Song of the Sea Maid

by Rebecca Mascull

  ‘I wished to inform you, Miss Price, that our ship is well out of danger by now and we are happily sailing away from the storm. Within hours all will be most calm.’

  He attempts to right his dripping hair – which I see now is very fair and must be quite golden when dry – but it sticks up fearfully.

  ‘You must change your clothes, or you will catch your death,’ I say. He wipes his hand across his eyes and I perceive he looks light-headed and I am afraid he will collapse. I remember this is his first command and find myself full of sympathy for the frightful night he must have had, ensuring the safe passage of the ship, the heavy weight of responsibility on his shoulders alone for this first time as captain.

  ‘Please, sir. Will you be seated?’

  He closes his eyes and staggers against the door jamb to my cabin.

  ‘Francis!’ I cry and my boy appears clattering down the steps. ‘Look to your captain!’

  Upon which Alexander comes to himself and turns angrily to the boy, ‘Get away with you!’ turns on his heel and dis-appears into his own quarters, slamming the door behind him.

  Francis hesitates, a look of shock and indecision clouding his features, and I say to him, ‘Do not fret, Francis, but your captain needs rest and plain food, and fresh water to drink. Bring him some and see if you can persuade him to sleep a while. He needs it.’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ he says and heads off to the cook-room.

  As the sea calms, I sleep a while. In the morning, I ready myself and come up on deck to find a brilliant blue sky. No one would guess of our tempestuous night. The seamen are about their business and the captain stands talking with Mr Kendall and Dr Forbes. They turn and greet me. I am about to ask the captain how he fares, if he feels better than when I saw him last. But I stop myself, as he must have done when orphans were slandered. I surmise he would not wish for the only woman on board to enquire after his moment of weakness – as surely he would categorise it – in front of the men of his vessel. So I hold my tongue. We are equal now, in that single regard if nothing else.

  After the storm, our captain speaks to me only in company for several days, avoiding any opportunity for argument. He is highly courteous at all times and I believe our days of baiting may perhaps be over. After a week at sea, I am leaving my cabin one morning and he is coming from his at the same moment. I am about to give a quick sink and excuse-me, when he stops and breathes as if to speak, then falls silent.

  ‘May I be of some assistance to you, sir?’

  ‘About the night of the storm. I understand from Francis that you made no requests and no fuss. Francis called you very brave.’

  I am thunderstruck to hear credit from him, almost at a loss for words. But not for long.

  ‘I merely did as I was told. Francis said I was to stay in my cabin, and that I did.’

  ‘It is said you were not sick and did not even cry out in fear. Not once. If only all our crew and our guests were so … so very …’

  ‘Manly?’ I reply, with a hint of a smile.

  ‘I believe I owe you an apology, Miss Price. Please accept it, in goodwill.’

  ‘I do, sir. I do accept it, most humbly.’

  He turns to leave.

  ‘And, sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will you accept my apology also? For behaving in such an uncouth manner during our argument. It was the behaviour of neither a lady nor a gentleman. I have a temper at times and have not yet succeeded in taming it. And I am sorry for it.’

  ‘I do not pretend to agree with your opinions. Yet I would defend your right to voice them. Perhaps if you published your ideas, in more moderate and contained prose, you would find the audience you require. And deserve.’

  ‘If it does not land me in the pillory.’

  Captain Alex smiles. ‘I cannot imagine that.’

  ‘I can,’ say I, in all seriousness.

  ‘Miss Price, you mentioned to me that you had a brother pressed into service with the Royal Navy.’

  ‘I believe so, yes. I was very young and it is a callow memory.’

  ‘You say you have not seen him since. If you could give me his name, I would be happy to make enquiries for you in the naval records.’

  ‘That is very gracious of you, Captain. But I am afraid I do not have his name, neither last nor first. I have no recollection even of my own name from those years, and that which I go by now was given me by the matron of my orphanage. Perhaps he was not even my brother, just a kind soul who cared for me. I have no proof of any of it, you see.’

  ‘I do see. Without a name, it would be quite impossible to locate him.’

  ‘Of course. But I am exceedingly touched by your solicitude in this matter. I have resolved that I will never see my brother more and that is that. To live a life of regret is a wasted life, is it not?’

  ‘Agreed.’ And he makes a short bow and adds, ‘After you, Miss Price.’

  We are at sea nine days further until we are told that we shall dock in Lisbon the following afternoon. I have seen little of the captain. His presence at dinner on the night in Falmouth does not become a habit and he is usually to be found talking with his men or in his cabin at mealtimes. His enquiry after my brother has warmed me to him and I would welcome some more discussion with him, yet it is not to be. On our last night aboard, I cannot sleep, too apprehensive of my landing tomorrow and what it will bring. I have lain awake for hours when there is a quiet knock at my door, so quiet I believe at first I am hearing things.

  ‘Yes?’ I answer just as quietly, in case I am wrong.

  ‘Francis, miss. Cap’n wishes to see you.’

  ‘Have I time to dress myself?’

  ‘A little time, miss. But hurry.’

  Never one to concern myself too much with appearances, I pull out my stays and simplest dress and throw them over my shift. My hair has escaped its nightcap, as ever, and tumbles everywhere inconveniently. I try to plait it away from my face as I follow Francis who holds his lamp aloft to light my way up the steps to the deck. My mind is perturbed at the thought of emergency. Why ever else would the captain call for me in the middle of the night?

  I see him first standing by the side, his back to me, head tipped back, looking into the sky. He turns to me and beckons excitedly and it is then that I see it. Up in the black night sky, I see the waxing moon, very full and bright. Yet around it extends a faint halo and on each side, placed in perfect symmetry, are two smaller pale discs, shining dully and connected to the moon by the faintest of curved lines.

  I stand beside Captain Alex and we both gaze at it without speaking.

  ‘It must have a name,’ say I.

  ‘It does. It is a mock moon. Or some call it a moon dog. Astronomers have named it paraselene.’

  ‘Why does it occur?’

  ‘I have no clue. It is more usual to find it in cold places. But it is rare in any case. Very rare.’

  ‘It is beautiful.’

  ‘Yes.’

  We stand for some time, unmoving.

  ‘I hope you can forgive me, for waking you at such an hour.’

  ‘Of course. I am so very grateful. Look at it!’

  ‘I believed you would wish to see it. As a natural philosopher.’

  I look about me and see only the sailors of the night watch. ‘You did not call our Gentlemen of Science?’

  And with a curious lilt, as if he does not quite understand the reason either, he replies, ‘No. I did not.’

  We stay there for many moments, beneath the benign light of the mysterious moon dog, the ship swaying lazily larboard to starboard, east to west, proceeding steadily south towards our landing-place.

  The final leg of my journey is an agreeable passage, without the thick fog predicted by some on board that customarily hangs over the Portuguese coast. By mid-morning on a beautifully clear day, we passengers stand on deck and wait for the first sight of Lisbon. But first, we sail in sight of an array of islets, with one greater island and other smaller islets
scattered about it. There are thousands of seabirds visible as dots taking off and landing from the smaller in particular, and visible on the main islet is a squat, irregular octagonal fort, all surrounded by vegetation – coloured apple green by the morning sun – spots of colour from other greenery and flowers and rocky outcrops, carved out by the restless sea.

  Captain Alex arrives beside me and says, ‘Miss Price, allow me to introduce you to your islands.’

  ‘Those are the Berlengas?’ I ask with gladness, as I did not know we would be able to see them on our approach.

  ‘Yes, the Burlings. So, they will be your work for the next six months, I presume?’

  ‘Yes indeed!’ say I and gaze upon them, peering back at them once every man else on board has since turned away and looks for Lisbon once more.

  By lunchtime, we are in sight of the rock of Lisbon, the famous Cabo da Roca. Here are broad cliffs that rise up hundreds of feet and cause cooing from the passengers. At the very top we see a small building perched, a hermitage that Leland tells us is the residence of a former English sea captain. In the distance, one can see the slopes of the Sintra mountains covered in clouds of woodland. We turn east for the land, following the coastline past small fishing ports and then we approach a massive and impressive scar in the coast, flanked by forts, where the Tagus River meets the sea. When we come near the entrance of the river, a local pilot comes aboard to take command of the ship to navigate her into the Tagus to the anchoring-place. He is spoken of as a poor fisherman and is rather mocked by the able seamen aboard, though to me he is my first sight of a Portuguese man, and I appreciate the flair of his long cloak thrown in a cavalier fashion about his shoulders and a tall cocked hat. It is said the passage through the channel is hazardous and only to be undertaken by the locals such as him who have the expertise to do it. Once safely past the river bar, Captain Alex takes control again and sees us up the final stretch.

  All along the way on each side are dotted a range of forts, until we reach what those on board called Bellisle, the gateway to Lisbon. Another fort looms into view, this one grandiose with over a dozen cannon portals and thick walls ornamented with stone twisting ropes, spheres and ships; its name is the Torre de Belem, richly historical as it is the spot where Vasco da Gama set out to discover the sea route to the east and many other adventurers since, in the great age of Portuguese exploration. We are hailed from the fort and required to anchor here for a health inspection, in order to protect Lisbon from disease. Our seamen jeer and mock the inspectors and we hear from the master’s mate that the sailors’ tobacco is sometimes confiscated as contraband and thus the Portuguese inspectors are universally hated.

  Once inspected and duly passed, we proceed quite close to the shore and see our first Portuguese coaches trundling along the main roadway into the city. We sail slowly by a raft of glorious mansions, monasteries, palaces and estates, jumbled alongside small white houses, the scene punctuated by windmills with linked sails like webs turning slowly in the sweet air. The land is filled now on either side by the patchwork outskirts of the city, by and by thickening into the jumble of waterfront life – churches, houses, a prison, and further on the buildings of the shipyards and the wharves, and another grander waterfront palace. Gathering all around us in the water bob and speed a variety of watercraft: taxis and fishing boats and cargo ships. The view from our ship of this city is magnificent and quite puts our London to shame, dirty and squalid as it seems beside this array of sparkling buildings. I have come here to study nature and yet I am presented with the height of architecture and culture, and find myself marvelling at the abundance of human achievement, something no animal has yet approximated, to my knowledge.

  Caught up in the wonders of the view alongside the Gentlemen of Science, I am suddenly reminded that they do not vacate the ship here with all their belongings, as they will use the ship as a dwelling during their stay in Lisbon. But I am to leave it very soon, with all my belongings still distributed about my cabin. So I rush back to my cabin to find all my things have been fully packed by Francis. He is watching as my trunk is removed on the shoulder of a brawny seaman, who tells the boy to get out of his way in vulgar language. As I thank Francis, I see a melancholy gleam in the boy’s wide eyes.

  ‘I will miss you, Francis,’ say I and the gleam transforms into two fat tears that roll down his cheeks. He looks away shamed, and wipes his face on his sleeve.

  ‘Don’t tell the cap’n,’ he mutters and I swear I would never do such a thing.

  ‘You will have adventures in Africa and I will see you again in six months, when the Prospect comes to Lisbon again, and I will be boarding for my return to England. I will need your help then as much as now. Will you assist me then, Francis?’

  ‘With honour, miss,’ says this sweet boy and salutes me fittingly. ‘But do be careful. They’re saying on deck that the French have been here in Lisbon some weeks past, their ships causing a stir in the Tagus. Keep your wits about you, miss.’

  ‘Thank you for the wise advice.’ I pat him on the shoulder, which he takes with some pride.

  On deck, it is time to say farewell to the crew and the guests, who are very courteous and wish me well, while we are bustled on all sides by the unloading and loading of goods by our English seamen and the dark-skinned Portuguese dock workers. Before I descend to set foot on Portuguese soil, Captain Alex offers his hand and I shake it heartily, both of us laughing at the repetition of our first meeting.

  ‘Here, you see that man there? That is the footman from the English Hotel, and he will take you to a coach that will transfer you safely to your accommodation. I shall ensure you are contacted directly we arrive back in six months’ time. Do not wander off into the Portuguese wilds, Miss Price. Keep yourself most safe, will you not, and avoid reckless adventure?’

  ‘I doubt it!’ I jest, or half jest.

  Here in the warm blue day I can see the pleasure he takes in his post of captain of this ship, and in the sights he must see on every journey across the seas. His eyes veritably shine with it.

  13

  My passage from the ship through the dockyards to a coach is not quite as savoury as the view from the river suggests. The muddy streets of Lisbon smell as badly as the worst of St Giles, especially as they bake in the mid-July sunshine. It is so warm that the ravens perched in trees stretch out their wings to cool themselves. The roads are teeming with men and women of black skin carrying out any number of jobs in the streets, coming and going from rich houses and poor, selling mussels and other foodstuffs in stalls and washing linen, not unlike the dark-skinned people I have seen about St Giles and the docks in London. Here they are somewhat more exotic, as some I see playing guitars and mandolins, while one dances in a rather shocking manner. Passing through are paler men of the cloth in their purple, black or white ecclesiastical robes – there seem to be priests everywhere one looks – alongside gypsies and peasants and gentlemen followed by their footmen in livery who wait for them by closed doors smoking cheroots; street vendors hawking fish, wheat, chestnuts and rainbow-winged parrots; packs of wild-faced children running about the streets like dogs, of which there are also dozens; though apart from the poor women, there are precious few ladies anywhere to be seen on the streets, unlike my home city. I take this as a warning of its dangers and resolve to avoid studying too closely the human life on the streets of Lisbon, and instead aim to concentrate on my study of the safer territory of plants and animals of the Berlengas Islands at the first possible opportunity.

  I arrive at the English Hotel, standing on the highest ground near Lisbon, nearest the sea. The road past the hotel is jostling with carriages and coachmen, and gentlemen on saddle-horses, all of whom convey a superior appearance as they go out together for an airing after luncheon. I take a moment to turn and look out across the city. It stretches across seven hills, beside the shining broad river. I would estimate one can see fifty miles across country from here. Such a contrast from the restricted dark views eve
rywhere one looks in London. I had no thought that a city could have such a handsome prospect, despite masking its grubby nature at street level.

  Inside the hotel, I meet the owners: Mr and Mrs Dewar from Northumberland, old friends and business associates of Mr Woods. We all speak fondly of my benefactor and they know well of his propensity for drink and we share a humorous tale or two. The hotel is frequented by a great deal of company: English, Irish, Scots and Welsh; gentlemen, ladies, merchants and servants. I am shown to my room, which is clean, with flowered walls and a comfortable bed. There is even an escritoire for my work. At the first opportunity, I ask Mrs Dewar to make arrangements for me to be taken to Peniche, the town from which I will be visiting my warmly anticipated islands. She reveals it is all arranged, after receiving word from Mr Woods to that effect some days ago. I am to be taken there tomorrow morning, after an early breakfast. And thus I only have a few hours to rest, prepare and wait for my first visit to Ilha Berlenga.

  Before I go, Mrs Dewar presents me with an impromptu gift: ‘Take one of my parasols, dear. You’ll need it this time of year, especially by the sea. No lady wants to be turned brown, eh?’ Yet as she says this, I see her frowning eyes scan my face and deduce she notes the natural duskiness of my complexion, though is too polite to mention it.

  It takes all day by coach, with the horses rested three times on the dusty, potholed yet picturesque roads to the attractive coastal town of Peniche. Mrs Dewar has arranged for me to stay during the week in a small guest-house on a hill overlooking the sea owned by the sister-in-law of a wine merchant known to Mr Woods. She is a Portuguese widow of late middle age named Dona da Seda (in English, one could call her Mrs Silk), dressed in black from head to toe, though I know not how long ago her husband died. She is polite yet taciturn, and I welcome this; I know I will not be distracted from my work by this lady of few words. From this house, I will travel daily by ferry to the island, returning at night to eat and sleep. On Saturdays I will return to the English Hotel, where I am required to write my weekly diary, which is given to Mrs Dewar and forwarded to Mr Woods in England. Such are the minimal requirements laid upon me by my patron. He also wants to ensure I am well looked after at the hotel at least once a week, as the Peniche guest-house is plain in the extreme, with bare walls painted white, the minimum of furniture and no decoration of any sort, besides a crucifix on the wall above the low narrow bed. It is not without comfort though, and scrupulously clean. It suits me perfectly, far more than the hotel which, though congenial, would be far too sociable for collating my notes each evening.