Mirrorman

by Trevor Hoyle

Fists clenched at his sides, Cawdor planted himself between them, a barrier between Elder Graye and the girl. He could hear her sobbing. He said over his shoulder, ‘You have nothing to fear now. Go below. This long piece of common dog’s turd won’t harm you again.’

  When she had gone, Cawdor said quietly, ‘If I hear that you’ve touched that girl with your filthy paws, or even made advances to her, I’ll see to it that you’re made to suffer. Is my meaning clear?’

  The long dark shape rose silently. Massaging his throat, Elder Graye said hoarsely, ‘Your interference is a dire mistake. This is none of your concern –’

  ‘I’ll make it my concern. You have my faithful promise.’

  ‘Heathen!’ Elder Graye hissed at him. ‘Pantheist! Worshipper of false idols!’ A dry rattle issued from his throat. ‘Your faith won’t protect you. We have powers beyond anything you might dream of – older than time and stretching into the infinite future. There is no escape, now and for ever!’

  ‘Would you care to be tossed over the side?’ Cawdor asked him, in casual inquiry. ‘I can arrange it. Let’s see how your infinite powers survive a ducking.’

  Elder Graye hurriedly retreated.

  Cawdor nodded. ‘Ohhh, I see… these almighty and infinite powers extend to terrorising young women, but little beyond it.’

  ‘Do not utter blasphemy or you will pay the price –’

  ‘That threat might work on Gilbert Gryble,’ Cawdor said, ‘but it won’t wash with me.’ He rasped through his teeth, ‘I tell you to your face what you are, Elder Graye. A craven, cringing, yellow-bellied, loathsome despoiler. Despicable by nature, mean of spirit, and bereft of any decent saving human grace. A foul lecher, religious charlatan, and a detestable hypocrite. To sum up, a long streak of rat’s piss.’

  Sick to his stomach, Cawdor turned on his heel and, still quivering inside so that his guts felt wrenched apart, made his way down the companionway to his cubicle on the upper deck. Partly, his disgust was aimed at himself. He could have, so easily, choked, and had wanted to, the last lingering breath from that stringy, joyless body.

  7

  ‘Mr Gryble says he will teach me all the known constellations in the sky!’ Daniel enthused, biting off a lump of cheese. He crammed in some bread. ‘And says with my sharp eyes I might spot a new ‘un and have it called after me –’

  ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full.’ Saraheda glared at him severely. ‘Jefferson, tell the boy. His manners are atrocious.’

  Cawdor shook his head.

  ‘What?’ Saraheda frowned. ‘Why not?’

  Cawdor pointed to his bulging cheeks. ‘Can’t,’ he said, munching. ‘Not allowed. Mouth full.’

  Daniel rolled over on to his side on the bed, squealing with laughter. Saraheda turned her glare on Cawdor, who kept a straight face. ‘How can I discipline him if you encourage him? Anyway, it’s the father’s duty – he’s your son.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Cawdor said. ‘You’ve relieved my mind.’

  ‘Jefferson Cawdor! What a scandalous thing to say! And in front of the boy, too!’

  ‘What? What?’ Daniel bounced up, all ears. ‘What did he say, Ma? I missed it. What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘He did! You just said so. What scand-luss thing?’

  Cawdor looked at Saraheda, widening his eyes innocently.

  ‘Well, Ma? You’re always preaching that a child should have as complete an education as possible. Answer his question!’

  Saraheda glowered at him. Then: ‘Little boys should be seen and not heard,’ she informed her son primly.

  ‘So now he can’t talk with his mouth full, nor when it’s empty.’ Cawdor sighed and wagged his head. ‘Poor little brat.’

  ‘What’s “scand-luss”?’ Daniel asked, taking another bite of cheese. ‘Is it something very bad, like –’

  ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full,’ Saraheda and Cawdor chimed together, and burst out laughing.

  There was a knock at the door. Cawdor was surprised to find one of the ship’s officers, the first lieutenant, Mr Tregorath, standing there. Of medium height and ruddy complexion, he was a Cornishman, rather dour and phlegmatic in disposition.

  ‘The captain’s compliments, Mr Cawdor. He wishes you to attend him in his cabin, forthwith.’

  ‘This instant?’

  ‘If you would, sir.’

  Cawdor fastened his collar and put on his coat, and followed the first lieutenant up on to the quarterdeck and through into the aft part of the ship, the quality end, where usually he was forbidden to tread. He had glimpsed Captain Vincent only from a distance, as Vincent paced the poop deck. A small, round man of hunched appearance, with a hooked nose and dark shaggy eyebrows.

  Close to, Captain Vincent was perhaps even more formidable, with a hard, piercing stare which swept around like a lighthouse beam, missing nothing. He was standing, hands clasped over his coat-tails, before the large leaded window that gave a view of the Salamander’s creamy frothing wake tapering into the distance.

  After removing his cocked hat, Mr Tregorath announced Cawdor and stood formally next to the long, low chart table. Above it, a large, ornate, and highly polished brass lantern swayed to and fro with the slight roll of the ship.

  The captain didn’t greet him or offer to shake hands. Cawdor wasn’t offended, because he didn’t know marine protocol. Or maybe Captain Vincent was just plain illmannered.

  ‘You’re a married man, I see, with a son.’ Captain Vincent had glanced aside at a sheet of paper, resting on an open ledger. He looked up. ‘Is that correct?’

  Cawdor nodded. ‘Yes, that’s so.’ He was half-smiling, in puzzlement more than anything. ‘My wife Saraheda and son Daniel.’

  ‘Those circumstances make what I have to say even more distasteful and unpleasant.’ The lighthouse-beam stare was fixed unwaveringly on Cawdor, at maximum intensity. ‘Allegations have been put against you, Cawdor, I have to tell you. Most serious allegations. Concerning behaviour of a lewd and bawdy nature with a young woman of good and reputable character. Indeed, little more than a girl. I must say that as master of this ship I take it upon myself –’

  ‘Wait. One moment.’ Cawdor stopped him with a raised hand. ‘Before you take it upon yourself to say anything more, who has made these allegations against me? Or accusations it sounds more like.’

  ‘The young woman I have just mentioned; she has made them. First to Mr Tregorath, and then to me, personally.’

  ‘I see.’ Cawdor nodded to himself. ‘This woman is named Elizabeth, is she not? A dark-haired girl of about seventeen or eighteen.’

  The captain threw a sharp glance at the first lieutenant. A glance that spoke volumes. The man corners himself; he as good as admits it.

  ‘That is the girl, and a fair description. She has sworn, on oath, that last night you accosted her on deck –’

  ‘I did so? She identifies me by name?’

  Captain Vincent sighed ponderously. ‘Yes, by name, sir. That you – Jefferson Cawdor – accosted and interfered with her, and forced yourself upon her intimate person. She has given me graphic detail, and I do not believe for a minute that a girl of such tender, innocent years could invent such gross and offensive practices, as were described to me in the company of my first officer.’

  ‘I agree,’ Cawdor said quietly.

  ‘You agree?’ Captain Vincent was thunderstruck.

  ‘Yes. I don’t believe it either. The question is, who did? Who put her up to this base slander?’

  ‘Put her up to it?’ Captain Vincent’s eyes bulged. ‘Are you actually suggesting that this young woman made these putrid and obscene allegations by rote? Is that your best defence, man?’

  ‘I do not have to defend myself for something I haven’t done,’ Cawdor said, keeping his voice even. ‘The girl is lying. There isn’t a shred of truth in what she says.’ He paused and reflected. ‘Except perhaps there is, involving another party.’

  ‘What other party?’ the captai
n barked.

  Cawdor, about to speak, held his tongue. He suddenly recalled what Tom Paine had said about Captain Vincent and his utter detestation of religious factions warring on board his ship. Any counteraccusation that Cawdor made concerning Elder Graye and the Shouters would most likely be viewed in that light. Captain Vincent wouldn’t give it house-room. Cawdor would just be seen as a member of one sect, the Telluric Faith, shifting the blame on to a rival religious order, so as to save his yellow skin.

  ‘Well?’ Captain Vincent demanded. ‘Will you speak? Or do you stand comdemned by your own silence?’

  Cawdor stared at the floor. Lifting his eyes, he said, ‘I should like to see this girl, Elizabeth, stand before me and accuse me to my face. She is a gentle creature, I believe. Truthful and honest. I don’t believe she has the guile to repeat this slander before me. I’ll stake my honour and good name on it.’

  The captain turned and paced, the short-necked head even more deeply hunched, like a cannonball balanced on a bulging sack of grain.

  ‘I had hoped, Cawdor, that you wouldn’t put the girl through that trial. She is distressed enough.’ He looked at Cawdor from beneath his beetling brows. ‘Do you insist on it?’

  ‘I am left with no other alternative, so it seems. Or am I to be accused and condemned without benefit of natural justice? It is a charge I can refute but not disprove, unless you will grant me the means to do so.’ Cawdor met the captain’s stare full on. ‘Yes, sir. I do insist on it.’

  Captain Vincent nodded curtly to his first officer. It became clear that they had prepared for this: the girl was already there, waiting in the captain’s private cabin, which adjoined the main saloon. Mr Tregorath brought her in. Captain Vincent indicated a chair. The girl sank into it, while the three men stood, swaying in unison to the gentle tilting motion.

  ‘Elizabeth, is this the man whom you swore on oath accosted you on deck last night? Consider most carefully.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  The girl was staring at her feet. She hadn’t once examined Cawdor’s face, nor even glanced fleetingly at him.

  Captain Vincent bent forward, hands splayed on his knees. His round, hard belly overhung his white breeches. ‘And the details of the episode – which I shall not ask you to repeat – they are true and correct in every particular?’

  Elizabeth nodded, head downcast.

  ‘You must say so. Nodding isn’t enough.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Her throat moved as she swallowed. ‘They are all true. In every particular. I swear.’

  ‘You realise that these are very serious charges.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you stick by them?’

  She nodded rapidly. ‘Yes. Yes. Every word.’

  Cawdor forced himself to stay calm. He said, ‘May I be permitted to ask Elizabeth a question?’ Captain Vincent straightened up, and gave a brusque nod. ‘Were there any others present when this alleged incident took place, Elizabeth?’

  The girl’s hands trembled violently. She curled them into tight little fists, knuckles showing white. ‘No one,’ she said, barely above a whisper.

  ‘Look at me, Elizabeth.’

  Her dark head jerked up in stages, as if on strings. Her eyes, shiny with pain and fear, were fixed on a spot somewhere beyond Cawdor’s left shoulder. All the energy seemed to drain out of Cawdor, leaving his legs weak. He saw that it was hopeless.

  He said gently, ‘I understand why you are saying this. You have been coerced into it, by a certain person, whom we both know. Will you not tell the captain the true circumstances of what took place, and what has led you to make these charges against me? Your denial is my only salvation, Elizabeth. As your friend and protector I ask you, I beg you, to give a straight, honest account. Will you?’

  Captain Vincent was watching her closely, his eyes like penetrating rays, as if they might see into her very soul.

  The girl stared glassily past Cawdor’s shoulder. She moistened her dry lips. Then, very slowly, she nodded her head.

  ‘Yes?’ said Captain Vincent alertly.

  Elizabeth raised her finger and pointed. ‘This man accosted me on deck last night and made lewd and bawdy suggestions and by means of force overcame my resistance to his advances and against my will interfered with my intimate person.’

  ‘Enough.’ Captain Vincent made an abrupt gesture of dismissal.

  Mr Tregorath took the girl out. He returned and stood by the chart table, his cocked hat tucked under his arm. The captain observed the swooping, squabbling sea gulls for a short while with a brooding gaze. He then pivoted on his heels, hands clasped over his uniform coat-tails, head lowered like a charging bull.

  ‘For this misdemeanour, Cawdor, I could have you put in irons and fed on water and hard tack for the remainder of the voyage. I shall not do so. Not for your sake, I hasten to point out. But you are a family man, and, as far as I can ascertain, of previous good character. It is for these mitigating reasons – principally for the sake of your wife and son – that I have decided to take no further action, nor to broadcast your disgraceful and unmanly behaviour to the ship’s company and passengers.’

  His eyes bored into Cawdor’s face, which under its weathered tan was pale and immobile.

  ‘But this is your one and final warning. There won’t be another,’ Captain Vincent pronounced grimly, ‘be assured of it. If I hear that your conduct falls, even in the slightest degree, below the exemplary, you shall answer to me for it. As master of this vessel you have my earnest assurance on that point. You may go. Get out.’

  Cawdor turned and went.

  8

  The days on board the Salamander were long, hot and hazy. The ocean lay flat and pearl grey beneath a sluggish vapour. They had now been at sea nearly five weeks. Shipboard life had settled into a familiar, easy pattern. To Cawdor, it seemed as if he had never known any other life but the one of this creaking, rocking world.

  In fact, it occurred to him to wonder why all seamen weren’t stark mad.

  For they lived in a different element from normal men; inhabited for months on end an alien environment, cut off from every cosy sight, sound and sensation. No houses, streets, people, horses, taverns, churches; no family and relations; no long walks in the countryside; no getting away, even for an instant, from this floating wooden cask.

  Everything here was familiar and routine, and yet strange and other-worldly. Relationships remained the same, but subtly changed, heightened, more intense. The usual rules didn’t apply, but there were other rules, even stricter, more rigorously enforced.

  It was all very odd and unsettling.

  One hot and sultry afternoon Cawdor was reading in his cubicle. It was a treatise on the dreaded subject of materials’ stress-to-height ratios, with which he found great difficulty. He must have read the same page a dozen times, and still couldn’t grasp the argument. Saraheda was in the galley, preparing food with the other women. He didn’t know where Daniel was, but was unconcerned. The boy had become accustomed to the seagoing life, and sensible to its potential dangers. Probably, Cawdor thought, he was off in a quiet corner somewhere, discussing cosmogony with Gilbert Gryble.

  A sound from above suddenly disturbed his concentration.

  There it was again. Cawdor sat up. He’d never heard anything like it. Was it a human cry? Or some monstrous squawking sea bird?

  The voice – if it was a voice – cried out again. Others joined in. Even down here, through the thickness of the deck planking, the sounds were penetrating and painful. They merged into a sustained, insistent chorus.

  Cawdor tossed his book aside and went up.

  Other passengers, also alarmed by the strange noises, were appearing on deck. Twenty or so already lined the rail to the quarterdeck. Cawdor pushed through to look. By now the screams – cries – were deafening. Some of the passengers had their hands to their ears. Others were backing away, faces screwed up in pain.

  Below, the five grey-clad figures of the elders stood in a tight
circle, facing inward. One by one, they ducked their shaven heads into the centre, and from each gaping mouth came a bellowing scream that rent the air. Down went each head, mouth agape to its widest extent, and from it blasted this horrendous unhuman sound.

  Their followers stood a few paces back in a bowed group, eyes fixed on the deck. Faster and faster the heads ducked down, a continuous rotation that was dizzying to watch, like the whirling movement of a spinning top.

  The Shouters. This must be the ritual whereby they got their name, Cawdor realised. Though what it was meant to signify –

  The next instant he was staring in horrified disbelief.

  There was somebody inside the circle.

  Between the thin, grey figures Cawdor glimpsed the curled-up form of a man, his arms wrapped protectively round his head. With each bellowing scream his body jerked convulsively. And now Cawdor saw blood spurting from his nose, mouth and ears – even the tears rolling down his cheeks were tinged with red. The blood was running freely from between his fingers and dripping thickly to the deck.

  As Cawdor watched the man being ceaselessly and mercilessly battered by the solid wall of sound, he understood the purpose of the ritual and what was happening to the poor wretch.

  He was being shouted to death.

  People were turning away from the rail, sickened and disgusted. But no one was doing anything to help. It wasn’t wise to intrude upon the arcane rituals of a religious sect – and of that sect in particular. The Shouters were feared throughout the ship. They kept to themselves, ate their own kind of food, worshipped in their own mysterious fashion. The elders ruled their ‘flock’ with an implacable, unyielding rectitude that would not tolerate any lapse or deviation, and, least of all, interference.

  Cawdor looked up to the poop deck. There were two officers on duty, one of them Mr Tregorath, the first lieutenant. He saw Cawdor looking up, and quite deliberately turned away. The other officer, holding a brass telescope in the crook of his arm, gazed blandly out to sea.

  Captain Vincent’s sentiments, it appeared, were shared by his officers; in religious matters, the policy was to look the other way. Nobody was prepared to lift a finger.