with an earnestness that suggested that there were other dangers more substantial to be faced. The weavers were despatched below decks to bring drinking water for the crew. Unwilling to lose face by asking where the water was stored Balthasar led the way into the dark maze of small rooms. A rat scuttled over his foot and skittered into the bowels of the ship. By leaning in and feeling the contents of the first chamber they realised it housed the weapons and powder. Balthasar felt the blade of an axe hanging at waist level. Next to it were ranged cutlasses, rapiers, dirks, muskets and a heap of powder horns nestling like a pyre of small animals.
The musky smell of the next chamber betrayed the presence of the ship’s provisions. As their eyesight adjusted to the darkness they could make out silhouettes that were either hanging sides of salt beef or exhausted torture victims. Cornelius picked up the flat carcass of a dried fish, put it to his nose and threw it down again in disgust. ‘Mother of God!’
They soon located a rack of stoneware flagons, but removing the corks revealed the contents to be vinegar. Sniffing the acrid vapour Balthasar saw the image painted on the old church wall of the soldiers offering vinegar to Christ on Gethsemane. He had always thought that must have been one insult too many, the final spite that made him cry out to his Father in despair.
FORTY-FOUR:
Blindman’s Tale
Mick visibly paled as he moved his hat away from his eyes to better read the price on Tesco’s finest two-litre bottle of cider. ‘Robbing bastards! I really enjoy your scintillating banter. Can’t get a word in once you start … yak, yak … like some old wifey. Pass us yon bottle of Domestos. The lavvy on the stair’s humming. Some clarty bugger doesn’t bother. I think it’s Jack. No house trained. Cleans round the bend. That’ll be for us then. Round the effing bend.’
The next small room was piled to the low ceiling with sacks of cheese and biscuits. Beneath the overwhelming stench, subtler memories could be sniffed; for Balthasar it was the slippery cheese wrapped with bread in the chequered cloth that lay in the shade of the bushes at the edge of the field. For two weeks each summer weavers, bakers and tinkers became harvesters. Lying on the stubble at midday was an art but once positioned correctly the sharp stubs of corn could massage the muscles along the spine. Eating on your back was also an art as the sweat would run into eyes already painful from squinting at the sun.
For Johannes it recalled the shard of disappointment he felt when Michel at the age of four first wrinkled his nose at the cheese on his plate. ‘It smells like sick,’ he protested, pushing the plate aside before feeling the weight of his father’s hand. Thinking back now he realised what his son had meant.
For Cornelius it evoked early bachelor years spent consuming prodigious amounts of weebled cheese, sluiced down with equally startling quantities of beer, both of which were a necessary precursor to bouts of bare knuckle fighting in the inn yard.
The ship rocked as the whale passed underneath. After steadying themselves the three men covered their noses and passed onto the final compartment where the water was stored. After a brief discussion the men repositioned themselves along the dark constricted passageway and passed the flagons from one to the other and then into the unknown hand dangling through the hatch. The rhythm was familiar from scooping mud out of flooded ditches in winter, and flailing the vegetation that threatened to overwhelm t
heir cottages during the late summer months. Eventually the Leader shouted for them to stop.
‘Let’s rest awhile,’ said Cornelius, whose head ached. In full agreement Johannes and Balthasar moved towards him. Cornelius meanwhile was feeling in the dark for the next doorway. When his hands eventually flapped into a void he moved carefully into the space which, he suggested, might be the sail store. They followed him into the chamber and made themselves comfortable on rolled bails of rough textured canvass.
After a shared exhalation of breath they heard an unearthly high-pitched singing. Staring into the dark they realised that someone was coming along the narrow passage.
‘It’s Blindman,’ said Balthasar, who had noticed earlier that the sightless crewman would often stand stock still and emit a whine, as if incanting a psalm in a foreign tongue or lisping angrily at a demon.
‘Weavers, you are shirking?’ he wheedled. ‘You have a choice; you can be broken at sea, or broken on the land. Though blind to the things seen by ordinary men, I hold the sights that no one else could bear. I am the custodian of all wickedness. I have toiled for the Grand Inquisitor, I have burst eyes from their sockets at his behest, I have snapped the heads from children.’
‘In the holy name of Christ!’ shouted Cornelius, moving to within inches of Blindman’s face. ‘Get out of here! Take your poison elsewhere.’
Blindman hummed, as if listening intently to orders from another place.
Johannes grabbed his arm and attempted to force him back along the passage. Blindman stood firm.
‘If you meddle with me then you will hear nothing of your son. You will not see Michel again.’ He rocked on his heels and resumed his unearthly keening.’ Johannes stepped away shocked, unable to absorb what he had heard.
John McPake and the Sea Beggars Page 19
