Mirrorman

by Trevor Hoyle

  ‘You are aware, I take it, of the captain’s edict, Mr Gryble? The man is in solitary for a grave misdemeanour. A notice was posted to that effect, to be read by all.’

  ‘I am aware of it.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Mr Tregorath opened the door. A draught of tobacco smoke and alcohol fumes eddied in. He put his hand on Gryble’s shoulder, ushering him through to the door of the wardroom. ‘I fully appreciate that your motives are sound, Mr Gryble, in trying to help your friend Cawdor. But you see the difficulty. However, let me sleep on it. Perhaps in the morning–’

  ‘Hey, Nick, settle this argument!’ someone bawled out, addressing the first lieutenant. ‘The quack here says the colonies can raise a militia five thousand strong. I say they’ll be lucky to raise five hundred – most of them convicted felons at that!’

  ‘Pipe down,’ Mr Tregorath snapped, ‘or I’ll raise a lump on your head. It’s time you turned in.’ There was some muttered grumbling.

  Doctor Chapman rose unsteadily to his feet, hanging on to the edge of the table to prevent himself from falling. He seemed anxious to say something, but then apparently forgot what it was.

  At the door, the first lieutenant lowered his voice. ‘Pay particular attention to my warning about spreading rumours, Mr Gryble. As it is, the ship is in a nervous enough state without tales of murderers roaming free. If I hear any, I’ll know where to come.’

  Gryble nodded glumly.

  ‘Don’t be so downcast. I promise I’ll try to think of a way to help Cawdor. At least he can’t get into more trouble where he is. It won’t do any harm to let him stew there awhile.’

  ‘Unless the rats get to him first,’ Gryble muttered gloomily.

  4

  The rats were keeping their distance, for the time being. Cawdor had flung the last few scraps of salt pork, which he couldn’t eat anyway, as far as his chained hands would permit. There had been a sudden scurrying, splashing rush to get them, squealing cries as fights broke out, and then snivelling, salivatory sounds in the darkness as the winners devoured their spoils.

  Cawdor leant back against the planking, feet drawn up, hands cupped defensively over his groin. The sea drummed at his spine. He didn’t mind it, indeed welcomed it. One more mile. One more mile. One more mile. One mile less. One mile less. One mile less…

  For minutes at a time he dozed, lulled by the continual surge and thump of water. Then he came to, only to drift off again. When he heard the creak of the trap door he didn’t know whether he was awake or dreaming. A pale shaft of light appeared; the ladder slid down, making the rats scurry off into the further darkness.

  Like the rats, Kershalton kept his distance. Holding the lantern high, he first inspected the dank wooden chamber. Above him, ropes looped down from the bulkhead, attached to a block-and-tackle which swung like a pendulum with the motion of the ship. At his feet, the water swelled up in a scummy green wave to slap at his calves, receded, rose up again.

  He turned then for a closer look at Cawdor, squinting with his good eye, and there was a pallid gleam of light on metal as he slid a knife from his belt, holding it point uppermost for the quick thrust under the ribcage.

  ‘How do, squire? You’ve landed yersel’ in a bit of a pickle.’

  Cawdor had pushed himself upright, half-standing, half-leaning. The chains clinked as he raised his hands to his chest.

  ‘My word, not fit for a gentleman, this, is it? None of them little comforts of hearth and home a wife provides, eh? Bet you miss ‘em. The comforts, I mean.’ Having judged the extent to which Cawdor’s movement was restricted, he circled round, keeping Cawdor on the side where his good eye was.

  ‘Know what I think?’ Kershalton confided. ‘A carcass wouldn’t last ten minutes down here with them.’ He jerked his head back towards the darkness. ‘They’d pick it clean and crunch the bones. You can say that for ’em. They don’t waste much. Very economic.’

  Kershalton tested his footing on the gravel slope. He needed a good purchase. He didn’t intend to slip at the vital moment. He said, ‘Pity of it is, yer lad happened to get in the way. Don’t believe it if yer don’t want to, but it’s the gospel.’ He grinned ruefully, shaking his head. ‘Come lookin’ for his mother! A very bad time to pick. Very misfortunate. Must’ve been in his stars. They do say, if it’s in yer stars, yer knackered.’

  By lowering one arm, Cawdor released sufficient chain through the foot brace to raise the other. He held this arm up as far as it would go, using the taut chain as a shield. Even so, the chain was only inches away from his body. One swift jab in the right spot and that would be it. And he wanted so much to kill Kershalton that his bowels ached with the longing.

  ‘Shitehawks,’ Kershalton growled, his eyes growing big and round. ‘What a stupendous poke! Six lengths she took, all the way up to the bollocks, and never so much as a whimper. Took ‘em all and was ready for more. Still –’ he shrugged, and smiled, the wide-eyed innocent ‘– what am I tellin’ you for? You’ve been there once or twice yersel’. Excellent snatch, squire. First-rate.’

  The pain was too much to bear. Cawdor squeezed his eyes shut. He screamed. Kershalton was ready, waiting, and went for the heart under the lower edge of the ribcage, thrusting upward. Cawdor jerked the chain. It missed the blade but caught Kershalton’s wrist, dragging it sideways. The point of the knife ripped through Cawdor’s shirt, causing a deep gash in his side. Kershalton switched angles and jabbed to the right. Cawdor whipped the chain across. There was a clang as it deflected the blade. Kershalton again went for the heart. Cawdor twisted desperately, trying to ram the chain in Kershalton’s face, but was brought up short by its length. But neither could Kershalton get close enough. Every time he jabbed, Cawdor whipped the chain across.

  It was a furious, grunting, desperate, maddening stalemate.

  Kershalton stepped back into the water, chest heaving, face streaming with sweat. He hawked deep in his throat and spat a slimy gob at Cawdor. That missed too.

  ‘Against grown men you’re pretty puny,’ Cawdor panted. ‘Women and children are your mark. Come on. Come on!’

  But Kershalton was reconsidering. He had the man at his mercy. It was a question of ways and means. He swung the lantern round, his eye glittering, and then he smiled. He waded over, reached up and caught the block-and-tackle in mid-swing. He reached up higher and yanked the rope, so that the heavy block dropped a couple of feet. He sighted with his good eye, calculating the trajectory, and put his arm, his shoulder, his entire body weight into the shove.

  The solid teak block weighed about half a hundredweight. Cawdor saw it coming, but hampered by the foot brace he could shuffle only a few steps. It came at him like a battering ram. He felt it whistle past his ear and heard the boom as it struck the side planking and rebounded.

  Kershalton threw back his head and laughed. This was good sport! Better than a shy at the fair, and nothing to pay. With Cawdor both target and prize.

  He took fresh aim, and heaved.

  The block came straight at Cawdor. He’d never avoid it in time. He went down on his knees, face in the gravel, covering his head with both arms.

  Boom!

  It crashed above him and swung back. Kershalton hauled on the rope, lowering the block still further. Now it was at waist height, and easier for Kershalton to get his body behind it. This time he took a run, his face contorting as he put all his rage and hatred and fear into one mighty effort. The block swung. Cawdor saw it hurtling towards him and knew he couldn’t move fast enough or burrow deep enough. All that he could do, which he did, was to throw up his left arm protectively and curl himself into a tensed, compressed ball.

  The block missed Cawdor’s head by the merest fraction, wrenched his arm back, and broke every bone in his hand, smashing it to a soggy pulp against the planking.

  Kershalton cackled with glee. His good eye lit up with wild delight as he saw Cawdor clutching his shattered hand to his chest, head bowed, moaning and gibbering with pain.

 
‘First prize to me, squire! Now we’ll see who’s man enough. Yer wife got a length of hard cock; now it’s your turn for a length of cold steel. But I’ll wager yer won’t enjoy it half as much!’ He pulled the knife from his belt and waded through the surging water, pale lips pressed thinly to his teeth.

  Helplessly, Cawdor raised his head, his eyes clouded by the inferno of excruciating agony raging through him, nursing his broken hand like a sick infant, a shapeless, boneless mess of mangled tissue.

  ‘Franklin!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Kershalton’s head spun round. He stared up, mouth agape, at Six Fingers’ upside-down face hanging through the trap door.

  ‘Quick, get out! Someone’s here!’

  ‘Shitehawks!’

  Kershalton lunged for the ladder. His scrambling shadow disappeared with the lantern; the trap closed, leaving the chamber in pitch-blackness.

  There was a pattering of feet above, and then silence, except for the bilge water lapping sluggishly against the gravel heap upon which Cawdor lay bleeding to death.

  5

  ‘Well, Mr Tregorath?’ Captain Vincent barked, seated behind his desk. ‘You have the opportunity. Say your piece.’

  ‘First off, sir, may I give the order to have Jefferson Cawdor removed to the sickbay, where he can be attended more properly?’

  ‘No, sir, you may not. Proceed.’

  The first lieutenant glanced at Gryble, who was standing stony-eyed next to the doctor. In the morning light Doctor Chapman’s face had a grey, sickly pallor under its cracked mosaic of tiny broken blood vessels. He kept his hands behind his back, under his coat-tails, where the tremors wouldn’t show.

  ‘Come along, Mr Tregorath, I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Captain Vincent, sir, in all conscience, and in view of what’s happened, I feel we owe it to Cawdor to give him a fair hearing. He has serious charges to make against this man Kershalton, in the matter of Cawdor’s family as well as in this brutal and unprovoked attack. We cannot surely allow –’

  ‘Is that the royal “we” or the collective “we”, Mr Tregorath?’

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir.’ The first lieutenant gave a small, bleak smile of apology. ‘Of course what I mean is that the captain must decide on the appropriate course of action, given the facts as have been presented to him. But you will, sir, allow that these new circumstances require further consideration.’

  ‘Do they?’ Captain Vincent inquired, with an air of mild surprise. ‘How so? The man was given a reprimand and a firm warning – in your presence, Mr Tregorath – and followed it by disruptive behaviour and an assault on one of my officers. Those are the “facts”, sir, and nothing has altered them.’

  Gryble’s hands twitched involuntarily. He had been cautioned by the first lieutenant not to speak until invited to do so, but this was almost more than flesh and blood could bear. He opened his mouth, but the first lieutenant spotted it and shot him a stern look.

  ‘But for Doctor Chapman’s intervention, sir,’ Mr Tregorath went on swiftly, ‘Cawdor might not even have survived the attack.’ He indicated the doctor, whose slack, stooping figure alongside the first lieutenant’s lean height seemed pathetic and ludicrous. ‘After all, the man was in ship’s custody. And his injury was quite horrendous, as Doctor Chapman will testify.’

  Now that the doctor had been mentioned, Captain Vincent was regarding him as one might inspect a side of rancid beef.

  ‘Praise be for the good doctor,’ he said with heavy irony. ‘Where should we be without his sober judgement? I know that your duties are onerous, sir,’ he went on in the same tone, ‘but I wasn’t aware they extended to visiting miscreants in the bottom hold in the dead of night. You might have fallen and hurt yourself.’

  Captain Vincent made it sound as if this wouldn’t have been much of a calamity.

  ‘I was in the wardroom and happened to overhear Mr Tregorath and this gentleman talking about Cawdor. I became concerned. I felt I owed it to him to … to …’

  He moistened his lips and gestured vaguely; his hands quivered like tuning forks.

  ‘Owed him? Owed him what?’ the captain asked sharply.

  ‘Mrs Cawdor assisted me, and I felt…’

  ‘What?’

  Doctor Chapman drew himself up. He smoothed his shabby black coat, which was shiny with grease. ‘I thought them a decent, wholesome family. I was sorry for Cawdor in what had befallen him. I felt an obligation to help him.’

  ‘A decision taken after cold, rational, lucid reflection, no doubt,’ the captain remarked dryly.

  ‘On the contrary. I was drunk.’

  ‘Drunk? You amaze me, sir.’

  ‘It is as well I was,’ Doctor Chapman stated quietly, doggedly. ‘Otherwise I should not have gone, and Cawdor would have no further use for the hand I cut off, nor the rest of him, because he would be dead.’

  ‘Killed by this fellow Kershalton,’ Captain Vincent said flatly.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the first lieutenant affirmed.

  ‘And the sole testimony is Cawdor’s word alone.’

  ‘Yes –’

  ‘Without witnesses.’

  The first lieutenant’s lips tightened.

  ‘The word of a confirmed liar and molester, in fact.’

  Gryble could stand no more.

  ‘What? Is he supposed to have smashed his own hand with the block-and-tackle? Cut a gash that long in his side? He mutilates himself, cripples himself, in order to accuse someone and cause them mischief, is that your contention?’

  ‘Mr Tregorath, I am not accustomed to being spoken to in those terms in my own cabin on my own ship. If this gentleman persists, have him thrown out and shut away.’

  ‘He is excitable, sir. Understandably so.’

  The first lieutenant gave Gryble a fierce, penetrating glare.

  Gryble was, literally, hopping mad. He wanted to reach out and grab this leaden dumpling of a captain and shake some common sense and decency into the cannonball he called a head.

  ‘Now then.’ Captain Vincent sat back, stubby arms folded across the double row of brass buttons. ‘Have you questioned Kershalton about these allegations, Mr Tregorath?’

  The first lieutenant seemed surprised. ‘No, of course not, sir,’ he answered at once. ‘Not without first seeking your authority to do so.’

  ‘Well, I have. I sent Mr Turner to fetch him an hour ago, when you requested this inquiry. He is an uncouth rogue, to be sure, and not right in the noodle, I fancy. I examined him closely. He afforded me a full account of his whereabouts last night, with the names of several witnesses, who have since corroborated his version.’

  The first lieutenant stared down at the captain, his jaw dropping. ‘You’ve talked to him?’

  ‘I have just said so, Mr Tregorath.’

  ‘Why, yes. Yes. And … he provided a satisfactory alibi for his movements?’

  ‘Satisfactory to me,’ Captain Vincent said. ‘He was at prayer.’

  ‘He was at prayer.’ The first lieutenant repeated it in a tone of slow, numbed astonishment, as if speaking a foreign language.

  ‘He informs me that he is a member of the group, or sect, known as the Shouters. Elder Graye has confirmed to me that Kershalton was engaged in a ceremony of worship during the exact period that Cawdor claims he was assaulted by Kershalton.’

  The captain leant his elbows on the desk. His gaze swept keenly from the first lieutenant to Gryble, passing over Doctor Chapman as if he didn’t exist. ‘Now then, gentlemen. The choice is a simple one, it seems to me. Whether to take the word of a man proven to be a liar, or that of a respected and learned religious leader. Without hesitation, I know which I choose.’

  ‘But what about Cawdor, sir? He did suffer a grievous attack, there is no question of it.’

  ‘I accept that.’ Captain Vincent nodded. ‘By a person or persons unknown. But the case against Kershalton is closed.’

  6

  Time had lost its meaning.
The voyage in the dark seemed endless, as if each minute, each individual second, was an eternity from which he would never escape.

  His life from now on would be spent in this creaking, stinking pit, with the sound of the rushing, scudding ocean outside, and inside the peevish squeals and slack wet snivellings of the rats.

  It would go on and on, for ever and for ever.

  Except for the doctor, who came to change the dressing on the raw stump of his wrist, no one visited him. The seaman on duty in the upper hold barred entry to anyone without express permission, signed by the captain and stamped with his seal.

  Without the passage of time, the future had ceased to exist. And Cawdor couldn’t think about the past. If he did think about it, he felt his mind sinking towards madness. No future; no past. Just the ever present continuous eternity of the single, unique second he was at this moment inhabiting.

  So when the rats became bolder, paddling nearer, shiny pointed noses thrust above the scummy water, twitching at the scent of fresh blood seeping through the dressing, Cawdor was unaware of them. He was aware of the monotonous drumming of the sea against his spine, but that was like the tidal forces of his own heartbeat, relentless, lethargic, eternal.

  He wasn’t aware when the first, boldest, dripping-wet rat crept up the gravel slope, head flattened, sniffing cautiously, picking up the smell of human body heat.

  Something touched his hand.

  Cawdor found himself gazing into a pair of liquid brown eyes. He continued to gaze, blankly, without comprehension, until Satish Kumar said, ‘I did as much as was permitted, but it wasn’t enough. Perhaps it was foolish even to try. A man’s karma is inviolate and immutable. It can be altered by himself alone, in the act of rebirth. Forgive me for my arrogance and presumption.’

  ‘Forgive you?’ Cawdor laughed weakly. ‘If I’d listened and paid heed instead of being stupid and stubborn, I wouldn’t have betrayed my family. But I suppose the best advice in the world is of no use to an imbecile,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘Let me see your arm,’ Satish Kumar said. He held the bandaged stump in both palms, examining it intently.