The door behind Brutus gave way and four or five half-dressed men burst into the cabin. Everyone was shouting and the uproar was tremendous. Brutus was mauling Mr. Chips with blows of his massive fists. He grabbed him by the arm and turned it viciously. There was a sound of cracking bone and Mr. Chips fell to the floor, trying to wrench his arm away while still wrestling with his attacker.
In the melee Tom escaped from Vincenzo’s grasp and somehow squirmed into the hallway, where Ramsey and the First Mate were now arriving. Brutus, meanwhile, in a rampage was smiting all and sundry. Several men were battered by him as they attempted to bear him down and, when finally he was overborne, it took four of the brawniest to restrain him.
Finally the Master strode in with a loud command, challenging any to continue the brawl. “Halt and hold fast! No one move!” he shouted. The general hubbub diminished. He looked about, a fierce anger burning in his eyes. “What is the meaning of this disturbance in the still hours of the night? We should be abed, not at one another’s throats. Who is the man that started this?”
There was a general shuffling and looking about, as most of those involved were unaware of the cause of the commotion or rightly understood why they’d been fighting. Vincenzo’s gashed cheek and Mr. Chips’s broken arm gave evidence they had been in the thick of the fray, and Diego was still nursing his bruised cheek. Most eyes turned to Brutus as the center and focus of the action.
The Master stood before him and did his best to stare him down. “I’ve had my eye on you since first we left port. You have comported yourself in a sullen and morose manner, begrudging any slightest respect to those above you, and this is what comes of it. In a drunken rage you have battered and assaulted your fellow seamen, here where most they should look for some civility from their mates. Have you nothing to say for yourself?”
Brutus stood silent as a post, but his eyes were lit by a smoldering hatred and an undisguised anger at the unprincipled indifference of power.
One man had found the bloody scalpel and he gave it to the Master who took it and turned it in his hand as he examined it. “Is this your blade?”
Still stubborn silence.
“I think it is, the bloody witness of your guilt. You’re one of those who thinks himself a better man than his superiors, are you not? One who is so rubbed and chafed by this perceived inequity that any act of defiance is justified. I know your kind. How well I know it. Also, you are drunk, a drunken disgrace to this vessel. I shall not tolerate this loose and troublesome conduct to continue. You shall be made an example, before all the men. Ramsey, place this man in irons.”
The word was spoken and Ramsey stepped forward to signal the men holding Brutus they should lead him toward the brig. “Have you still nothing to say?” the Master asked. In his heart, Tom pleaded with Brutus to speak, just a word, but he himself had not the courage to utter even one syllable. Brutus was led away in silence. As he passed Tom their eyes met.
The Master departed, and the men dispersed in muttering groups. Vincenzo’s face was still bleeding, but he busied himself with collecting the pieces of silver scattered on the cabin floor, casting dark looks in Tom’s direction till Diego took him in hand and led him along with Mr. Chips in the direction of the surgery.
Tom walked back to his empty cabin. Looking in the upper bunk he saw Brutus’s little wooden idol of Maddibimbo lying ineffectually on its side. He couldn’t stay in that room. Wandering blankly in the unforgiving desolation of his heart he at last found himself on deck. A fog was setting in. He walked to the rail and looked over. If he disappeared in the waves below nothing would be lost, only his anguish and all his stupid craziness, and the pointless futility of trying to go on being worth something in the world. He stepped onto the rail, his mind made up to finish himself. It wasn’t even a tragedy, it was the punch line to a bad joke. He tensed to spring, and then . . . he stayed where he was. The ship bore on, its course unaffected by this terrible night’s events, uncaring, steadily breasting the waves that broke below, and he stood on the rail, poised to leap, one hand holding a line, dangling for that moment over an act of dreadful consequence, and as he did so the knowledge came to him that he would not do it. That his life would go on. That the unhappy events of this night were only that, events, and that they could be undone and made right. He knew that tomorrow – no, tonight – he would speak to the Master, he would tell him that Brutus was not to blame, and he would start the long effort to recover his goods. It would be long and hard, but it could be done. And he almost laughed to think how close he had come to death, and how hopeful he now understood everything to be. And at just that moment the ship encountered a sudden blustery squall and the line he’d been holding was snatched from his grasp. The fog-slicked rail he was standing on gave a sudden lurch, unbalancing him. His hands fluttered uselessly, stretching for the line that was now far beyond his flailing fingertips, and in a moment he was tossed, like a coin, into the rippling surface of the sea.
Chapter Seven
A DANCE BY MOONLIGHT
General Hobsbawm was short and stout, with something of a globular appearance. He shaved every day and kept his red face as smooth as a baby’s bottom. This morning he was reflecting on the notion that it was redundant for any imperial power to have both an army and a church. So far as he could tell, the two institutions fulfilled much the same purpose: they kept the natives subdued, which was necessary to guarantee the safety of the goods that were expropriated and to provide protection and comfort to the settlers who were rapidly populating what would otherwise be empty waste. The church did it by espousing the doctrines of love and mercy. The army employed other methods.
Furthermore, the two institutions embodied the same organizational principles. There was something innately pleasing about a good solid hierarchy. From day one the initiates had a well-laid path to follow, from cadet to lieutenant, to captain, and so forth. You could start at the bottom and already project your arrival at the top. Not that General Hobsbawm had started at the bottom. Conversely, he had once seen a list of religious titles and he was convinced that it was a similar hierarchy that kept the deacons and bishops and archbishops and such in order, all striving for the next tier.
The similarities went on and on. Both insisted on uniforms. One valued morale, the other morality. In fact, the faith and the military thought so much alike, the corresponding members of each could probably be replaced pretty much interchangeably without causing the least disturbance. The idea amused the General. He turned to Colonel Snivel and asked, “If you could be in the church, what do you think your rank would be? Archbishop perhaps, or maybe even cardinal?”
“I wouldn’t be in the church,” he answered. “Don’t like churches. They’re drafty – dusty, cold and musty.”
“They are? You’d think God could do something about that.”
“God’s a useless bugger. He doesn’t do anything.”
Ordinarily the General would have allowed the conversation to end there. Snivel was given to these far-reaching observations. However, this morning the General felt like prodding him a bit, if only to see what other nuggets of conversational wisdom might be lurking in the mental seam the Colonel was mining.
“Those are harsh words. God doesn’t do anything? What about the Creation? He made the sky, and the oceans, and the land. Surely that’s something.”
“You ask me, the Creation’s over-rated. Especially the sky. Sky’s a wasted opportunity. It’s huge. Wherever you stand, it covers half of what you see. You’d think He’d want to make it worth looking at. But what did He do? Blue. That’s it. Wherever you look, blue. Nothing but blue. I’m not impressed.”
“But it’s a remarkable blue, don’t you think?” Snivel scowled. The General went on, “Staring at it, one gets a feeling of vast distance, a sublime expanse that contradicts everything ever said in any humdrum house of business.”
“Blue is a color. It doesn’t contradict anything.”
“You have such a mundane
soul. Anyway there’s more than just blue. There are clouds. Sometimes there are sunsets.”
“Oh my God, you’ll be going on about butterflies next. Look, I’m not letting the Creator off the hook just on account of some clouds and a few sunsets. The fact is, the whole Creation’s a botch job. That’s why you need the army to keep patching things up. I’ve spent my entire adult life killing people and blowing things to bits, and the result is always an improvement. What does that tell you?”
They were talking as they walked through the hallways of the massive fort of Port Jay. Having arrived at the door to his office, General Hobsbawm bid Colonel Snivel good day and entered, pondering as he did the meaning the word office held in this context and that of religious service. It was a hobby-horse of his, but at some point he thought he might put pen to paper and produce an essay demonstrating the many linkages between war and religion, which were after all, on the most fundamental level, the same thing.
Lieutenant Lovejoy stood to attention behind his desk as the General entered.
“As you were,” the General said. He sauntered over to his own desk, where he sat and cast an eye at the pile of dispatches that had arrived this morning. He shuffled through a few.
“There is still nothing from Fort Estamor,” said the Lieutenant. “It’s as if they’ve vanished.”
“Vanished . . . The scout we sent yesterday should be back in a week. But the absence of any word is more than mysterious.”
“Perhaps they were involved somehow in this escaped slave business.”
“It’s unlikely. And if they were, still they’d have sent word. No. I’m entirely baffled . . . It’s enough to make me wonder if we shouldn’t give some credence to this witchcraft talk that’s been circulating in the town.” Lovejoy snorted contemptuously. “I’m serious. An entire fort can’t just . . . disappear.” He leafed through the latest update from Indradoon. A band of escaped slaves had fallen on the slave market at the height of auction day and routed the auctioneers and all their defenders. The slave pens had been rifled and thrown down. Many guards had been shot and killed. The center of the city had been burned, and there had been extensive looting. The slaves, armed with a few rifles, and many other weapons such as swords, long metal lances, picks, axes, and garden implements, had escaped and were believed to be camped in the woods nearby. There were disputed estimates as to the number of escaped slaves, some sources placing the number at over a thousand, men, women, and children of all ages. The General had little doubt that the actual number was far less. He put the dispatch down. “The news gets worse and worse.” He stood and walked to the window. Port Jay lay spread out below. He followed the line of the River of Tears, from its emergence out of the woods to the south, through the heart of the city, to its terminus in the sea. The docks were busy today, like all days, many ships of all sizes being loaded and unloaded. The HMS Nemesis, chief ship of the line, could be seen at drydock. Here was the beating heart of the city, the wellspring and fountainhead of its prosperity. There were no slaves here in Port Jay. They weren’t needed. Or rather, all the citizens of Port Jay were slaves, slaves to commerce, to the dream of material success. They worked as hard as slaves, in most cases harder. And, so far at least, they hadn’t mutinied and formed a dangerous mob bent on despoiling the powers that be.
Something would have to be done about these slaves. They couldn’t be counted on to fall apart on their own. Pleas for protection would soon be pouring in from the large landowners; it would be best to be able to tell them steps were already being taken when that happened. The General determined to put this in the hands of Snivel. He himself would focus his efforts on the campaign against the Indians. There would have to be a sizable deployment from the forces currently on Lost Bastard Island. These men would be convoyed across the Sound. From there they could march into the Forgotten Forest and the heart of Indian country. The recent recruiting efforts had been more successful than had been anticipated, so the absence of the force under Snivel’s command would pose no difficulty. All these thoughts flashed through his mind as he surveyed the city. Then, turning to Lieutenant Lovejoy, he said, “Lieutenant, there is a delicate matter concerning which I would welcome your insight.”
“Yessir?”
The General picked up a card that was lying on his desk. “I have received an invitation, what do you think of that? An invitation to a formal dance from Madam Arabella Lanchester. It has been some time since I have last been a party to such an affair. I was hoping perhaps your memories of these occasions are of a more recent vintage than mine.”
“Yessir. I suspect they are.” Lieutenant Lovejoy was a dapper and a gallant young man. His mustache, his brilliant blue eyes, and his gentlemanly demeanor had not been lost on the young women of Port Jay.
“Good. A formal dance. That’s what it says. You can see for yourself.” He held the card out to the Lieutenant.
“To be held in four days’ time,” said Lovejoy.
“Quite.”
“In the Lanchester Mansion. I don’t believe I know where that is.”
“It’s in the old city. A walled mansion. At one time the Lanchesters were quite a power in these parts, so I’ve been made to understand. I seem to recall encountering Madam Lanchester, it must have been a couple of years ago, I can’t recollect the exact occasion.”
“Do you plan to attend?”
“I think that would be the correct course to pursue. It’s best to cement any ties one can in this city. Also I was hoping you would accompany me. Your knowledge of the intricacies in the decorum involved would be of value to me, and you are acquainted with a wider circle of the locals.”
The Lieutenant nodded deferentially. “Although I’m sure the decorum will be far from intricate, and the dance will be far from formal. That is generally the case in these colonial ports. The conversations are mostly strained and inconclusive. There is only one thing on everyone’s mind, and it is the one thing not spoken of.”
“Why do you think I was invited?”
“I don’t know. I’m not familiar with the Lanchesters. They must move outside the social set with which I’m conversant.”
“Well I suppose I’ll find out in four days’ time.”
“I suppose you will. Sir, if that’s all concerning the invitation, might I bring up another matter?”
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”
“The local constabulary have asked if we can serve in an unofficial capacity as backup when needed.”
“I thought we already did that.”
“We already do it in an official capacity. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes please. And that’s not sufficient?”
“The official channels can be slow and difficult to navigate.”
“Of course they are. That’s why they’re the official channels. These people want us to be quick and efficient? Ready to help them at a moment’s notice?”
“My word, no. I don’t think they regard such a state of affairs as being in the bounds of possibility. They would be satisfied if we were responsive.”
“You mean when they ask for assistance if we say no, instead of just ignoring them.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, perhaps we could accommodate that. I presume this is coming from Chief Constable Fragonard?”
“Yessir.”
“Why does he go through you, instead of coming directly to me?”
“Because you refuse to speak to him.”
“Oh, right. How is the old fellow holding up? Has he gone insane yet?”
“No, not yet. He drinks too much.”
“So he’s pretty much as crazy as always?”
“It’s hard to say.”
“What has triggered this request? Has there been a change in the number or the nature of the incidents the constabulary is called to respond to?”
“Apparently there has been. As Fragonard puts it, things are going to Hell. An uptick in cases of arson and domestic brutality, rabble
in parts of the city going on destructive binges, that sort of thing. He seems most alarmed.”
“Hardly strikes me as anything to worry about.”
“My opinion entirely.”
“How is that tea coming along?”
“There isn’t any tea. I should have checked before making the offer. I’m dreadfully sorry.”
“No tea?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Things really are going to Hell.”
The next few days were very busy ones in the Lanchester Mansion. Invitations had gone out to all and sundry, all being the neighbors in the old city, and sundry running to such as the parish priest, the more reputable merchants, and even the military in their fort by the river. So now years of neglect were being scrubbed from the walls and floors in a matter of days and the staff was being worked off their feet. Katie had recovered from her bout of illness and had been industriously scrubbing away in the main hall, her hands becoming red and roughened from the hardness of the water. The day before the affair Madam Lanchester, who had spent countless hours ransacking her wardrobe in search of the perfect gown, suddenly realized she should also do something for her staff. At a moment’s notice Katie and Tavish, along with Agnes, Fancy and Maria, were bundled off to Cornheiser’s Fancy Dress Emporium where they were promptly done up in knock offs of the latest fashions. Katie was given a gown that felt much too snug. Looking herself over in the mirror, she was struck by the ludicrous contrast the formal evening gown made with her chapped hands and tousled hair. She looked like a tramp who’d pillaged the belle of the ball. But mostly she was concerned that the tight-fitting bodice made the slight bump in her belly visible to a close inspection. Well, she’d have to make sure no one had a chance to give her a close inspection. It shouldn’t be hard; as a servant she was accustomed to making herself unobtrusive and negligible. Still, she couldn’t help practicing different ways to stand, and making note of how she looked.
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