Mirrorman

by Trevor Hoyle

  The ropes from the longboats were cast free as the ship cleared the harbour. The topsails were now unfurled on the sprit and mizzenmasts, and the Salamander surged forward gracefully on the ocean swell. She was a fine ship, of the class known as Dutch East Indiaman, based on the same design as the legendary Golden Hind of two centuries ago, though larger and with four decks below instead of two.

  With a smile, Cawdor lifted his son up again as the shore receded. He felt in tremendous spirits. A new life in the New World! Freedom from petty corruption and mean-minded bigotry. He was a man with a trade: a mason who’d served his time, with ambitions to become an architect. During the coming months he would apply himself, study his books and work hard to improve his facility at calculations.

  The Colonies were virgin territory, ripe for a builder of foresight and daring such as Jefferson Cawdor. Why, he was prepared to take anything on, from a cabin to a cathedral.

  Saraheda watched her husband’s face, which was broad and ruddy in the sunset. She could tell what he was thinking. Head filled with lofty, vaulting dreams. Eyes fixed on the golden future. While she could only see (and smell) what was under her nose, fret about the privy, and worry about the child forming inside her.

  3

  They were all three of them, for 75 continuous hours, sick as dogs.

  The ship reared and plunged, riding to the top of a foaming crest, then crashing headlong into a deep, glassygreen trough. Then another crest, and another trough –

  Foaming crest and crashing trough.

  Crest and trough. Crest and trough.

  Saraheda felt she had been born, lived her full span, and was about to die in their crazily tilting cubicle. She thought the wall was the floor and the ceiling the door. Not that she minded most of the time. She would have died quite happily. She had never known such torture.

  Cawdor insisted that they eat something, to keep up their strength. They forced down watery, lukewarm soup and dry bread, and kept it down for fifteen minutes. Then it joined the seawater sloshing to and fro, ankle deep, in the passageway outside. This was used by everyone the length of the deck for the same purpose.

  The privy confirmed all Saraheda’s worst fears, and added a few more she hadn’t in her wildest imaginings thought of. It was a canvas bucket, suspended on some kind of swivel arrangement, which meant that the contents moved about fairly freely, coming into contact with the person seated upon it. Saraheda employed it twice, and then devised an alternative method when her nerve broke.

  On the third day, just after dawn, with the ship pitching and tossing as violently as ever, she struggled weakly out of the cubicle to find the doctor. It was Daniel she was concerned for. During the night he had been ill several times, and then lapsed into semiconsciousness. She was unable to rouse him. Cawdor had tried to feed him soup, but it was impossible.

  It took two hours to fetch the doctor. First he had to attend to the passengers in the best berths, nearly all of them prostrate with seasickness, and after that had to be dragged away from the wife of a tobacco merchant who insisted he stay and bathe her brow.

  ‘There’s no disease that I can detect. No fever or inflammation,’ the doctor said, after examining Daniel, who lay in his parents’ bed. ‘He’s weakened by lack of substantial nutrition, as are many of the others. Keep him warm and as dry as possible. Do you have brandy?’ When Cawdor replied that they had, the doctor said, ‘Feed him brandy and water on a spoon, every hour or so.’

  ‘Is there nothing more you can give him?’ Saraheda asked anxiously.

  ‘I have an extract of opium, but it may be too strong for his constitution.’ The doctor, named Chapman, scratched his unshaven chin. His fingernails were rimmed with dirt. He had sad, pouchy eyes and his cheeks were a mosaic of broken veins. He reflected for a moment and then rummaged in his bag.

  ‘Here, try these fennel leaves in a tepid solution. They should prevent the vomiting. But until we hit calmer weather there’s nothing to do.’

  The three of them were jammed in the lurching space between the bed and the door, Cawdor braced with arms outstretched. Saraheda was clinging to the wooden bedframe.

  ‘And how soon will that be?’

  ‘Tomorrow. The day after. Next week.’ Doctor Chapman shrugged. ‘This is my third voyage to the Colonies – the previous two being different as chalk and cheese. So far this is about middling.’

  Saraheda was aghast. ‘You mean it could get worse?’

  ‘Oh yes. Quite a deal worse. This is but a heavy swell. Storms are something else. In that event there’s nothing to do but bind yourselves to anything immoveable. And if you believe in Him,’ the doctor added, with a kind of dour twinkle, ‘pray to your Maker.’

  ‘If that happens, we’ll all have need of your opium extract,’ Cawdor said grimly.

  ‘Jefferson, pay the doctor his fee,’ Saraheda said. ‘Thank you, sir, for attending to our son.’ She had tried to catch the whiff of drink on his breath, and couldn’t, and thought that she had misjudged him. From what she knew of doctors, he seemed averagely capable, and certainly willing to do what he could.

  ‘I shall waive the fee,’ Doctor Chapman said, fastening his sealskin coat. ‘Instead, ma’am, would you be prepared to attend with me, when the time comes, on one of the women in steerage? She is several days off yet – I estimate about a week. I have promised to make the delivery, and I would be glad of assistance from someone of sober disposition.’

  Saraheda agreed. They would need every penny of their eleven pounds five shillings in savings. In any case, she had decided that she liked Doctor Chapman, despite his slovenly appearance.

  4

  Cawdor leant his forearms on the rail of the quarterdeck, breathing in deeply. There was a cool, stiffish breeze blowing, whipping up a few white-caps, but the ship was taking them confidently in her stride. Canvas crackled softly above his head. Timbers creaked in rhythm, as if to a tune of the rolling sea.

  Above the spread of sail, Cawdor could see a few faint patches of blue in an otherwise grey sky.

  It was a great relief to taste fresh air after the days confined below. He hoped it would blow the reeking stench from his clothing. Sleeping in the cubicle had become almost unbearable.

  Daniel was playing with two other children on the deck beneath the rail. They scampered around the hatch in a game of tag. His recovery had been instantaneous: on the first morning of calmer weather he had wolfed down a double ration of mutton, beans, cabbage, cold mashed potato and Gloucester cheese, and drunk two cups of cow’s milk laced with brandy. Ten minutes later he was racing along the gangways and climbing ladders. Cawdor had warned him of the parts of the ship to which he was restricted. Their section extended from the quarterdeck to the white line – the area between the quality and officers’ decks on one side and the steerage passengers on the other. And of course he had to keep well clear of the rails. The captain wouldn’t turn about for drowning boys.

  ‘One of yours down there? Ah yes, I see it now: in the nose and chin. The boy with dark hair.’

  ‘You’ve got a keen eye,’ Cawdor said. By the cut of his coat and breeches, the man appeared to have strayed from the upper deck. But he was dressed carelessly, his necker – chief hanging loosely open, his waistcoat stained, a button missing. Between thirty and forty years of age, Cawdor estimated.

  ‘He looks none the worse for wear following our sport with the elements,’ the man remarked. ‘Do you take snuff, sir?’ He held out a little silver case.

  Cawdor didn’t. The man inserted a pinch into each nostril. He had no trouble, because his nose dominated his face, bony in the bridge and pendulous at the tip. By contrast, the rest of his features were fine, with friendly, intelligent eyes and a high, noble forehead.

  ‘My name is Tom Paine,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘A native of Thetford in the county of Norfolk.’

  ‘Jefferson Cawdor of Wells, Somerset.’

  ‘Jefferson! Indeed! You have a famous namesake in the Colonies. Th
omas Jefferson, a legislator. He’s a leading light in the formation of a congress, objecting to the Tea Act.’ He beamed. ‘In fact, I hope to meet Mr Jefferson in Philadelphia, where I aim to settle.’

  ‘I have not heard of the gentleman, nor his congress,’ Cawdor admitted.

  ‘You will,’ Tom Paine said, nodding sagely. “The government is embarked on a foolish course, with the imposition of duties on our fellow countrymen; while at the same time denying them the machinery of representation. You and me wouldn’t stand for it, Mr Cawdor!’

  ‘Are you a politician, Mr Paine?’

  ‘What? Oh no, no …’ Tom Paine seemed to find this as much insulting as amusing. ‘What am I?’ he wondered aloud. ‘I should say a radical pamphleteer. In other words, a scribbler.’

  ‘What do you scribble?’

  ‘Things that make sense – to me if not to others. Plain common sense, as I see it. Hallo! Our resident wizard of science in pursuit of the secrets of the cosmos, I see…’

  Daniel and the other children had gathered to watch Gryble, who was fussing around with his tripod and stanchions, setting up some experiment or other. Cawdor didn’t have a clue what he was up to. He had heard that Gilbert Gryble was a cosmographer, and he was puzzled as to how the man could study the heavens in daytime from the platform of a heaving ship.

  Gryble gave Daniel a piece of apparatus to hold, while he fiddled with something that required delicate alignment. Daniel was proud to be trusted. His face became very sober, and he glanced sternly at his playmates as if to caution them against childish pranks.

  ‘Your boy takes his duties seriously,’ Tom Paine observed. ‘Perhaps you have there a budding scientist. They call ours the Age of Reason, so m’be he’s the coming man. Mind you,’ he went on sardonically, ‘every age prides itself on its capability for reason. Myself, I don’t see much of it. Slavery, barbaric duelling, the torture of dumb animals for pleasure, the practice of medicine by brute ignorance, women treated as unpaid drudges, the fairy tales of religious belief –’

  He coughed and shuffled back a pace, as if embarrassed.

  ‘Pardon me, Mr Cawdor, sir. Are you a Christian man, by any chance? I have no wish to offend.’

  Cawdor shook his head. ‘No. I was baptised a Christian but have since rejected it. My family are of the Telluric Faith, which regards the Earth and its natural wonders as the fountainhead of our belief. They reckon it to be a native English religion, older than Christianity, or so I have been told.’

  ‘So you would regard yourself as a pantheist?’

  ‘Indeed I would,’ Cawdor agreed.

  The two men stood companionably at the rail, enjoying the brisk sea air, and watching Gilbert Gryble busy himself with his apparatus.

  After several moments, Cawdor became aware of a group of figures standing stiff and motionless on the far side of the lower deck. They too were observing Gryble, most intently. All five wore identical dark-grey robes, which hung slackly on their tall, lean frames, the hoods thrown back to show knoblike heads shaven close to the scalp. Behind them lurked a small following of plainly dressed men and women with stony-eyed, unjoyous faces.

  A religious order, obviously. Cawdor knew there were various sects on board, though he couldn’t put a name to this one.

  Without a signal or a word being exchanged, the austere, monkish group of elders moved as one, coming to stand in a silent semicircle, gazing down on Gryble as he crouched over his apparatus. Daniel tugged at Gryble’s coat-tails.

  ‘In a minute, boy.’

  ‘But, Mr Gryble –’

  ‘The brass screws on the astrolabe are tarnished to hell. It’s this damn salt air. Why didn’t I think to grease ’em?’

  ‘Is this infernal contraption of your devising?’

  The voice, deep and sombre as a dungeon, seemed to vibrate through the planks of the deck. Gryble started, dropped the handful of screws, and cursed.

  ‘Leave them be!’ the voice commanded, as Daniel stooped to collect the scattered screws. Daniel froze.

  Gryble had recovered, and was staring up at the gaunt speaker with a mixture of anger and bewilderment. But he kept his composure. ‘Excuse me,’ he said politely. ‘But what business is this of yours? I am a free Englishman, on board one of His Majesty’s ships, conducting my own affairs and not harming nor interfering with anyone. May I suggest you do the same?’

  ‘With this contrivance,’ the leader said, pointing his finger, ‘you are seeking to meddle with forces that the mind of man cannot comprehend.’ The finger pointed to the sky. ‘It is a mechanical device capable of disrupting the celestial symmetry. And, as such, I instruct you to desist at once.’

  ‘Oh?’ Gilbert Gryble said mildly. ‘You do? Well there’s a nice thing. Hear that, Daniel? I am instructed. By what moral right do you instruct me?’ he wanted to know. ‘Is it your heaven and no one else’s? Have you been given sole charge of it?’

  ‘Do not add blasphemy to your transgressions.’ The leader’s voice tolled like a bell, reverberating through the air.

  He moved a threatening pace nearer, and the others penned Gryble in. The cosmographer was at least a head shorter, round and plump as against their angular stringiness, and for the first time a shadow of unease passed across his face. The finger pointed down. ‘I tell you now, this devious work is against the natural order. It must not, and will not, be allowed.’

  ‘And again I question your right to order me.’ Gryble bravely stood his ground. ‘You are mistaken, I assure you – this apparatus cannot possibly influence anything beyond itself. See, it is static and inert. For measuring purposes only. No rays or galvanic ‘fluence or other harmful emissions –’

  ‘Some knowledge is forever forbidden. It is dangerous for us to know. We interfere with the great beyond at our peril.’

  ‘Balderdash!’ Gryble spluttered. ‘We are men with brains. We were given brains to make use of them. I am a man of science and it is my profession and calling to carry out investigations.’

  The leader folded his arms. From deep inside their bony sockets his eyes bored into Gryble, flat and cold and without pity.

  ‘Then listen and pay heed. You do so at your own risk. You have been given a warning by the Shouters – the first and the last warning we shall give. Very well, ignore it. But, if you do, you must prepare yourself to accept the consequences.’

  Gryble flushed and opened his mouth to protest, but the group had gone, again without sign or word passing between them, and disappeared below deck. Daniel held out the screws. Gryble took them mechanically, gnawing at his hp. He came to himself, blinking rapidly, and thanked Daniel with a wavering, uncertain smile.

  ‘Shall I run and fetch some duck’s grease, Mr Gryble?’

  ‘Not now, Daniel. I need to – er –’ He rubbed the top of his bald head distractedly. ‘Yes, that’s right, I have to attend to one or two matters. To, er, other… pressing details. Yes. You go on and game with your play. I mean play with your game.’

  He began to dismantle his apparatus.

  ‘You take my point,’ Tom Paine murmured dryly in Cawdor’s ear. ‘Hardly, would you say, the Age of Reason?’

  ‘Who the devil are those people?’ Cawdor said, trembling. Gryble’s experiments meant nothing to him, yet he felt himself bursting inside with a great knot of anger. ‘They have no earthly right…’

  ‘Earthly right, no. Their mandate comes from heaven, or some such mythical place.’ Tom Paine shook his head sadly. ‘Or so they believe.’

  ‘Gryble ought to complain to the captain. His is the sole authority aboard ship. Not that of the Shouters, whoever they might be.’

  ‘Have you met our master mariner, Mr Cawdor?’

  ‘No. I haven’t even clapped eyes on him.’

  Tom Paine chuckled. ‘I don’t believe Captain Vincent would care to intervene, particularly in an affair that involves religion.’

  ‘He’s a religious man?’

  ‘Far from it. A vehement atheist, from my brie
f observation. That’s why he steers well clear of any controversy. He’s aware that many of the people here – most of them, in fact – hold strong religious views, all divergent. The last thing he wants is to spend three months at sea with a shipload of pious hotheaded fanatics, all at one another’s throats. Myself, I have some sympathy for that position.’

  ‘Still, Mr Gryble should not be browbeaten in that fashion,’ Cawdor objected earnestly. ‘We’re off to a land free from bullying, bigotry and persecution, aren’t we? That was my supposition.’ He scowled. ‘Not much of a promising start, I’d say.’

  Tom Paine took another pinch of snuff, sucking it in with a sharp implosion up his prodigious nose. ‘The New World may be free of such evils, Mr Cawdor, but the Salamander exports a full cargo of ’em.’

  5

  Saraheda and Doctor Chapman crossed the white line and descended to the lower decks. The steerage passengers didn’t have cabins, or even cubicles. They were allotted a meagre space on the bare planks and had to defend it. Saraheda was amazed that the ship didn’t plunge nose first to the bottom, packed as it was to capacity in the forward sections.

  The heat and smell of so many bodies in close proximity was worsened by the smoke of illicit cooking fires. Steerage had its own galley stove, on the middle deck behind the foremast, but the queues were endless; all around, in dim recesses, shadows flickered on blankets strung up on ropes, marking off private kitchens shared by several families.

  Squirming through narrow spaces, stooping low under beams, stepping over bodies, Saraheda kept her scarf, sprinkled liberally with rosewater, pressed to her face. Consumption and pneumonia would be rife here, as well as all manner of dread, unknown plagues.

  ‘Here we are, Mrs Cawdor.’ Doctor Chapman indicated a dark shape stretched out on a matting of dirty straw. The woman’s husband, a narrow-shouldered runt of a man with veined arms, knelt beside her. A girl of about six, indescribably filthy, sat nearby, sulkily sucking her thumb. When she removed it to gaze open-mouthed at Saraheda, the thumb was the cleanest object in sight.