‘Death is not meant to be like this. A man is supposed to invoke Allah. There is supposed to be some dignity,’ Kasim sniffs.
‘It is what it is.’ Ibn Mohammed is pragmatic as ever. ‘Allah has done nothing for me. Never. You are my brother,’ he gasps. ‘You will be my brother, always.’
Kasim kisses Ibn Mohammed’s pus-speckled cheeks. Wellsted backs away. This is too private. A minute later there is a heart-rending sob and he knows that Ibn Mohammed is gone. He lets Kasim cry in peace a while and when he has composed himself, Wellsted pretends to have just woken.
‘I am so sorry,’ he says, bending to check the corpse.
In the moonlight Ibn Mohammed is already pale. Kasim puts his hand to the knife at his waist. ‘I’ll kill you if you try to fling him over,’ he swears.
Wellsted moves away. ‘It is not safe . . . Doesn’t the Quran stipulate an early burial?’
‘He will be buried in Muscat, facing qibla,’ Kasim growls.
In the morning, Kasim allows them to set the men to basting the body with saltwater, which the doctor says is better than nothing in stalling the inevitable decay. Kasim swaddles Ibn Mohammed’s corpse in a black shroud made of his jubbah so that they do not have to look at his face, and then he stows the body at the far end of the vessel, respectfully facing qibla, or as near as he can reckon it on a moving vessel. He mutters the words of a prayer and draws his khandjar to keep watch.
‘You’re consigning us all to further danger by keeping him here,’ the doctor tries to reason, but in his grief the slaver will not listen.
‘I’ll not have him thrown overboard like a filthy slave,’ he swears. ‘He will be buried in the ground, properly. I’ll kill you if you try to move him.’
* * *
Jessop retreats to sip a coffee and eat a biscuit as if he has been served it at his club. Sudar has a slight temperature but no pustules. He is refusing any help, believing that if he succumbs to care he will get sicker. The doctor tries to rest. For a while there will be no one else to nurse, but the danger is not over. Smallpox can incubate for a week or more.
‘We don’t want any more casualties – it’s recoveries I’m looking for. I’m not much of a doctor if none of them makes it, am I?’ he says.
But there is nothing for it but to wait the sickness out. The officers check the supplies. There is some food left but not nearly enough water.
‘We should be quarantined at least seven days with no further casualties before we make port,’ Jessop directs.
‘We’ll have died of thirst by then,’ Wellsted says. ‘We have to dock.’
‘Give it a day,’ Jessop replies. ‘We have enough water to keep going another day. If no one else gets sick we’ll have to chance it.’
Chapter Forty-Four
Ormsby is on watch on the deck of the Psyche. Duty through the night is the closest it is possible to get to being entirely alone on board, and with the darkness comes cooler air. In climes such as these, any breeze at all is what the midshipman’s illustrious grandfather would call a heavenly blessing. In Ormsby’s experience, though, the Persian Gulf is never anything less than balmy even on the darkest November night, and on the evenings there is a storm the weather remains distinctly tropical in nature even if the rain lashes onto the deck and winds howl. Tonight, though, the water is as still as the pond in St James’s upon which he used to sail his toy schooner.
He draws his silver flask from his pocket and takes a swig. In Bombay he resupplied his own stores and he now has a stash of whisky among his things. These days the midshipman finds India Pale Ale on the weak side and standard-issue rum far too sweet. His taste runs to spirits and of them all whisky is proving his favourite. It seems to travel best. Last month he turned twelve. His family allowance was increased and in celebration he bought a small cask of Strathspey. He is already almost halfway through it.
The Psyche, he reflects, is a far more pleasant posting than the Palinurus. It has freed him from Captain Haines. Though all ships work to the same strict routine, the nature of the captain affects morale. The Psyche is under the command of First Lieutenant Denton, who is altogether a far more cheerful fellow to work under. Denton runs a tight ship but he is both fair minded and good humoured. He has become a mentor to the midshipman. Ormsby is sure that the lieutenant will certainly be promoted soon – Captain Denton sounds very fine – and when that happens there will be a shifting throughout the service, for when a lieutenant rises so must a midshipman or two. After his actions in capturing the French schooner under Haines, Ormsby knows he is well placed, if somewhat young, for promotion and he is quietly hopeful.
The midshipman squints into the darkness. On the horizon he sees what looks like a fallen star. He reaches for the brass ocular lens and draws it to his eye. The light is white, too low to the swell to belong to a European ship, but unlikely to belong to a native vessel either, for the Arabs generally dock at night. Still, he can certainly make out movement. It is a small boat under sail, that’s for sure. Suddenly, the light is extinguished. Ormsby gasps.
Better safe than sorry, he shrugs, and turns to ring the bell that will rouse the crew to action. Putting out your lights, in the midshipman’s admittedly limited experience, is rarely an honourable course though, not to be outdone, and for her own protection, the Psyche’s own lamps, fore and aft, are doused immediately.
Denton is roused and sleepily makes for the bridge, pulling on his jacket as he goes. He orders silence, and the crew waits on deck, stock-still and listening for any sound that might prove a clue to the identity of the mystery ship. There is nothing – only the creak of the Psyche’s timbers as the vessel holds its position on the swell.
‘You are sure it was in that direction?’ Denton whispers.
Ormsby nods. ‘Yes, sir,’ he says.
He might be drunk but he’s found that as long as he’s conscious he can assess degree to within a point and can calculate without the aid of any instruments some of the easier mathematical equations required to navigate a vessel. If anything, a few shots of whisky make him sharper. This natural intelligence will mask Ormsby’s alcoholism for the whole of his life and the devil-may-care attitude that goes alongside the administration of a dram every waking hour will see him gain a reputation as a spirited fighter with the kind of pluck that the Indian Navy is happy to reward in its officers. In less than ten years he’ll be a captain. Denton trusts him already.
‘Take a boat and half a dozen men. Arm everyone, Ormsby, but don’t fire if you don’t have to. Just investigate what the hell it is. We’re too far out for it to be simply moored for the night. The Arabs don’t do that on trading vessels and certainly not on fishing boats. Perhaps it’s the French on reconnaissance. Try and hear what language they’re speaking. Be as quiet as you can and, for God’s sake, be careful.’
Ormsby moves into action immediately. He tags the men he wants with him as he passes along the deck, and a rowing boat is lowered silently onto the water.
‘Don’t show yourself unless you are in trouble. Light a lamp if you want us to come for you,’ Denton promises. ‘Light two and raise them if you want us to open fire.’ With that, he salutes and takes his place at the helm to keep watch.
Ormsby returns the salute and drops over the side. This is just the kind of adventure a midshipman hopes for past midnight. The prospect of rowing into the blackness is thrilling and if they can capture another French vessel he will have a double dose of prize money coming his way. The men lower their oars into the water and set off.
As the weather goes, it’s perfect tonight – it is extremely still and there is only a light swell so it is easy for the men to row, and so silent a whisper will carry orders easily. Ormsby steers in the direction he last saw the light and watches keenly for a shadow in the shape of a ship. His eyes are accustomed to picking out vessels in the darkness as much as he is adept at spotting the shoreline through heavy cloud. When he judges himself halfway across, there comes the sound of a whistle. It�
��s an eerie call, but Ormsby laughs out loud. It is an English boatswain’s whistle, directly ahead. A plain up-and-down note he’s heard a hundred times. Away boats! Away boats! He stops the men rowing. It’s a risk, but the sound of the whistle emboldens him. The French calls are different and the sound of the whistle is such a bizarre attempt at communication that who else can it be but one of his own?
‘Ahoy there! Are you a naval vessel?’ he calls blindly.
Silence.
‘Are you one of His Majesty’s ships?’
Ormsby belts. ‘Ormsby? Is that you?’ comes back the cry from a couple of hundred yards.
The voice is familiar and authoritative, but the midshipman can’t place it.
‘It’s the only bloody call I can whistle without, well, a whistle. Stay off. That’s what I mean. Stay off.’
‘Who is there? Identify yourself!’ The oars splash in the water.
‘Don’t come too close, man! Stop! For God’s sake. How many men have you?’
‘Six, sir.’
‘To which ship are you attached?’
‘The Psyche, sir. Under Lieutenant Denton.’
‘Well get back to the Psyche, Ormsby, and tell Denton to pass us by. We are under quarantine.’
‘But,’ Ormsby asks as the question pops into his head, ‘why didn’t you just raise the flag?’
There is a short bark of laughter.
‘That, son, is a long story. We have no flags. We’re on a native vessel. And we didn’t know who you were, did we?’
‘Permission to come aboard?’
‘Not unless you want a dose of smallpox. Can you be sure everyone on the Psyche is immune?’
In the little rowing boat, the able seamen squirm on the planks and the vessel rocks unsteadily in the water. Seamen are superstitious about even small things and this is a real and sizeable threat. About half of them have been immunised, of course, but far less than that number really believe the small scratch they received on their arm is any real protection. The occasional case of an immunised man who goes on to die in agony fuels rumours below decks, were any fuel required to have the men well and truly terrified. What is certain is that, when contained on a ship, diseases spread as quickly as fire through dry gorse. Ormsby casts the men a harsh look far beyond his years. He has a natural authority and the punishment for not heeding even a junior officer is severe. The men settle immediately.
‘Total immunisation is unlikely, sir. We’ll hold off. Can we carry any messages for you?’
‘Only pray for us. We have four native allies dead already. When you get back to Bombay tell them Wellsted and Jessop are alive. We will make for Muscat when it’s safe – with all who survive.’
Ormsby baulks. In the mess and at the captain’s table, the officers have toasted Wellsted and drunk to the survival of Jessop and Jones several times, without once expecting to see any of them ever again. But it’s the lieutenant’s voice – he remembers now.
‘You did it, sir! You made it, Wellsted!’
Another laugh.
‘I haven’t done it yet, Ormsby. And Jones died before we left the desert. You can tell them that in Bombay too. We should be fine, though, for both Jessop and I have had our immunisation and the doctor is recovering after his ordeal. But we cannot leave these men to their fate, and of course, we may still carry the infection on board if we were to jump ship to you. We will make for Muscat when it is safe – it is our nearest port for rendezvous.’
Aboard the dhangi, Wellsted meets Jessop’s eyes in the darkness and the doctor nods. They are agreed they have to stay. In the darkness, they weren’t sure if the approaching vessel was French or English. Now they are certain it is friendly, turning down passage is a different matter to the academic exercise of what they might or might not do if the opportunity arises. The Psyche will pick them up if they insist, of course, but there is no chance that the Arabs will be permitted on board, for that is far too risky and of no real value to His Majesty’s naval concerns.
‘Are you absolutely sure you want to stay?’ Wellsted checks with the doctor as the sound of Ormsby’s rowing boat rocks on the swell a hundred yards ahead. ‘This is a way out, if you choose to take it.’
There is a pause – a mere beat. Kasim is watching from the shadows – he cannot understand a word the men say although that makes no difference to the doctor’s decision.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Jessop does not flinch. ‘Completely. My duty is to stay and help these men.’
The lieutenant takes a deep breath and raises his voice again. ‘Get back to your vessel, Ormsby! Before we change our minds! And send us some water. We need water. We cannot dock to resupply.’
On board the Psyche, Denton makes the decision that they must move on. He trusts both Wellsted’s judgement and that of the doctor for he knows them both well. Though four years older, he was a midshipman with Wellsted when he first arrived in Bombay a pale, skinny slip of a boy. Also, he knows the doctor’s family in Lancashire. He is particularly fond of Jessop’s pretty sister, Sarah. She holds a tune beautifully and plays rummy like a rogue and for stakes so high that many a duchess would lose her sang-froid at the same table. Leaving these men in a small ship, while an infection rages is no clear-cut decision for him. Denton is a good man and he maintains a steady conscience about whatever he does. Besides, on his next home leave he will have to face Sarah, and he knows she is no shrinking violet.
‘Dear heavens,’ he murmurs under his breath as he scoops Ormsby and his men back on board.
As Ormsby explains the words that were lost at a distance, the lieutenant’s eyes dart. Sir Charles Malcolm, he knows, would have no truck with a hypocratic oath sworn to protect desert Arabs or the loyalty Wellsted feels he owes to men the Indian Navy has bought and paid for. The Bombay Marine needs its officers and doctors to tend to its own business. He must be careful when he mentions this in dispatches and be sure to make the men’s decision appear solely on medical grounds. But he will honour the decision nonetheless.
‘God save you!’ he shouts into the blackness, and he orders the rowing boat anchored and abandoned, loaded with a bottle of rum, two barrels of water, some ship’s biscuits and a side of salted beef. On top they set a lighted lamp so the men can find the supplies easily. And then the Psyche disappears smoothly into the night.
The food and water are very welcome. Jessop has only one sick man in his care now. Hassan, that evening, cried out and fell. He has not moved or made a sound since, but he is still breathing. Meanwhile, Ibn Mohammed’s corpse, still swathed in black, is starting to smell, the pustules on the skin have whitened and are firm as stone and when his jubbah is raised to douse the skin in sea water, the slaver’s lips are black.
Kasim has not told the white men that he can feel the illness starting inside him. There is a dull itch in his groin and on his chest and the beginning of a nagging pain in his belly. He is sure he’ll survive. As the Psyche relights its lamps and disappears northwards, his skin is alight and his limbs are jumpy. When the ship has disappeared completely and they bring the supplies on board, the doctor notices that Kasim finds it impossible to focus either his mind or his eyes. Allah is not always kind, but Kasim hopes he is wise. Such trials make a man question everything. He retreats aft and lays down close to Ibn Mohammed’s body, hoping for sleep, but instead he finds he has tears rolling down his face. He is glad that it is a dark night and no one can see.
‘Here,’ says Wellsted, creeping up the deck and passing a freshly filled goatskin of water to the slaver.
Kasim takes it from his hand without looking. He does not want the white man to see that his cheeks are wet. ‘Shukran,’ he says.
‘You know what to do in the desert. I know what to do at sea,’ Wellsted smiles.
Kasim drinks.
‘The doctor says you are unwell, my friend.’
Kasim sighs. ‘I will not die,’ he says simply. ‘I will not die.’ Someone has to survive it.
‘We will tend you as b
est we can.’
Kasim holds the white man’s gaze. ‘Look after Ibn Mohammed and me, my friend,’ he says. ‘If I go with him, we must be buried. Take our bodies to Muscat. Promise me that.’
‘You can trust me,’ Wellsted assures him. He means it.
Sailing south provokes mixed feelings in the lieutenant. It seems to Wellsted that his blood now runs with strong coffee and his heart beats to a doumbek drum. The arid desert has brought him to life. He wonders where Zena is. He wills her to be all right. A new convert to the mysteries of love, it is as if this voyage is only a strange interlude. As it happens it has turned out better that she is not with him. Here she would stand a deadly chance of catching the sickness. He will find her again, though, he is sure of it.
She is safe, somewhere, he tells himself.
By dawn Kasim is delirious. Jessop swabs him with sea water to try to cool the skin. As they sail slowly south, the two remaining Bedu who have dodged the infection continue to pray more times a day than even Allah requires. They lay out their carpets on the deck and the sound of their voices provides a background mumble from the moment the sun rises until it sets. The doctor directs them to swab the deck while he tends Kasim. Wellsted positions the sails to catch the best of the wind.
‘Well, we’ve done what we can and we can do no more.’ Jessop washes his hands in a bucket of sea water as the sun sets. Wellsted settles down to eat salted meat and the last of the oranges with him.
‘If we haven’t got sick we won’t get it now and if we’re lucky neither will they,’ Jessop nods at the remaining men, still making their abeisances on the deck in the dark.
This is particularly good news as the ship will be the devil’s own job to sail if there are only the two white men left alive. The servants alternately sing their prayers and mumble them, jerking like Sufi mystics, who in the normal course of events they would despise on principle. The doctor takes a mouthful of meat and chews appreciatively while he gives his prognosis.
Secret of the Sands Page 31
