The Coming of the Whirlpool

by Andrew McGahan

  But this offhand air was deceptive, Dow soon saw. The man’s gaze, seemingly indifferent, actually moved continually about the ship, missing nothing. And although he gave no verbal orders, all the other officers were careful to glance back to him from time to time (with the exception of the young lieutenant, who was still busily yelling over the rail); and should he nod minimally, or shrug, crewmen would immediately hurry off to this task or that.

  ‘No peacock, that one,’ Nathaniel observed. ‘He’s a true seaman, and as well known here in Stone Port as his ship. Captain Vincente of the Shinbone is what they call him. Aye,’ he added, catching the look in Dow’s eye, ‘they have strange names, these Ship Kings. And strange ways too. But the tale goes that Chloe was the name of his wife, and that she died untimely, and that when he earned command of his own vessel he changed its name to hers. And even his own folk think that peculiar, for a lass is not the same thing as a battleship.’

  As Dow watched, the dour little commander strolled to the dockside rail, as if from idle curiosity, to oversee the final moments of berthing. Captain Vincente of the Shinbone. A strange name indeed . . .

  But then everything about the Ship Kings was strange – Dow knew so little about them. All he had to go on were the tales of his childhood; stories of how their mariners roved the seas for years on end, returning to their homeland only to repair their vessels, and how that homeland was the greatest of the Four Isles and was known as The Kingdoms, and reigning there were eleven kings over eleven realms, each enemies of old, but now all allied under the one Sea Lord, who ruled the world and lived on a giant ship which never saw land.

  But was any of that real? As he’d grown older, Dow had come to suspect that most such stories were merely fables and fancies, told to entertain. But now it suddenly struck him – whatever the truth of the stories, the Ship Kings themselves were a fact. Here was an actual ship and an actual crew, not described in some tale, not merely glimpsed from a headland, but up close, in brute strength and in coarse flesh and blood, with cannons deployed. It brought home to him as never before something he’d always known but never quite grasped: a foreign power ruled over his land, an alien people, and they did so by force.

  The great warship was finally alongside the dock. Dow watched in thoughtful silence as mooring ropes were made fast, a gangway was lowered and the governor’s party from the town were welcomed aboard.

  His attention was called away then, for the fish merchants had returned to their stalls and the day’s catch had to be unloaded. When that was done, Dow remembered the girl he’d seen. He turned to study the Chloe once more in hope of sighting her, but she was nowhere on deck, and her face was in no window. By then the ship’s officers and their guests had all vanished below and only the common sailors remained, working on the main deck or tramping down the gangway to mix with the crowd that still milled about upon the wharf.

  Nathaniel climbed back into the boat. ‘Time we were away, boy. Quickly now. Your gawking can wait for another day.’

  Dow glanced at the old man in irritation. It wasn’t gawking. The great ship was important and it was only right that he should study it closely. (And never mind that he’d actually been looking for the girl.) But restraining his temper, he took up the oars and rowed the Maelstrom back across the harbour, his gaze lingering on the Chloe until they passed through the gate.

  Out in the channel they quickly raised sail. The evening was deepening now and a keener wind was blowing. Gazing across the Rip and out to the ocean, Dow could see white-capped waves rearing in restless lines. Having now beheld a ship at first hand, and seen mariners fresh from a long voyage, the ache rose in him so acutely that he could no longer hold his tongue.

  He turned to Nathaniel. ‘When will we fish in the sea?’

  The old man stirred at the tiller, gave him a warning look. ‘No one fishes the sea anymore. No one from Stromner, anyway.’

  ‘The other men don’t, I know. But I thought you . . .’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Nathaniel’s stare sharpened further still. ‘What did you, in all your grand wisdom, deign to think about me?’

  Dow swallowed, not knowing how to say it, but knowing he must. ‘I thought you weren’t like them. I thought you weren’t afraid.’

  ‘Afraid!’ The fisherman gave the tiller a savage twist and the boat broached; the boom slammed across in the wind and Dow went sprawling to avoid it. He struggled to his knees, but Nathaniel wrenched the rudder again and the boat canted hard the other way, near on capsizing. Dow fell headlong against the gunnels. Only then did the old man set the boat right. Through both upheavals he had ridden easily at the tiller. ‘Afraid!’ he repeated scornfully, as Dow gathered himself up. ‘One summer of fair weather fishing on the Claw and you think you know what sailing is? You think you’re a match for the sea?’

  Dow could feel that his scalp was split and that blood was trickling through his hair, but he refused to raise a hand to touch it. He did his best to meet Nathaniel’s gaze, and the derision burning there.

  ‘Fool,’ the old man pronounced. ‘What do you know of waves or wind? Why, take you a mile beyond the Heads and you’d be wailing for your mother, once you saw true ocean swells. There’s no escape out there, no retreat. The currents would drag you beyond sight of shore before you knew it, and without landmarks or soundings you would never find your way home.’

  Dow held to his wavering courage. ‘The Ship Kings find a way.’

  ‘Aye, but you’re an even greater fool if you take comfort in that. The Ship Kings share their secrets with no one. Whatever the art of navigating the deep ocean might be, it’s long since lost to us New Islanders.’

  ‘But there was a time that you fished the sea, even so.’

  ‘Never beyond sight of land.’

  ‘And yet you went. You and all the men of Stromner. Before you became too frightened. Before the day of the maelstrom.’

  ‘Wretched boy!’ cried the old man, stung to fury. ‘I alone have braved the wrath of the great whirlpool, no one else. You do not dare accuse me so. I fear nothing in the ocean, not even death.’

  ‘Then why won’t you take me beyond the Heads?’ Dow pleaded, in one last attempt. ‘It’s true that I know nothing of the sea, as you say. But how will I learn, if I’m never allowed to go there?’

  To which Nathaniel responded in cold disdain, ‘You don’t deserve to learn. Others may think you are somehow fated to save our village, or to right the wrongs done to me ten years before now – but I do not. There’s no great destiny in you, boy. You’re naught but a spoiled child who hadn’t the stomach to live out the life appointed you. The fools of Stromner took you in, and aye, I gave my word to teach you the fishing life – but I said nothing of the sea. You are not worthy of the sea. I will never take you there. Do you understand? Not ever!’

  A deadly anger woke in Dow, and in turn he responded with what he was sure would be the most insulting, unpardonable words that he could utter in the old man’s presence. Softly, he said, ‘I have not told you this before, but I’ll tell it to you now. I am sorry for the loss of your son and your grandson.’

  Nathaniel’s expression froze over. With a measured and final deliberation, he turned his face away and spoke no more. In silence, they sailed to Stromner beach. In silence, they dragged the boat up onto the sand. And in silence they parted.

  Dow made his way to the inn, his innards all in a turmoil and his anger giving way to doubt. He’d known, of course, that pity was the one sentiment Nathaniel would never tolerate from him. But he’d been provoked beyond endurance. All these months he had obeyed the old man’s every order, he had shown himself skilled at every task set – and for what? He did not expect Nathaniel to ever like him, yet surely he had earned acceptance . . .

  But no, it seemed the horrid old man held him in the same unreasoning contempt that he had on the night they’d first met; and now, even worse, had sworn that Dow would never go to sea. It was too unfair. If Dow had committed some actual crime it w
ould’ve been the worst punishment he could imagine; to live in view of the ocean and yet never be allowed to voyage there. And yet he had committed no such crime. Was simple curiosity a crime? Was desire for greater things a crime? Was to envy the freedom of the Ship Kings a crime?

  He came to the inn, but nearly turned back at the front door. He did not think he could face another night sitting alone in the miserable bar. The old home- sickness washed over him; he would’ve given anything just then to spend an hour with his family, to bask in their understanding and support. But it was impossible, they were hundreds of miles away. His only choice was either the inn, or Nathaniel’s house, and that was no choice at all.

  Dow pushed open the door and went in. But at the inner door he halted in surprise, for a strange sound was bubbling through from the room beyond; the massed hum of many voices. He listened a moment, perplexed, then pushed through the second door – and stopped still in amazement. The bar was jammed full. It looked as if every man of the village was there, even those who rarely visited the inn, and indeed most of the women too. The din of conversation was enormous, and the air was thick with smoke and beer and whisky.

  No one noticed Dow. He stood there for a confused instant – his fight with Nathaniel quite forgotten – then went squeezing his way through the crowd to get to the counter. He ordered his beer from a harassed-looking Inga, and then squeezed his way back through the press again, to find a last empty seat at a table by the wall. The noise and the crush reminded him almost of the Winter and Summer Councils back in Yellow Bank. But what could be the special occasion?

  He had his answer soon enough, for there was only one topic of discussion throughout the bar – the arrival of the great battleship in Stone Port. It was this notable event that had brought everyone out. Indeed, it seemed that such an assembly was near to a ritual in Stromner, convened by common consent whenever a fleet – or at least its leading vessel – appeared between the Heads. It was, in short, a chance to gossip about the Ship Kings.

  Dow drained his mug and then ordered another, along with his dinner. No one spoke to him, but all the while he listened in eagerly on as many conversations as he could. It was clear that Nathaniel had spoken the truth; the battleship was indeed a regular visitor, and a familiar sight to the villagers. As was its captain.

  ‘Do you remember old Vincente’s first trip?’ asked one man – Morris was his name – of the crowd. ‘Twelve years back it was, and the Chloe only newly under his command. He fired off that broadside as they neared the Heads, right in front of the whole fishing fleet.’ There were nods of recollection around the bar. ‘All fifty guns to the left, then all fifty to the right. The noise of it, and the smoke – and then great towers of water rising up on either side! Why, the Chloe must throw three ton of metal at least, every time those guns let fly.’

  ‘Aye,’ said another, ‘but it must rattle the ship’s bones too. ’Tis an old craft, the Chloe. It was on the Whale Island run for many a year, so the stories go, before Vincente took it over and gave it a refit.’

  ‘Old, but a fine vessel all the same, and mighty,’ said a third. ‘Six hundred and no less it takes as crew, men and officers together.’

  Dow noted the number – it was even more than he’d thought. He also noted the word men. There was no mention of any girls.

  ‘Still,’ pondered Morris loudly, ‘if what they say is true, then there be bigger ships with bigger guns, far out to sea. So big they could scarce come between the Heads, let alone enter the Stone Port gate.’

  ‘Go on!’ said a doubter. ‘There’s always talk of these giant ships, but I’ve never seen one and no one here has. The Chloe is as big as anything that’s ever docked at Stone Port – and why would the Ship Kings need anything bigger? Who have they got to fight anymore, other than each other?’

  ‘Who knows how the Ship Kings think and why they do what they do?’ disagreed one woman. ‘They ain’t like us, that’s for sure. By all accounts they’re crazed when it comes to the sea. Crazed enough to build giant ships they don’t even have use for, if the mood takes them.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said a man near her, ‘but how many ships is it? As a rule we only ever see two or three here at any moment – warships I mean, not merchantmen – and usually it’s the same two or three each time. How many others are there, that’s what I want to know.’

  ‘And you can go on wanting,’ came the woman’s reply. ‘The Ship Kings won’t be telling the likes of us.’

  ‘Hold there a moment!’ called Boiler Swan, who was placing a third mug in front of Dow. ‘There may be no way to know how big the Ship Kings fleet is now, but we can sure enough figure how big it was once. Would I be right in my thinking there, Mother Gale?’

  Dow had not noticed the old woman amid the crush, but now the crowd shifted so that a space opened about her usual corner, and there she sat, as ever, whisky glass at her side and a gnarled hand gripping her cane. She had thrown her head back to stare right at the innkeeper.

  ‘Aye, Boiler, you might be, at that,’ she declared, after a pause for silence to fall. ‘Or at least we can make a reasoned guess. It’ll be the days of the Great War you’d be speaking of. I was but a babe, of course, but my father served throughout, and there’s nothing he didn’t tell me of those times. I remember it, like I remember everything, and there’s no one else can say that, other than Nathaniel maybe, and he won’t tell what he knows anyhow.’

  ‘Well then,’ prompted Boiler, ‘what of the Ship Kings fleet?’

  But the old woman wasn’t to be hurried. She shook her head. ‘No man from New Island ever counted the full number of the Ship Kings vessels, so there’s no saying for certain. Other than this – those of our men who survived the war all reported that the enemy outnumbered us by at least two ships to one.’

  The room had waited in respectful quiet. Now a voice from the back piped up. ‘So how big was our fleet?’

  Mother Gale smiled widely in reply, showing gaps in her yellow teeth. ‘Time was we had no fleet at all, or one barely worth the name. Before the war things was very different. Our merchantmen plied the seas with scarcely a care, trading all across the Four Isles. The Ship Kings mostly warred against each other back then, and were friendly enough to outsiders. Oh, sometimes one kingdom or another might turn pirate and start attacking our vessels, so we did keep some warships for protection. But in those days New Island could field no more than three or four first rate battleships, and maybe half a dozen frigates besides.’

  Mutters of disappointment sounded from about the bar. Three or four? So few!

  ‘Aye, aye,’ Mother Gale was nodding, ‘but soon enough things changed. The Ship Kings united finally under the one Sea Lord, and then they sought dominion over all the ocean and all the Isles. That’s when war loomed, and that’s when we began building a proper fleet. How big did it get? That’s hard to say. It was a long war and many ships were launched, but many were sunk in battle and many were lost at sea never to be seen again, so it’s not as if there was ever the one fleet in the one place all at the one time. But as my father reckoned it, at our greatest strength we could have fielded a dozen first rate battleships, hundred-gunners all, and as many as thirty frigates of fifty or sixty guns apiece.’

  Now the murmurs were more appreciative. Over forty ships! And to think, they had once sailed the very waters of the Claw, and crowded the docks of Stone Port and Lonsmouth. It was hard to imagine.

  ‘By which reckoning,’ came Boiler’s grim reminder, ‘the Ship Kings could muster twenty-four battleships, and sixty frigates.’

  The murmurs fell silent.

  Mother Gale nodded again, sadly it seemed. ‘Aye. And so the war was lost. Slowly, it’s true, for we won our share of engagements at sea. But we were worn down in the end. My father told me that when Admiral Tombs led our last fleet out, he had but fifteen patched-up vessels all told. And no ship of our own has set sail from here in the eighty years since. What size the Ship Kings fleet is today, and what manner
of craft, I cannot tell you. I know only what has been. But my father never spoke of giant ships, or giant guns. It shows only the depth of our ignorance, that we are reduced to guessing about such things now.’

  Gravely, Mother Gale drank from her glass and set it down. A mournful quiet held in the room for a time.

  Dow drank too, a deep gulp, for the mention of his famous ancestor had disturbed him. But when he lowered his mug he saw that many of the Stromner folk were watching him now, as if they too were remembering who he was and how he had come to be there. An expectation weighed in those stares. There was something he was supposed to do that would change all their fates. That’s what they believed, and that’s what they were waiting for.

  Well, they would be waiting eternally, Dow decided, his gloom returning in full force. If there had ever truly been a purpose to his presence in Stromner, and to his kinship with Honous Tombs, then surely it was rendered meaningless if he was forbidden from ever learning about the ways of the open sea. They should take it up with Nathaniel, if they wanted an answer . . .

  Nevertheless, the stares demanded a response.

  Dow cleared his throat. ‘The Ship Kings,’ he said to the room, looking at no one directly. ‘How do they navigate out on the wide ocean? How do they find their way in fogs, or when clouds hide the stars? How did our own ships do it, in the days before the war? What is the art?’

  Faces turned away, and Dow saw in them the shame at their own lack of knowing. Only Mother Gale responded, she who surely had never even sailed a boat, but who was the repository for all history in the village – a single blind scribe, in effect, instead of the sighted three that Dow had known in the highlands.

  ‘The art is lost to us,’ she lamented, the white orbs of her eyes gone empty, focussed upon no one. ‘Oh, we knew of it in the old times – at least, the captains of our ships, and their officers, knew of it. But after the war the Ship Kings imprisoned all such men, or had them killed, and forbade anyone else to speak of sea navigation, and so the knowledge was never passed down to any New Island child. The Ship Kings were wise in their cruelty, for we will never challenge them now, when we cannot even sail beyond sight of land without fear.