Around the World in 100 Days

When they were little more than boys, he and Phileas Fogg had been deckhands aboard the same whaling vessel. For Keough it was a way of escaping a brief, brutal life in the slums of London. Fogg, by contrast, came from a family that was once quite wealthy but had fallen on hard times. He was determined to restore their fortunes.

A quick learner and a hard worker, Fogg soon advanced to the position of first mate on a shabby schooner that plied the Irish Sea, carrying manufactured items to isolated islands and ports. It was not a profitable business, and the shipping company constantly teetered on the brink of bankruptcy.

But in time Fogg and Keough managed to buy a ship of their own and establish a flourishing trade in the West Indies, which gave them the capital to build a second ship, then a third and a fourth. Fogg handled the finances; Keough outfitted the ships and hired the crews.

Eventually they had a falling-out and Keough sold his share in the business to his partner for a tidy sum—which Keough proceeded to squander on a series of ill-advised ventures. Fogg, meanwhile, built the shipping company into an extremely valuable enterprise; at the age of thirty-five, he sold it for an astonishing amount of money and moved to London.

Keough clearly still resented the way things had worked out. Speaking of it seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth. He took a swig from the tankard of beer, which he gripped with both hands so the ship’s erratic motion would not send it flying.

“Thank you for telling me all this,” said Harry. “There’s one thing I don’t understand, though. If the company you worked for at first was so hard up, how did you ever save enough for a ship of your own?”

The captain’s scarred, weathered face took on a sardonic smile. “Well, that’s another story—one I’m not sure your father would want you to hear.” He drained the tankard, then wiped his mouth and beard carefully with his napkin. “On the other hand, I don’t much care what Phileas Fogg wants or doesn’t want.”

Keough proceeded to fill in the missing portion of his tale. When the owners of the failing shipping company saw how eager Fogg was to advance himself, they approached him with a proposition: They would insure the schooner’s cargo—mainly flour and sugar and tools and such—for far more than it was worth. Its new captain, Fogg, would then deliberately run her aground on some isolated, rocky coastline. The company would collect the insurance money and split it with him and his first mate, Keough.

Though Fogg disliked the shady nature of the deal, Keough convinced him it was a sort of standard business practice, one that harmed nobody except the infernal insurance companies, which could well afford to lose a few thousand pounds.

With a small crew aboard, the two men scuttled the schooner on a reef off the coast of Cornwall. While the sailors rowed ashore in lifeboats, local villagers swarmed out to pick the carcass of the ship clean, as they had done with so many other wrecked vessels.

When Keough finished, Harry sat sober-faced and silent, trying to absorb all that he had heard. The captain cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Perhaps I should have left that part of the story untold. I don’t want to turn a man’s own son against him. Don’t judge him too harshly; he was young and reckless.”

“No, no,” said Harry. “I’m glad you told me.” He cracked a bit of a grin. “It’s good to know that he wasn’t always the careful, clockwork man he is today. He had desires and ambitions; he took risks; he flouted authority. His methods weren’t quite cricket, of course, but he did what he set out to do—he restored his family’s fortunes.” Harry sipped at the dark, slightly bitter beer. “He seldom speaks of my grandfather and grand-mother. I wonder whether he ever revealed to them where the money came from.”

The captain grimly shook his head. “He had no chance to, I’m afraid. Both his parents died that same year . . . of a fever they contracted while in debtor’s prison.”

Harry had not seen Elizabeth since the previous evening, when she left in the middle of dinner. He suspected that she, too, was suffering from mal de mer. He ordered a container of chamomile tea and some slices of dry toast and carried them to Elizabeth’s cabin, staggering slightly each time the ship lurched. He knocked softly on her door. When there was no reply, he rapped more forcefully.

There was a long silence. Just as Harry was about to pound again, the door opened a few inches and her pale, haggard face peered out at him. “What do you want?”

Harry pushed the door gently open; too weak to resist, Elizabeth retreated and sank onto the bed. “You should drink a little something, at least,” said Harry. Putting down the tray, he arranged her pillows to allow her to sit up.

She pulled her housecoat tightly about her and brushed at her hair ineffectually with one limp hand. Normally, she kept her dark tresses braided and coiled atop her head, but now they hung loose and tousled. “I must be a sight.”

The sour smell of vomit permeated the small, stuffy cabin. “I’ll open the porthole a bit, shall I?” The moment Harry unfastened the round, brass-framed glass, a gust of wind forced its way in, bringing with it a considerable quantity of salt spray. “Oops.”

She raised her hands to guide the cup, but they trembled too much. Closing her eyes, she sipped at the tepid tea. She managed to drink half of it, and at first it seemed as though it might stay down. But after a minute she pushed him urgently aside and, leaning over the edge of her bed, spewed the tea into her bedpan. Harry busied himself at the cabin’s fold-down sink, wetting a washcloth with which he wiped her perspiring face.

“Don’t talk to me about fair. If there were any fairness in the world, you’d be as sick as the rest of us. How are the others holding up?”

“Johnny’s not doing too badly. He spends most of his time in the cargo hold, with the Flash. I don’t know about Charles. I should look in on him. I’ll be back later, with fresh tea. And a clean bedpan.”

Charles was in almost as sorry a state. Harry spent all that day and the next tending to him and Elizabeth by turns. Finally, after two full days of being tossed about like a medicine ball, the Belgic sailed into calmer waters.