Song of the Sea Maid

by Rebecca Mascull

  Two days out from Gibraltar, we sail into fog so thick we lose sight of all other ships in our convoy, including our man-of-war. We hear shots fired and all passengers cry out and there is much consternation. Where is my Robin now? Our hopeless captain assures us this is no corsair here to attack, rather it is another ship from our group signalling its location and we shall soon discover them. As with all his other promises, he is mistaken and we see no more of our convoy. We emerge from the mist a week later, off course and drifting aimlessly. We must make our way alone now, in warring waters.

  We are almost two months at sea and I fear I will turn distracted. The only moment of respite is the sight of a voluminous cloud of white butterflies fluttering past the ship on its way south, which lifts my spirits momentarily in awe at a thousand fragile wings making such an epic journey. I had not suffered a moment of seasickness since the Gaivota’s first trips, and yet on this journey I find myself vomiting copiously several times a day. In my delirium, I come to believe I died at Gibraltar docks and this ship is my boat to purgatory, which I rave at our surgeon-quack. He does at least agree, being a young man of hitherto fine manners and rather appalled to find himself in such a revolting posting. He gives me some small help and ensures I eat broth when I am able and brings me raisins too, but he is run off his feet with the other passengers and mostly I shift for myself. I miss my boy Francis exceedingly; there was so little of ill design or ill nature in him, he is a rare friend and I feel his absence weigh upon me.

  I never thought to be glad to see London, but I am so relieved when the Thames is first sighted that I weep overboard and my tears mingle with the river’s flow. Our ship is weeks past its estimated arrival and thus I know no one will await me at the wharf. I must find my way to a carriage and manage to stay standing long enough to hire a post chaise to rush me home. I am told later that I arrive at the door pasty and talking gibberish, whereupon I faint in the hallway, though I have no memory of this. I am carried to my bed and sleep for many hours. I recall Susan Applebee coming to me and it is gratifying to see her benign face again. Within two days of comfort and broth I am sitting up and feel quite well. Mr Woods comes in to see me and we have our first proper talk since my arrival in England.

  ‘In your absence, my dear, I have had a most melancholy time and missed your company exceedingly. I have in consequence embarrassed myself with liquor on too many occasions. But what am I to do? If I go out with my associates or in society, I must drink as they do or they will label me a poor singular fellow. But I always had my happy home to return to, with my dear Dawnay to speak with on the morrow. But this past year – yes, a year, you cannot deny it; and it was meant to be only six months or so – I have lived with constant worry about you and sincerely regretted my decision to let you go. Now you should know that I will not be funding any more travels for you around the world; no, indeed, I will not. You are aware, I believe, if you received my letter? You did? That the Lisbon disaster harmed me financially and so will war with France; now we all must take care in pecuniary terms. So it is that, even if I did not miss your company so much, my dear, I would not be able to afford to fund your adventures for much longer.’

  After this oration, we fall into our old habits of chatter and talk affably of the sights I have seen. He is most enthralled with my sea journeys and not so interested in the islands I visited or even the earthquake or the battle for Minorca. It seems he misses his days at sea, as his particular interest is directed at which kinds of sails, boats, ropes and cables and suchlike each ship I sailed in possessed. I do my best to answer him but fear I disappoint him as – when his eyes might have been looking inward at the ship’s fittings – mine were usually outwards, to the sea, the sky or the land, or else to a particular sea captain.

  The curve of his neck to the bare shoulder as he kissed me.

  Next I am visited by Susan, who ushers out Mr Woods. ‘Do not vex or upset the child,’ she chides, as if I am still in infancy, and insists I must rest.

  ‘Travelling does not agree with you, my dear.’

  ‘Oh, it was a bad ship home, that is all.’

  ‘You are thin and whey-faced and you look sick. Did you catch a tropical disease of some sort?’

  ‘I was not in the tropics, Susan. Please, I am fine and will thrive again.’

  ‘There is a sadness about your eyes. Is it so heavy with you to return to us?’

  I cannot speak of that. ‘How is Owen these days?’

  ‘Ah well, he is much improved, thank you.’ Her face lights up. ‘He is so nimble on his crutch and peg now, and is even courting a woman of good family. She likes my Owen’s handsome face and humorous manner and so does not seem to mind his absence of leg. She is the young widow of a gunsmith and now Owen works in that business too, with a brother of hers who trains him in the craft. It is a business that one seldom wants bread in and is rather ingenious, requiring a steady hand and skill with wood and metal. He always had good hands, my Owen. He does well.’

  ‘I am so very pleased to hear it.’ I feel much revived by such good news. It quite lifts my spirits and delays the moment when Susan will look at my eyes again and ask me what ails me in my heart.

  A knock on the door signals her husband has arrived to talk with me; though she tries to dismiss him, I bid he enters. He sits beside me and his wife leaves, shaking her head in disapproval. We exhibit our customary shyness with each other regarding our mutual fondness, yet I see from his searching eyes he is concerned for me and, I believe, glad to see me safely home.

  ‘So, my dear, you escaped for a good year or so,’ says my tutor. ‘Did you wish to stay away longer?’

  ‘I was compelled to return.’ Then I recall a conversation my tutor and I had once, many years ago, and a certain phrase he used with me when he chose not to explain himself. ‘Circumstances conspired.’

  ‘I see. Do you wish to speak of it?’

  ‘Not in particular.’

  ‘Very well. But did your work proceed well? Did you learn much on your trip? Was it valuable to you?’

  ‘Oh indeed, exceeding much. I did learn a phenomenal amount. Almost too much to comprehend the true breadth of it all. I need to collate my notes and look upon them with eyes afresh, in order to coalesce them into something meaningful. I believe there is importance there. I intend to begin today.’

  ‘There is plenty of time, you know.’

  ‘I always feel as if time is tumbling away from me, Mr Applebee.’

  ‘You may call me Stephen these days. You are not a child any more. You are an adult now.’

  ‘Perhaps I am.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. In your character, your demeanour, I believe you are altered.’

  ‘I am a year older. And now I must begin to earn my living.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I must publish in order to earn money, as Mr Woods has said he will not fund my travels again. And indeed I must travel, as I intend to go to Russia to study the sea cow, to America to look at the fossils of giant mammals, and to the island of Sumatra to find an orang-utan to examine or otherwise Africa to look at apes.’

  ‘Mr Woods believed your need to travel would be cured by this sojourn.’

  ‘Did you believe that?’

  ‘Not for a moment. Can I assist you with your work?’

  ‘You must! I need your sound eye and powers of reasoning. I have something of note here, yet I am unsure as to its full significance. It concerns the progenitor of all humankind.’

  ‘Is that all?’ says Stephen and he laughs.

  We begin the next day. When Stephen is not attending to his other pupils, he arrives as soon as ever he can to assist me. We spend the next week or so with all my findings from the painted cave of the Berlengas and the ancient structures of Minorca, as well as my labelled watercolours of the varied sea life of these islands. We read through my musings, rearrange and discuss them, tease out the arguments. One afternoon, we have everything arranged in neat piles all over the table in t
he curiosities room, and all the artefacts are gathered in groupings alongside findings we already possessed for comparison. We stand back and stare at our pattern of work. Stephen takes off his wig and wipes his brow with it.

  ‘Are you unwell?’ say I.

  ‘I am nervous.’

  ‘The truth should not make you anxious.’

  ‘Indeed it does. I believe there is much work of value here. There are studies of coral polyps, molluscs, sea grasses and your sea cow here that would be of great interest to those who survey the plants and animals of the oceans. Also your study of the animal life of the islands – particularly those curious lizards of the Minorcan islets – educated ladies would enjoy reading such things. You would do very well in creating a short book examining the flora and fauna of these islands and I imagine a publisher might pay you a small advance for such a work. But as to your other work – that concerning the cave, the drawings therein, the ancient structures and their architects, your theories about their conception; indeed your ideas regarding the history of humans – Dawnay, I must urge you strongly not to attempt to publish your findings.’

  ‘How can you say such a thing? You, of all people, Stephen? My tutor, my friend in natural philosophy?’

  ‘It is because you are my friend that I advise it. I am certain you will not get a publisher who would risk it, as both they and you could well be arrested for blasphemy. Do you not recall the publisher in the pillory? Your theories about the Flood, and Creation, the earth creating itself through earthquakes rather than God’s hand? And your ideas of how the paintings suggest the breaking down of our social hierarchy, of placing women on the same footing with men, the orphan on the same footing as the King? Seditious libel! And you could be accused of treason too! I certainly could not involve myself, as despite Owen’s recovery he still lives with us and relies on us for much of his maintenance, and may always. I cannot risk arrest or prosecution.’

  ‘But do you agree with my arguments, Stephen?’

  ‘I cannot disagree wholly. They are compelling and worthy. But what matter is it if I agree with you? Just because you are right, it does not mean society will agree with you, especially the authorities. Consider Galileo. You may think we have moved on from his time in this modern age of rational, scientific thought. But the crimes of blasphemy and treason remain and are very real. Let us be clear: we are talking of the pillory, of prison, or worse.’

  ‘Very well, if there is to be no publication, then I can seek out a scientific institution and deliver a lecture on my theories. Surely they would be well received by like-minded intelligent people?’

  ‘That would be worse! To publish anonymously is dangerous enough. But to stand in person and deliver your ideas from your own mouth is fat-witted! You would be likely lynched and taken to the law on the spot! I could even see it causing riots in the streets. The English love a good riot and seem to need no excuse nowadays.’

  ‘I do not believe that men of science would allow such a thing to happen.’

  ‘You expend too much faith in natural philosophy. Remember that many geologists devote their studies to the search for evidence of the Deluge and to prove the Bible correct, not to disprove the existence of God! And besides, all the scientific institutions I know of do not accept women, even to listen to lectures, let alone give them. Most scientific men are devout and devoted to both their God and their King. They will not stand by as either are called into doubt, let alone rubbished and done away with, as the natural consequence of your theories suggests.’

  ‘Perhaps a letter to the Gentleman’s Magazine? An anonymous one?’

  ‘They would never publish it. The editor would most likely reply that their magazine would never be a conduit for ideas of this nature. Unless you toned down your arguments. Even then, I would expect furious replies from clergymen.’

  ‘I do not wish to tone down my arguments, or what is the point of publishing at all? But surely there must be another forum, however small, that is ready to hear such ideas and discuss them sensibly? We cannot be the only ones on this earth.’

  ‘There may be one or two at most, possibly in France? But we are at war and contact is impossible. You must be patient, Dawnay, write up your work thoroughly, thoughtfully. Continue your studies. Omit all reference to these dangerous, modern ideas. And you may find in a few years that society changes enough for you to share your theories.’

  ‘A few years?’

  ‘What causes your desire for instant satisfaction in this regard?’

  ‘Because of what has been lost, what has been suffered. Everything I have been through, to complete this work and bring my ideas into being.’

  ‘What have you been through, Dawnay? Will you tell me part of it?’

  ‘I do not wish to speak of it. It is … private.’

  ‘It may help you come to terms with it.’

  ‘I have come to terms with it. The work is my answer. The work is all. And what was the point of it all if I keep silent? If I play the coward? I will not waste my life in waiting for society to catch up with me.’

  ‘Patience. You have never possessed this virtue. It comes with age and I’d hoped you might have developed some by now. You scribble patterns in the sand and see the tide come and wash away your prospects and you believe all is lost. But think not in the daily movement of the waves on the beach, think instead of the mighty cliffs above, of years of erosion, the layering of sediments, of eras not minutes. Develop a new way of viewing your life, Dawnay, or you will throw it away in rash decisions.’

  But I am compelled and spend the next month writing up all my notes from Portugal and Minorca into a coherent whole, or a kind of scientific paper, and I do not omit one thought, one idea, however dangerous Stephen considers it. I work alone and I am filled with a frenzy for it. Stephen advises me to slow down or I will make myself ill. I confess only to myself that I do feel weak at points, thus I eat more and more and gain a little flesh. But no matter, as it is all fuel to my work. I have opened up the boxes I had sent back to England from Portugal containing the ancient artefacts recovered from the Berlengas and I spend many tactile hours examining them, at times moved to tears by the memories they revive. In all this time, I hear nothing of Robin. Nothing.

  The bulge of muscle in his upper arms, taut and spherical as he lifted his body to lie atop mine.

  His absence is a fact and I must resign myself to it. My work fills my mind, my days and all my waking hours. It is only in sleep that my dreams torture me with exquisite memories and I awake almost every day, knowing that my pretence is futile and I am sick with love for this man. Work is my cure and so I resolve to sleep as little as possible. I work all day with wool in my ears to block out the street noise and often into the night by candlelight, one time singeing my hair on said candle when I fall asleep at my desk.

  By September I am ready to seek a publisher. I do not reveal to anyone at home my business this day, as I leave the house and seat myself in a coach, and direct the driver to each address I have written on a piece of notepaper: a list of publishers, who I visit unannounced, one by one, clutching my precious manuscript. I have listened to Stephen’s warning, but I believe there must be educated men out there who will not condemn me immediately. I resolve, before I enter each publisher’s establishment, to speak conservatively of my ideas, to begin cautiously and reveal only snippets, to gauge their reactions before I reveal my true theories. And thus I do the round of all the most prestigious (and several of the much less so) publishers in London. I am greeted with politeness and condescension. Stephen was right inasmuch as some are quite interested in a book detailing the flora and fauna of Minorca in particular, now that this Mediterranean jewel has been lost to our nation. One expressed the desire to create a picture book of my watercolours, in order to please a female audience, while another asked if I had truly written a book or else plagiarised it, as ‘no lady could understand so many hard words’. Others are polite yet immediately dismissive, and do not attend t
o hear even a word of my work, as they are not taking submissions at present. I spend several hours at this toing and froing and by the latest rejection I am heartsick and hungry. There are several more on my list, but I do not know how much more stamina I possess and resolve to visit only with the one individual whose establishment lies in my path back to my benefactor’s house.

  His name is Simeon Graybourn and his is one of the smaller establishments, next door to a physician. The one-room office is at the back of the building, facing on to a busy square, where the windows rattle each time a post chaise passes. He has no partner in his firm, only a young assistant, who today is away from the office. Mr Graybourn is good-natured and affable, and every wall of his room is clothed in shelves jammed with books and papers, while more teetering papers occupy much of the floor space, as well as a haphazard collection of oddments – perhaps sent by correspondents – of adventitious objects, such as a dried piece of scaly skin here and what appears to be a leg bone there. It brings to mind my own study and I am at home at once. I begin with my account of the islands and he is attentive. He asks me searching questions about my ideas behind my finds. I begin to tell him of my experiences abroad: I touch upon the cave paintings, the ancient structures, the movement of the earth, fossils and mermaids.