As our food supplies dwindled with Solander’s absence, I started to side with those among us who felt that Tupaia should be doing more to help us. He was often asked to catch us game or to dig up some roots like they did in Otaheite, the thinking being that the islanders had effectively lived off the land for years and years and years, digging up yams and hunting animals and fish and so on, and he should be able to do so here just as well.
But Tupaia kept insisting that he did not know this land, nor the foods here. He told us that he knew how to avoid sharks in the water and how to catch fish in his homeland, but did not know how to avoid Gandhaarr the crocodile in the waters here. And he told us, too, that his people did not actually find and dig up wild yams as would need to be done here, but planted gardens and cultivated them.
Hunting any of the animals here was the most difficult, he protested, because they moved and behaved quite differently to any animals he knew. Even birds were a problem for him to catch, he said, because many of the gods he believed in had totems of different birds—such as the heron or the kingfisher—and these birds could by no means be killed or molested. Therefore, he did not dare kill any of the birds here least he offend some local god.
Even Sydney Parkinson could not quote from the Bible in answer to that, despite many of us knowing the line from Deuteronomy about not worshipping idols in the shape of beasts or fish or birds. Though heaven knows if we could catch any type of bird here easily we would start worshipping it. Particularly that small bloody bird that laughed at us so often from the trees. I would prostrate myself on the ground and worship it if it flew down to my feet.
Then I’d bash its bloody brains out and pluck it, cook it and eat it.
And then I would laugh. I would throw my head back and roar with laughter.
There was another Bible line that I would have liked Sydney bloody Parkinson to explain to me. The one about man having dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. What good did our Biblical dominion do if we couldn’t even catch one of them to eat?
I asked Parkinson one day, as he was warming up for one of his prayers of thanks, if that Biblical dominion even applied here, seeing as the animals were so different from any that were named in the Bible. I mean, there was no mention in the Bible of any animal remotely like that strange rabbit–greyhound creature that was as fast as it was large. I could imagine slow roasting one over a large fire—it would have fed us all for more than a day.
The man who brought one of those into camp would be not just a hero but probably our uncontested leader. And God knows we could have done with that as well. Somebody to take charge of everyone and to tell Charlton and Howson to stop just playing nursemaid to the Captain and his journal, and to go and forage for bloody food. To stop Banks making proclamations on the way everything should be done. To stop Parkinson assuring everyone we were safe in God’s hands. And to stop Mr Green acting like Mr Green.
That would be something I would cherish even more than the taste of that strange beast’s meat. But of course I might think otherwise if I’d ever actually had one roasting on our fire ready to eat.
I also imagined that the marines knew exactly how it tasted, cooked in chunks that were charred on the outside and blood red at the innermost, the juices hot and bubbling and sticking to their fingers so they could suck the taste off them for hours afterwards. I imagined they were growing fat on the meat of them while we were growing thinner every day on our diet of scarce plants and fish.
Every time we heard a musket shot we imagined they had felled a goodly sized animal of the earth or air. If anyone had dominion over the beasts it was them. A gun gave you dominion over all animals, whether they were named in the Bible or not.
And there was, of course, Gandhaarr—that cursed beast that creepeth on the land and hideth in the water. I would have liked dominion over that fucker to stop him from coming to haunt me. I would have liked to kill him and cut out his heart and feast upon it. But I had nothing except a sharp stick to threaten him with. It was at least one creature that was mentioned in the Bible, but it told that his heart was as firm as a stone, and as hard as a piece of millstone. And he would laugh at the shaking of a spear.
When I looked at our Captain, lying there beneath the sail cover, his unshaven face growing more gaunt, I also wondered each day if this would be the day he regained consciousness and took control of things. But I also remembered the fear I once had of him. The way his glance could bring me undone in any resolve to deceive him or deny him. And of course I remembered the time I was called into the Captain’s cabin to answer his questions into the attack on his prickly sea lawyer of a clerk, Orton. The way any young man remembers any injustice served upon him. It was a memory I not only replayed in my mind, but I reworked it to make it play out differently.
In my preferred telling from my own journal, when I entered the Captain’s cabin and saw the dissatisfaction clear upon his face, I stood sharply to attention and waited for the questions to proceed. Two marines stood in the room with muskets held tightly, to remind me of the seriousness of the situation. Something I hardly needed reminding.
‘Mr Magra,’ the Captain said, nodding his head to me a little. The way he did to the younger men of the crew that he favoured. ‘We are here to inquire into the attack that was made upon Mr Orton last night, and to discover what you may know about it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, knowing not to say anything else until I was asked a direct question. Certainly not to protest my innocence at once.
‘You are familiar with the particulars of the incident?’ he asked me.
‘A little familiar, sir,’ I replied.
‘Let me outline to you then the full particulars,’ he said. ‘At some time last night, in the middle watch, Mr Orton had his clothes cut off his back by some unknown assailant. Mr Orton, it should be admitted, had been drinking heavily at the time and was not able to identify his assailant.’
The Captain looked at me for any reaction. I gave none.
‘Mr Orton then retired to his cabin and fell into a deep sleep and at some time in the night he was assaulted once again.’
Once more that look from the Captain. Once more no reply from me.
‘His attacker had the temerity to cut off portions of Mr Orton’s ears as he lay in a drunken sleep.’ A pause to let the seriousness of that sink in. Then, ‘Do you know who might have done this deed?’
‘No, sir,’ I responded.
‘Hmm,’ said the Captain. ‘Are you aware that Mr Orton has accused you of the crime?’
At this I raised my eyebrows in shock. ‘No, sir,’ I replied.
The Captain then asked, ‘Do you know why he would have accused you of this?’
And at that I let my body show a touch of reluctance to answer, and the Captain said, ‘Please speak plainly.’
And again rather than protest my innocence, I said, ‘It is well known that neither of us is fond of the other, sir.’
‘Indeed,’ said the Captain. ‘I even have it in evidence that you have on previous occasions cut Mr Orton’s clothes from him while drunk. Do you deny this?’
‘No, sir, I do not deny it. I did that on a previous occasion.’
‘But you say you did not do it this time?’
‘No, sir,’ I stated. ‘Not on this occasion.’
The Captain contemplated that for some moments, possibly thinking that even if I had been guilty of cutting the drunkard wastrel’s clothes, I might not have been the same person who cut off his ears.
‘And are you aware,’ he continued, ‘that others have testified to hearing you say would murder Mr Orton if it were not for the law preventing you?’
Again I raised my eyebrows in surprise.
‘Speak freely,’ the Captain said again.
‘I fear someone may have misheard my words,’ I said. ‘I have certainly said unpleasant things about Mr Orton, but have never suggested murder.’
The Captain nodded, looking for the truth in my face. Then he asked, ‘And who do you suggest might have been the guilty party in this crime?’
And here I definitely did not plead my innocence in a pathetic whining voice, but rather stated, plainly and clearly, ‘I do not know, sir, but I will be willing to relay anything I hear back to you.’
At that point he did not glower at me or look down his nose but nodded again and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Magra. I appreciate your assistance in this. I know I can count on you in this as in all things.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
Then he rose from behind the large table, leaned over it and held out his hand to me to shake. ‘You have been very helpful,’ he said, and then dismissed me to carry on with my duties.
That’s how I would tell it.
There was usually a feeling of great peace at twilight, which belied our perilous situation. I liked to watch the last light shining across the river as it turned to darkness, but this particular evening I was quite out of sorts. I had eaten something that disagreed with me, leaving me with an ache in the stomach like I had been kicked in the guts, and just wanted to curl up into a hammock and be left alone. But instead I was curled up on the damp ground, with a bed of branches and leaves under me, and the men sitting up late around the fire as if they had no wish to end the day for it would only bring one more.
Finally, the murmurs and mumblings ceased as one by one the men lay down to sleep and their words were replaced by the familiar night calls of small animals. Those piercing clicks and natters that surrounded us each night.
But then a low call started, quite close, and I opened my eyes and looked about. It was a deep, sad note that I had not heard from any creature hereabouts before. And it took me a moment to recognise it. It was the sound of a lone man singing. The first plaintive soulful note. Then the sound formed into words.
Our anchor we’ll weigh, and our sails we’ll set. Goodbye, fare-ye-well, goodbye, fare-ye-well. The friends we are leaving, we’ll leave with regret, Hurrah, my boys, we’re homeward bound.
We all knew the words to that one; it had been sung often enough on the ship. A joyful shanty that was sung as if urging the ship to make its way home. But tonight the pace of the song was much slower. Much sadder. I lifted my head to see who the dark shape with the deep voice belonged to. I think it was Matthews. But I found I actually did not want to look too closely. I preferred to think it could be any one of us, thinking back to being on board the ship in the night, singing it back to England.
We’re homeward bound, we’ll have you know, Goodbye, fare-ye-well, goodbye, fare-ye-well. And over the water to England we’ll go. Hurrah, my boys, we’re homeward bound.
I waited for any of the other men around me to take up the rest of the song, but nobody did. It was enough to listen to the slow and sad song, and just feel what the singer was feeling—the pain of not sailing back home.
Then he stopped, mid-song, for reasons unknown, and no one uttered a word. Still feeling the emotion of it. Waiting for the night animals to resume their own cries and weird lamentations.