Rites of Passage Page 8

  “Nonsense, my dear! Do not pretend that these are circumstances—even to our somewhat inelegant posture​—that these are circumstances with which you are wholly unfamiliar!”

  “What shall I do?”

  “Fiddlesticks, woman! The danger is slight as you know very well. Or are you waiting for—”

  I caught myself up. Even to pretend that there might be something about this commerce that was commercial seemed an unnecessary insult. To tell the truth I found there were a number of irritations combined with my natural sense of completion and victory and at the moment I wished nothing so much as that she would vanish like a soap bubble or anything evanescent.

  “Waiting for what, Edmund?”

  “For a reasonable moment to slip into your hutch—cabin I would say—and repair your, your toilette.”

  “Edmund!”

  “We have very little time, Miss Brocklebank!”

  “Yet if—if there should be—unhappy consequences—”

  “Why, my dear, we must cross that bridge when you come to it! Now go, go! I will examine the lobby—yes the coast is clear!”

  I favoured her with a light salute, then leapt back into my cabin. I restored the books to their shelves and did my best to wrench the iron support of the canvas basin back into shape. I lay at last in my bunk and felt, not the Aristotelian sadness but a continuance of my previous irritation. Really the woman is such a fool! The French! It was her sense of theatre that had betrayed her, I could not help thinking, at my expense. But the party was breaking up on deck. I thought that I would emerge later when the light in the lobby was a concealment rather than discovery. I would take the right moment to go to the passenger saloon and drink a glass with any gentleman who might be drinking late there. I did not care to light my candle but waited—and waited in vain! Nobody descended from the upper decks! I stole into the passenger saloon therefore and was disconcerted to find Deverel there already, seated at the table under the great stern window with a glass in one hand and of all things a carnival mask in the other! He was laughing to himself. He saw me at once and called out.

  “Talbot my dear fellow! A glass for Mr Talbot, steward! What a sight it was!”

  Deverel was elevated. His speech was not precise and there was a carelessness about his bearing. He drank to me with grace, however exaggerated. He laughed again.

  “What famous sport!”

  For a moment I thought he might refer to the passage between me and Miss Zenny. But his attitude was not exactly right for that. It was something else, then.

  “Why yes,” said I. “Famous, as you say, sir.”

  He returned nothing for a moment or two. Then—

  “How he does hate a parson!”

  I was, as we used to say in the nursery, getting warmer.

  “You refer to our gallant captain.”

  “Old Rumble-guts.”

  “I must own, Mr Deverel, that I am no particular friend to the cloth myself; but the captain’s dislike of it seems beyond anything. I have been told that he has forbidden Mr Colley the quarterdeck on account of some trivial oversight.”

  Deverel laughed again.

  “The quarterdeck—the afterdeck, poop and all! So he is confined more or less to the waist.”

  “Such passionate detestation is mysterious. I myself found Colley to be a, a creature of—but I would not punish the man for his nature other than to ignore him.”

  Deverel rolled his empty glass on the table.

  “Bates! Another brandy for Mr Deverel!”

  “You are kindness itself, Talbot. I could tell you—”

  He broke off, laughing.

  “Tell me what, sir?”

  The man, I saw too late, was deep in his cups. Only the habitual elegance of his behaviour and bearing had concealed the fact from me. He murmured.

  “Our captain. Our damned captain.”

  His head fell forward on the saloon table, his glass dropped and broke. I tried to rouse him but could not. I called the steward who is accustomed enough to dealing with such situations. Now at last the audience were indeed returning from the upper decks, for I could hear feet on the ladder. I emerged from the saloon to be met by a crowd of them in the lobby. Miss Granham swept by me. Mr Prettiman hung at her shoulder and orated to what effect I know not. The Stocks were agreeing with Pike père et mère that the thing had gone too far. But here was Miss Zenobia, radiant among the officers as if she had made one of the audience from the beginning! She addressed me, laughing.

  “Was it not diverting, Mr Talbot?”

  I bowed, smiling.

  “I have never been better entertained, Miss Brocklebank.”

  I returned to my cabin, where it seemed to me the woman’s perfume yet lingered. To tell the truth, though irritation was still uppermost in my mind, as I sat down and began to make this entry—and as the entry has progressed​—irritation has been subsumed into a kind of universal sadness—​Good God! Is Aristotle right in this commerce of the sexes as he is in the orders of society? I must rouse myself from too dull a view of the farmyard transaction by which our wretched species is lugged into the daylight.

  ZETA

  It is the same night and I have recovered from what I now think a morbid view of practically everything! The truth is I am more concerned with what Wheeler may discover and pass on to his fellows than considerations of a kind of methodistical moralism! For one thing, I cannot get the iron ring back into precise shape and for another, that curst perfume lingers yet! Confound the fool of a woman! As I look back, it seems to me that what I shall ever remember is not the somewhat feverish and too brief pleasure of my entertainment but the occasional and astonishing recourse to the Stage which she employed whenever her feelings were more than usually roused—or perhaps when they were more than usually definable! Could an actress convey an emotion that is indefinable? And would she not therefore welcome with gratitude a situation where the emotion was direct and precise? And does this not account for stagey behaviour? In my very modest involvement with amateur theatricals at the university, those whom we had hired to be our professional advisers named for us some of the technicalities of the art, craft or trade. Thus, I should have said that after my remark “Why, my dear, we must cross that bridge when you come to it!” she did not reply in words; but being half-turned away she turned wholly away and started forward away from me—would have gone much further had the hutch allowed of it—would have performed the movement we were told constituted a break down stage right! I laughed to remember it and was somewhat more myself again. Good God, as the captain would agree, one parson in a ship is one too many, and the stage serves as an agreeable alternative to moralism! Why, was there not a performance given us by the reverend gentleman and Miss Brocklebank in the course of the one service we have had to suffer? I am this very moment possessed by a positively and literally Shakespearean concept. He had found her attractive and she had shown herself, as women will, anxious to kneel before a male officiant—they made a pair! Should we not do them good—or, as an imp whispered to me, do us all three good? Should not this unlikely Beatrice and Benedict be brought into a mountain of affection for each other? “I will do any modest office to help my cousin to a good husband.” I laughed aloud as I wrote that—and can only hope that the other passengers, lying in their bunks at three bells of the middle watch think that like Beatrice I laughed in my sleep! I shall for the future single out Mr Colley for the most, shall I say, distinguished attentions on my part—or at least until Miss Brocklebank proves to be no longer in danger from the French!

  (Z)

  Zed, you see, zed, I do not know what the day is—but here was a to-do! What a thing!

  I rose at the accustomed hour with a faint stricture about the brows, caused I think by my somewhat liberal potations with Mr Deverel of a rather inferior brandy. I dressed and went on deck to blow it away—when who should emerge from our lobby but the reverend gentleman for whom I planned to procure—the word is unfortunate​—such
a pleasant future. Mindful of my determination I raised my beaver to him and gave him good day. He bowed and smiled and raised his tricorn but with more dignity than I had thought he had in him. Come, thought I to myself, does Van Diemen’s Land require a bishop? I watched him in some surprise as he walked steadily up the ladder to the afterdeck. I followed him to where Mr Prettiman still stood and cradled his ridiculous weapon. I saluted him; for if I have a personal need, now, of Mr Colley, as you know, Mr Prettiman must always be an object of interest to me.

  “You hit the albatross, sir?”

  Mr Prettiman bounced with indignation.

  “I did not, sir! The whole episode—the weapon was snatched from my hands—the whole episode was grotesque and lamentable! Such a display of ignorance, of monstrous and savage superstition!”

  “No doubt, no doubt,” said I soothingly. “Such a thing could never happen in France.”

  I moved on towards the poop; climbed the ladder; and what was my astonishment to find Mr Colley there! In round wig, tricorn and black coat he stood before Captain Anderson on the very planks sacred to the tyrant! As I came to the top of the ladder Captain Anderson turned abruptly away, went to the rail and spat over the side. He was red in the face and grim as a gargoyle. Mr Colley lifted his hat gravely, then came towards the ladder. He saw Lieutenant Summers and went across to him. They saluted each other with equal gravity.

  “Mr Summers, I believe it was you who discharged Mr Prettiman’s weapon?”

  “It was, sir.”

  “I trust you injured no one?”

  “I fired over the side.”

  “I must thank you for it.”

  “It was nothing, sir. Mr Colley—”

  “Well, sir?”

  “I beg of you, be advised by me.”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “Do not go immediately. We have not known our people long enough, sir. After yesterday—I am aware that you are no friend to intoxicants of any sort—I beg you to wait until the people have been issued with their rum. After that there will ensue a period when they will, even if they are no more than now open to reason, be at least calmer and more amiable—”

  “I have armour, sir.”

  “Believe me, I know of what I speak! I was once of their condition—”

  “I bear the shield of the Lord.”

  “Sir! Mr Colley! As a personal favour to me, since you declare yourself indebted—I beg of you, wait for one hour!”

  There was a silence. Mr Colley saw me and bowed gravely. He turned back to Mr Summers.

  “Very well, sir. I accept your advice.”

  The gentlemen bowed once again, Mr Colley came towards me so we bowed to each other! Versailles could have done no better! Then the gentleman descended the ladder. It was too much! A new curiosity mingled with my Shakespearean purposes for him. Good God, thought I, the whole southern hemisphere has got itself an archbishop! I hurried after him and caught him as he was about to enter our lobby.

  “Mr Colley!”

  “Sir?”

  “I have long wished to be better acquainted with you but owing to an unfortunate indisposition the occasion has not presented itself—”

  His mug split with a grin. He swept off his hat, clasped it to his stomach and bowed, or sinuously reverenced over it. The archbishop diminished to a country curate—no, to a hedge priest. My contempt returned and quenched my curiosity. But I remembered how much Zenobia might stand in need of his services and that I should keep him in reserve—or as the Navy would say—in ordinary!

  “Mr Colley. We have been too long unacquainted. Will you not take a turn with me on deck?”

  It was extraordinary. His face, burned and blistered as it was by exposure to the tropic sun, reddened even more, then as suddenly paled. I swear that tears stood in his eyes! His Adam’s apple positively danced up and down beneath and above his bands!

  “Mr Talbot, sir—words cannot—I have long desired​—but at such a moment—this is worthy of you and your noble patron—this is generous—this is Christian charity in its truest meaning—God bless you, Mr Talbot!”

  Once more he performed his sinuous and ducking bow, retired a yard or two backwards, ducked again as if leaving the presence, then disappeared into his hutch.

  I heard a contemptuous exclamation above me, glanced up and saw Mr Prettiman gazing down at us over the forrard rail of the quarterdeck. He bounced away again out of sight. But for the moment I spared him no attention. I was still confounded by the remarkable effect of my words on Colley. My appearance is that of a gentleman and I am suitably dressed. I have some height and perhaps​—​I say no more than perhaps—consciousness of my future employment may have added more dignity to my bearing than is customary in one of my years! In which case, sir, you are obliquely to be blamed for—but I wrote earlier did I not that I would not continue to trouble you with my gratitude? To resume then, there was nothing about me to warrant this foolish fellow treating me as a Royal! I paced between the break of the quarterdeck and the mainmast for half an hour, perhaps to rid myself of that same stricture of the brows, and pondered this ridiculous circumstance. Something had happened and I did not know what it was—something, I saw, during the ship’s entertainment while I was so closely engaged with the Delicious Enemy! What it was, I could not tell, nor why it should make my recognition of Mr Colley more than ordinarily delightful to him. And Lieutenant Summers had discharged Mr Prettiman’s blunderbuss without injuring anyone! That seemed like an extraordinary failure on the part of a fighting seaman! It was a great mystery and puzzle; yet the man’s evident gratitude for my attentions​—​it was annoying that I could not demand a solution to the mystery from the gentlemen or officers, for it would not be politic to reveal an ignorance based on a pleasant preoccupation with a member of the Sex. I could not at once think how to go on. I returned to our lobby, proposing to go into the saloon and discover if I could by attending to casual conversations the source of Mr Colley’s extreme gratitude and dignity. But as I entered the lobby Miss Brocklebank hurried out of her hutch and detained me with a hand on my arm.

  “Mr Talbot—Edmund!”

  “How may I serve you, ma’am?”

  Then throatily, contralto but pianissimo—

  “A letter—Oh God! What shall I do?”

  “Zenobia! Tell me all!”

  Does your lordship detect a theatricality in my response? It was so indeed. We were at once borne along on a tide of melodrama.

  “Oh heavens—it, it is a billet—lost, lost!”

  “But my dear,” said I, leaving the stage at once, “I have written you nothing.”

  Her magnificent but foolish bosom heaved.

  “It was from Another!”

  “Well,” I murmured to her, “I refuse to be responsible for every gentleman in the ship! You should employ his offices, not mine. And so—”

  I turned to leave but she held me by the arm.

  “The note is wholly innocent but may be—might be misconstrued—I may have dropped it—oh Edmund, you well know where!”

  “I assure you,” said I, “that while I rearranged my hutch where it had been disturbed by a certain exquisite occasion I should have noticed—”

  “Please! Oh please!”

  She gazed into my eyes with that look of absolute trust mingled with anguish which so improves a pair of orbs however lustrous. (But who am I to instruct your lordship, still surrounded as you are by adorers who gaze on what they would have but cannot obtain—by the way, is my flattery too gross? Remember you declared it most effective when seasoned with truth!)

  Zenobia came close and murmured up at me.

  “It must be in your cabin. Oh should Wheeler find it I am lost!”

  The devil, thought I. If Wheeler finds it, I am lost or near enough—is she trying to implicate me?

  “Say no more, Miss Brocklebank. I will go at once.”

  I exited right—or should it be left? I have never been certain, where the theatre is conce
rned. Say then that I moved towards my spacious apartment on the larboard side of the vessel, opened the door, went in, shut it and began to search. I do not know anything more irritating than to be forced to search for an object in a confined space. All at once I was aware that there were two feet by mine. I glanced up.

  “Go away, Wheeler! Go away!”

  He went. After that I found the paper but only when I had given up looking for it. I was about to pour water into my canvas basin when what should I see in the centre of it but a sheet of paper, folded. I seized it at once and was about to return it to Zenobia’s hutch when I was stopped by a thought. In the first place I had performed my ablutions earlier in the morning. The canvas basin had been emptied and the bunk remade.

  Wheeler!

  At once, I unfolded the note, then breathed again. The hand was uneducated.

  DEAREST MOST ADORABLE WOMAN I CAN WATE NO LONGER! I HAVE AT LAST DISCOVERED A PLACE AND NO ONE IS IN THE NO! MY HART THUNDERS IN MY BOSOM AS IT NEVER DID IN MY FREQUENT HOURS OF PERIL! ONLY ACQUAINT ME WITH THE TIME AND I WILL CONDUCT YOU TO OUR HEVEN!

  YOUR SAILOR HERO

  Good God, thought I, this is Lord Nelson raised to a higher power of the ridiculous! She is having an attack of the Emmas and has infected this Unknown Sailor Hero with her own style of it! I fell into a state of complete confusion. Mr Colley, all dignity—now this note—Summers with Prettiman’s blunderbuss that was really Brocklebank’s—I began to laugh, then shouted for Wheeler.

  “Wheeler, you have been busy in my cabin. What should I do without you?”

  He bowed but said nothing.

  “I am pleased with your attentiveness. Here is a half-guinea for you. You are sometimes forgetful though, are you not?”

  The man’s eyes did not flicker towards the canvas bowl.

  “Thank you, Mr Talbot, sir. You may rely on me in every way sir.”

  He withdrew. I examined the note again. It was not Deverel’s, obviously, for the illiteracy was not that of a gentleman. I wondered what I should do.