The Coming of the Whirlpool

by Andrew McGahan

  But was he really considering this?

  Again, the answer, reluctant, was no . . .

  It gnawed at him though. Every day, Nathaniel’s behaviour became colder and crueller, and every night the longing and frustration built in Dow as he felt his prison walls closing in more tightly. In time the very sight of the great ships became too mocking for him to bear, for soon they would be free to leave again, and roam the world, while he would be forced to stay.

  There was, in addition, one other source to his discontent – an event fast approaching, but of which no one else in Stromner was aware; an event that normally he would’ve welcomed, but which now had been robbed of any meaning. It arrived nonetheless, two weeks after the appearance of the fleet. And that evening in the crowded bar, having already downed several mugs of beer without gaining any relief from his turmoil, Dow decided that beer itself would no longer serve.

  ‘I want a whisky,’ he said to Boiler, over the counter.

  The innkeeper studied him in surprise. ‘Whisky is it? And since when were you of an age to be drinking whisky?’

  ‘I turned sixteen today.’

  It was the bitter truth. Today was his birthday. If Dow had been at home, his parents would have held a feast in his honour, and his brother and sisters would have brought him gifts. Later he would have been feted in the Barrel House as a full-grown man at last, and been given his first proper measure of whisky to drink. But here in Stromner no one knew or cared what day it was, he would receive no gifts, and if he wanted his first whisky, he would have to buy it himself.

  Boiler’s eyes widened at the news, but he said nothing, only poured the whisky and then gravely slid the glass across. Dow took it up and swigged the golden liquid in one gulp, feeling it burn in his throat, and the burning, somehow, was exactly what he needed. He pushed the glass back.

  Without comment, Boiler refilled it.

  A chorus of laughter rose suddenly from one corner of the bar. Dow looked around sharply, but there was no sign that the laughter was meant for him; in fact, no one in the room was paying him the least attention. He turned back to his drink. There had been a time when he’d hated that the bar was always empty, and had longed for people to fill it, but now he found himself wishing that everyone would go away again – and take all their talk of the Ship Kings with them.

  ‘It’s too crowded in here,’ he muttered to Boiler.

  The innkeeper glanced about contentedly. ‘Aye, folk are always happy to come out when the Ship Kings are in. There’s all the news to be had, for one. And there’s plenty of work on offer over in Stone Port, so everyone has money to spend. Why, even the price of fish has near about doubled – as you’d know.’

  Dow did know. He had more money in his pocket than ever before. But that only increased his disgust. What was the use of money when it couldn’t buy him what he wanted – a way out of Stromner?

  He drank the second whisky down, grimaced at the taste, and said, ‘People should hate the Ship Kings.’

  Boiler’s look was reproving. ‘Who says they don’t? But folk have to live, and there’s precious few other ways to make money around here.’

  ‘We wouldn’t be so poor if we still had our own ships.’

  ‘Aye. But that war has already been fought, and we lost. What would you have us do now? Attack the Ship Kings with fishing boats?’

  ‘There’s more of us than them. Here on New Island, anyway.’

  ‘More men maybe, but no cannons and few muskets, and when it comes to flesh and blood versus steel and powder, there’s only one end.’

  But a stubbornness had seeped into Dow – along with the whisky, perhaps. ‘We could sneak men aboard one of their warships and take it over. They’re barely guarded at night; I’ve seen it. We could take over all three of them. Then we’d have muskets and cannons of our own.’

  Boiler shook his head wearily. ‘All that would do is bring the rest of the Ship Kings fleet down on our heads. There’d be thirty warships here instead of three. You’re talking like a fool, lad.’ Dow had pushed the empty glass back, and it was only with some reluctance that Boiler filled it again. ‘Heed me now. That sort of talk is dangerous. If the sight of the Ship Kings angers you so much, then steer clear of Stone Port for the duration, that’s what I say. Most likely, they’ll be finished loading and gone in another week anyway.’

  And with that the innkeeper moved off to serve other drinkers.

  Dow was oblivious, for Boiler’s final words had struck him dumb. A week? The Ship Kings would be leaving in a week? That was so soon. Too soon. It meant they’d be gone before he had the chance to—

  The chance to do what?

  To steal aboard one of the ships, that was what . . .

  Dow lifted his third whisky and threw it down his thoat. And in that moment he was decided. No more wishful thinking – he was going to do it. He had to do it. Otherwise he may as well give it all up and go back to the highlands right now, for the fishing life was no better than the timber life; indeed it was worse. He was sixteen years old. He was a man. It was time to unlock the doors that would lead him to the sea life, and there was only one way to do that.

  He must dare the wrath of the Ship Kings.

  Only . . . not tonight. Soon, yes, but not tonight, that would be madness. He must ready himself first.

  Dow studied his empty glass, heart thumping. Suddenly the bar seemed too stuffy, he could not sit there a moment longer. He glanced about. No one was watching him. Boiler had left a whisky bottle sitting on the counter, three quarters full. Dow cast down a handful of coins, slipped the bottle under his arm, and shouldered his way through the crowd to the door.

  Outside, the fresh air hit him like cold water, and his heart raced faster still. He strode down through the village, not knowing where he was going, only that it couldn’t be his bedroom, for he would never sleep in this state. The night itself seemed to echo his mood; restless somehow, with a fitful south wind blowing, bringing a suggestive tang of salt from the sea. Overhead a waxing moon hurried between shreds of black cloud.

  Finally, Dow found himself at the end of the pier, looking north over the darkened Claw. He crouched down there and for a feverish hour, as he stared into the night and sipped from the whisky bottle, he plotted his clandestine attack. Excitement grew in him. It could be done. He was sure of it. In three nights, or four, he would strike. He would take a boat and slip across the channel to Stone Port, very late, hidden by darkness and invisible on the waters to any watching eye.

  Except—

  In sudden doubt, he gazed again into the heart of the Claw. The bay was a black gulf before him, but then the moon, which had been obscured, rode clear of the clouds, and the blackness of the water dissolved into an expanse of silvery grey, against which any boat would’ve stood out in crisp silhouette.

  The moon! Dow stared up at it in dismay, a bright orb that would only grow brighter yet; in three or four nights it would be full. He could never hope to creep into Stone Port under a full moon. And yet nor could he wait until the moon waned, for by then the Ship Kings would be gone.

  It meant disaster. Unless—

  He studied the sky again, in last hope, and saw that behind the long forerunners of ragged cloud now passing away into the north, a great sombre tide of heavier overcast was rising from the south, blotting out the stars as it came. Even as he watched, the moon was swallowed once more. Soon the entire night would be black, and with it the waters of the channel.

  Dow swigged from the bottle. Why delay? Why wait, and let doubt and fear eat at his resolve? Tonight was likely as good as he would ever get. Yes. It must be done now, this very night – this very moment!

  He was up and moving even before he knew he had made the decision, but having moved, there was no going back. A boat! He hurried off the pier and ran to the beach. He ignored the Maelstrom – it was too clumsy for such a task – and went instead to where Stromner’s collection of skiffs were drawn up. These small un-masted craft were
used by the villagers to run errands about the coastal shallows. Choosing one, Dow slid it easily down the shingle. No one saw him, no one raised a cry. The night was grown late – most of Stromner would be abed by now. He slipped out the oars, and with a push he was launched.

  Out from the beach he rowed, around the inner headland and on into the channel, where the waves slapped higher. Already he was breathing hard, but his shoulders and arms felt strong. Turning as he sat, he looked over the bow and across the black waters to West Head, and took a bearing from the bonfire that burned high upon the tower there. A current was pushing him south, he saw – the outgoing tide – but tonight he feared not even his old enemy, the Rip. He set his course on a northward angle, and leant again to the oars.

  Water sucked and gurgled hungrily about the skiff. Overhead, the great sheet of cloud sailed slowly on, consuming the last of the stars, and the night became impenetrable. Dow rowed on through the blackness. From time to time he paused to swig from the whisky bottle, yet he did not feel drunk; he felt increasingly clear headed, full of energy, and certain that he was doing the right thing. When finally he glanced forward again, the sea wall of Stone Port was near, a shadow rearing up. Through the gate the harbour waters glinted darkly.

  Easing his stroke, Dow rowed in. Would he be challenged by some watchful guard? No challenge came. The harbour was empty of any traffic, and all Stone Port – its houses and wharves, even the great mass of the fleet – seemed shut down for the night. Lights burned dimly here and there in the rigging of the ships and upon the lampposts along the wharves, but nobody was visible anywhere, and all was silent.

  Dow hesitated, drifting, not trusting the silence, or the emptiness. And suddenly a shout rose – but not a shout of discovery, rather it was a forlorn cry that sounded from some back street, deep within the town. It was only the town crier, calling the time. And in answer a bell clanged, muted and flat, from somewhere unseen on one of the ships, marking time in turn on behalf of the fleet. Dow counted the tones. Twelve. Then silence settled once more. It was midnight.

  Late – and yet not late enough, Dow knew. He must be patient a while longer, no matter the jangling of his nerves. He rowed along the inner side of the sea wall, keeping to the shadows. He came to a rocky outcropping, and there, in a sheltered scoop of water, he halted to study the town.

  Sure enough, he saw that the docks were not as deserted as they first appeared. A last few sailors were still staggering home from their nights at the inns, singing and shouting in lonely duets. More importantly, marines remained on guard at the gangways of all the ships, concealed from Dow’s view except for when they moved up or down the wharf to stretch their legs. No, it was too soon to act. He would wait an hour, or perhaps two, before making his attempt; in the chill, middle hours of the night, when human alertness was at its lowest.

  He crouched in the skiff, watching. His gaze was drawn mostly to the Chloe, which was in any case the closest ship to him. Lights still glowed in the windows of its stern cabins. Fleeting shapes appeared through the glass panels, but Dow was too far away to make them out. One figure that lingered at a window a moment might have been female, but it was impossible to be certain.

  Dow drank from the bottle, puzzled that he should be thinking of the girl, now of all times. He had glimpsed her but the once, knew nothing whatever about her. And yet there was no denying it, some small part of this whole lunatic venture involved the passing hope that he might glimpse her again . . .

  Time crept by. At length the crier’s sad call was repeated, and the muted bell – Dow still couldn’t tell to which ship it belonged – clanged once to mark the first hour of the morning. On the Chloe, most of the cabin lights were out now. Dow took another mouthful of whisky and shook his head.

  His sixteenth birthday, that was the nub of it. He was sixteen and alone. How different things would be if he’d remained in Yellow Bank. There he wouldn’t be alone. Right now he would be with Clara, making the most of their last few nights together before the men departed for the high forests. They would be curled up in a shadowy corner somewhere, or down by the river in the darkness. Kissing, and much more than kissing, for at sixteen, by Yellow Bank custom, a boy and a girl could do what they pleased, as long as they were careful.

  But now someone else would be with Clara, someone else would be kissing her, and doing those other intoxicating things. And even that wouldn’t have been so bad, if Dow himself had found someone new. But what hope was there for anything like that, when he was stuck in dreary, half-deserted Stromner?

  No hope at all.

  He drank.

  Not, of course, that a Ship Kings girl, one he’d never even met, was the answer. Why, even if they did meet, she was probably the captain’s daughter and would look down upon a New Island boy as utterly beneath her. She was probably precious and spoiled and unlikable. And anyway, he hadn’t found her attractive in that one glimpse, so much as . . . unsettling.

  He drank again – and by the time the crier called the second hour of the morning, the bottle was empty. Dow let it fall into the water. A deep, slumbering silence had descended over the fleet.

  Now, he told himself, and took up the oars.

  It was foregone that he would make for the Chloe. No doubt it would have been wiser to board one of the merchantmen, but somehow he could not resist the battleship. He slid the skiff up to it now, noiseless as a fish, and well hidden by the shadow the ship itself cast in the light from the dock. As he came close he saw that the mighty vessel, even at berth, did not lie still. It was shifting slightly at its moorings, water rising and falling against the hull, and a rumbling came from within, the sound of a beast turning uneasily in its sleep. High above, the masts, illuminated by the town, swung slowly against the sky.

  But for all that, the Chloe seemed devoid of any waking life. Dow eased his way along its length, from the bow towards the rear, staring up all the while. The windows of the stern cabins remained dark, no voice called out from the deck, and no face appeared at the railing to stare down at him.

  Ah, but the size of the thing! Uncertainty began to prick at Dow, whisky or not. The railing was far beyond his reach. And the lower hull was coated in the slippery black smoothness of nicre. It reached up for some yards above the waterline. How was he ever to climb to the deck?

  But then he saw how it might be done. Roughly amidships a great mass of rigging came down from the mainmast to be secured against the railing, the lines all woven into a broad mesh. Yes, that would do.

  There was a small anchor in the skiff, attached to a good length of rope. Dow positioned the boat just so, then – amazed at his own daring – lobbed the anchor lightly upwards and saw it catch the rigging perfectly, just above the railing. It made scarcely a sound. He secured the line to the skiff, pulled the boat close to the hull, then leapt softly to the Chloe’s side and hung there, feet planted against the slick timbers.

  Still there was no shout of discovery. Hand over hand on the rope, arms straining, he walked his way up the curving hull, past the three rows of gunports – their doors all shut fast – to the railing. Here he slowed to a creep, tentatively lifting his head over the rail to search for any guard or wandering crewmember. He could spy no one, but the deck was so vast, and so littered with peculiar structures and unfamiliar pieces of gear, that it was hard to be sure. Dow watched a moment longer, then slipped over the rail and ducked low.

  He was aboard.

  And now he could hear voices, but they were far away, talking softly. It was only the marines on the wharf. They wouldn’t be able to see him. He turned and, at a crouch, began making his way towards the stern. It was not as simple as he had imagined. The main deck was a shadowy maze, complicated by all manner of ropes and bins and hatches that blocked his way. But he encountered nobody. It appeared that the Ship Kings were indeed content to have no more guard set over the great vessel than a few men by the gangway.

  It seemed almost foolhardy. Were they so confident that there was n
o threat to them here? Ah, but then why wouldn’t they be confident? The war was long over, and New Islanders were a tamed people. Dow smiled grimly to himself at the thought, and flitted on from shadow to shadow until at last the high deck reared above, a stairway inviting him to climb.

  He went up, pausing cautiously at the top step. The high deck – unlike the cluttered deck below – was an open and empty expanse, its polished boards gleaming in the lamplight from the docks. A raised doorway stood by the stern rail, presumably leading to the cabins below, but Dow’s eyes were drawn to the centre of the deck. There stood the great wheel, tightly secured – and forward of it, finally, the very instrument that he had come at such terrible risk to see, close now, but enigmatic still; a stand fashioned from wood and brass.

  Dow bent low and crawled forward, leaving the shadows behind. His every nerve sang, aware of how exposed he was now, but the promise of the great revelation drew him on. He could make out the stand more clearly now. Round knobs of metal extended from its sides, the function of which he could not begin to fathom. But at its top the device widened into a broad metal hood, and set in that hood was a large circular window of glass, flanked by unlit lamps.

  Blind to all else, Dow rose to his feet. The secret of navigation! He stood before it at last, as no New Islander had done in eighty years, and to look into it was to know the Great Ocean all in one glance. He leaned forward so that his nose was nearly touching the window, straining to see what lay beyond. He almost expected it to be a vision of some kind, a force reaching out to fill his mind with prospects of waves rolling and storms blowing . . .

  But all he saw through the glass was a large white disk, laid flat and marked with lines around its edges. Nothing happened. No force took possession of his mind, no visions came. What was this? Desperate, Dow fumbled at the instrument’s metal projections, for perhaps there was some arcane process which set the device in motion. But his actions produced no result other than a faint quiver in a thin metal needle that sat at the centre of the disk.