Deep in one of the three bellies of the mother ship, Elizabeth stepped into the cabin where the captain of the Iceland Queen was being held. The door closed, plunging her into near darkness. The only thing she could see was the tiny yellow bud of an oil lamp flame. And then, as her eyes adjusted, she made out its reflection in the wood panelling behind it.
There was a creaking sound; a man turning on a cot, she thought. She blinked, trying to clear her vision. A hand reached from the shadow and turned up the wick of the lamp. As the flame grew, she saw him swing out his legs and sit. His face came into the light, sallow and gaunt.
“Scientific Officer Barnabus,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Captain Woodfall,” said the man, not taking it. “What’s your ship?”
“It was the whaling ship Pembroke, sir. But I’m recalled. Tonight they’re sending me to the Iceland Queen.”
He was on his feet before the words were fully out of her mouth. In two paces he’d crowded her back against the door. “What business have you on my ship? And why am I held prisoner?”
“How long have they kept you here?” she asked, trying not to let her fear show.
“Two days. No. Dear Gods, I can’t keep track! It’s three. I came aboard to pass my report.” His voice had grown stronger, filling the cabin. “Where’s the Iceland Queen?”
“Standing two miles out,” she said.
“Why’ve they put me in here? No one will say. And now they send me a scientific officer!” He lifted the lamp from its hook and held it close to her face. “A disfigured one at that. Is this for humiliation? Tell me!”
She felt for the door handle behind her. Steward Watkins should be standing out there with the marine guards. But Captain Woodfall’s anger was already ebbing. He sighed and turned away. Elizabeth took a breath to steady herself.
“You scared the commodore,” she said. “Whatever it was you told him, he doesn’t want others to know. But you’re to tell me.”
“How can he want to keep me quiet and send you to hear it?”
“If you won’t tell me, you won’t,” she said. “But I’m as lost as you. And as alone.”
“Make them let me out!” he said.
“You think I have that power?”
“I don’t know what you are,” he said. “But the only power they’ve left me is to choose to speak or to hold my tongue.”
Elizabeth was tired. Such sleep as she’d had the night before had been uneasy. Through the transfer to the mother ship and the interview with the commodore, her heart had been pumping hard. Captain Woodfall’s anger had given it another boost. But now, in the dark, stuffy cabin with his aggression turned maudlin, weariness reached up from her stomach.
“Should I go?” she asked.
When he didn’t answer, she edged past him and lowered herself onto the cot.
He seemed suddenly unsure of himself, like a boxer whose opponent climbs out of the ring without a punch being thrown.
“What’s the weather doing?” he asked.
“It’s clouded over. But there was sunshine this morning.”
“Is it not morning still?”
“It’s two in the afternoon,” she said.
He put down the lamp. The cot creaked under him as he sat next to her.
“Visibility’s fair,” she said. “They told me it was ten miles this morning. Though I couldn’t say for my own part.”
He stared at the floor. The silence gathered around them. She waited, sensing the pregnancy of the moment. There was a water jug and bowl on the stand opposite. A shaving brush lay next to them.
“How’s the ocean?” he asked, at last.
“First thing, there were white tops on some of the waves. The wind’s dropped since then.”
“I wish I could feel it,” he said. “And see the horizon.”
“How many heard you talk to the commodore?” she asked.
Captain Woodfall shook his head. “There’d been no position report from the Mary May. He must have known something was wrong. He’d sent the officers out before I got there. His chief concern was to find a story to cover the truth. We agreed to tell them that the Mary May had been sent back to Southampton for engine repair. And the Iceland Queen had fever onboard and would be quarantined.
“That must have been all he wanted – for the officers to hear me say it. Because no sooner was it done than he set his steward to bring me here. I was to wash and rest, he said. But when I tried to leave I found they’d locked the door.
“Are you really a scientific officer?”
“No.”
“Then tell me what you are.”
“I can’t.”
“Hell’s teeth, man! Will you not try to give me cause to trust you!”
He wanted to tell the rest of his story. She could sense it. He was close to giving it all.
“How much food is there on the Iceland Queen?” she asked.
For a moment he made no answer. But she could see the thoughts turning in his head. He sat straighter. “It’s water that’ll run out first. We had twelve days’ supply. Less the time I’ve been here. That makes nine.”
“Then that’s all the time the commodore’s got. After that the secret turns sour. He’ll have to bring her in. Or send her back to port. Either way, there’ll be no point keeping you locked in here.”
Captain Woodfall rubbed his face, as if he were a man trying to sober up. She could hear the rasp of his palms against stubble.
“Unless it rains,” he said. “How’s the barometer?”
“It’s set fair,” she said. And then: “Where were you when the ship was lost?”
“Three hundred and twenty miles southeast of the fleet.” This came in the same quiet tone, though it was the first real information he’d offered.
“The commodore said you were in fog?”
“Yes. It started out as a haze. But through the afternoon…”
“What?”
He turned to face her. “Who are you really?”
“I’m someone who’ll help you if I can. But I need to know what you saw. Why were you in that part of the ocean?”
“Hunting minke whales. We’d had sightings down there.”
“And why was there a gunboat with you?”
“There often is when we head to those parts. Commodore’s orders. You can’t have sailed south yourself or you’d know that.”
“I haven’t,” she owned.
“Then have you sailed in fog, Mr Barnabus? Thick fog?”
“Yes.”
“So you know the way it swirls, like a living thing? Whoever you really are.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Icebergs can be carried so far south. It’s rare, but in the fog you get to thinking that every shadow’s a wall of ice. The whole crew comes up on deck, but for the engineers.”
“I know,” she said. “You don’t want to wait below for the sound of the hull being split.”
“So you are a sailor,” he said.
“Not a real one.”
“A spy then. Are you working for the Patent Office?”
“The commodore believes I am.”
“Is he right?”
“Not entirely.”
Captain Woodfall took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’ve given me little enough, Mr Barnabus. But I’ve a feeling you’ll be as much a piece of grit to the commodore and to those bastards at the Patent Office as you are to me.”
“Does that mean you’ll tell me what you saw?”
He nodded. “But it’ll bring you no good.
“We were in fog. Thick and reeling. We’d had no sight of the horizon for an hour. The only fixed thing was the Mary May. One moment it clears and her deck cannons come into view. Then another billow rolls in and all you can do is listen for her. Even our own ship’s bell sounds muffled, like it’s coming from under the water.
“And there’s something happening. One of the starboard lookouts calls me over and points down at the water. He’s seen a shadow, he says, though he can’t tell me what it was. A movement is all he can say.
“Everyone’s crowding over to look. Someone shouts that there’s a whale passing below. So we all rush over to see it come out from under the port side. For a second I see it too – a great grey shape heading towards the Mary May, and bubbles rising from it. But the fog closes about us and it’s just white after that, droplets of water drifting in front of our eyes.
“I hear a noise, then. A dull boom, like an explosion in a deep mine. The wind turns back towards us and it brings the sound of screaming men. A window opens in the fog and I see the outline of the Mary May. Her stern has tilted clear of the ocean. Water must have been rushing into her, because the full length of the ship starts to slide under. I just watch it happen. I don’t know what to say or do. Then she and all her crew have gone under.”
He stopped speaking as abruptly as he’d started. One of Elizabeth’s hands was gripping the blanket beneath her. She realised she’d been holding her breath. “The commodore made me think it was pirates,” she said.
Captain Woodfall’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The commodore wasn’t there. It was a sea monster that took the Mary May. It dragged her down to hell.”
Whatever the truth of his story, there was a sickness hanging heavy in the air of Captain Woodfall’s cabin. Once out of it and on the deck, Elizabeth breathed deeply, trying to clear the last traces from her lungs. Then she begged to be taken closer to the edge of the deck, where she could see the swell as it rolled in steadily from the southwest. The wind had dropped and there were no more white crests.
Impatient as ever, Steward Watkins allowed her less than a minute before urging her on. “We’ll get you across to the Iceland Queen tonight,” he said. “If it’s no worse than this.” He then escorted her belowdecks, following a confusing path, which she quickly gave up trying to remember.
“How do you find your way?” she asked.
“By seeing clearer than you.” This he said quietly, though there was no one else to hear.
She was about to ask what he meant by it, but he threw in an extra step, pulling ahead and shifting to the centre of the narrow corridor, leaving her no option but to follow behind.
They were descending, she knew that much. But each corridor and stairway looked the same.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
He stopped in front of a door bearing the number 253, which had been stencilled in yellow paint.
“We’re here.”
“Where?”
“Your trunk is already inside. You’ll find water and soap.”
“What about food?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“You’re a steward!”
The word seemed to sting him. “I’m the commodore’s steward.”
He opened the door and stepped to one side so that she could enter. It was a bare cabin with no porthole. They were below the waterline, she thought. Iron plates made up the walls. A double line of rivets ran from floor to ceiling. Another line ran horizontally across the hull wall at eye level. Her trunk lay in the middle of the floor; next to it, a washing jug and folded cloth. She turned just in time to see Steward Watkins closing the door. And then she was alone.
Unlike her cabin on the Pembroke, the door had no bolts. She hefted her trunk across to block it. There was nothing to wedge it against. But it would give her warning if someone tried to get through. Perhaps five seconds’ grace, if they were determined.
The heat and tightness of the binding cloth across her chest had left her feeling unclean. Once she boarded the Iceland Queen, there was no telling how long it would be before she had the privacy to strip again. So she took the risk, straining to hear any sound in the corridor as she poured water and washed the sweat from her skin.
Captain Woodfall had seen the Mary May lost with all its men. That much was the truth, she thought. But the story of a monster seemed more the dream of an unsettled mind. Indeed, any person of sensibility would be unsettled by the cries of a doomed crew. The rest of it, he could have imagined. That didn’t explain how the ship had been lost. But it enabled her to push the madness of his vision from her mind.
Feeling cleaner, she dried herself, wrapped the binding cloth and dressed.
Through the whole process there’d been no sounds from the passageway. Unblocking the door, she turned the handle and peered through the crack, opening it inch by inch until the steward’s face appeared directly in front of her.
“Yes?”
“I didn’t know you were here,” she said.
“Evidently.”
“I’m finished now. Washed, I mean.”
“And?”
“I should like to take a turn around the deck.”
“That’s out of the question.”
Elizabeth opened the door fully and tried to pass him, but he sidestepped, blocking her way.
“Commodore’s orders,” he said. “What do you really want? I don’t trust you.”
She couldn’t tell him her reason for wanting to explore. But saying nothing felt dangerous. She sensed an acuteness of perception in Steward Watkins, which was beyond anything she’d encountered in the other sailors.
“Must you stand here all the while?” she asked. “It’ll be five hours till sundown.”
He didn’t answer, but folded his arms and met her stare.
It was Elizabeth who looked away first. Though he was slight, she couldn’t risk trying to force her way through. If they grappled, he’d discover her secret quickly enough. She had tricks and illusions to escape from most traps, but the bare cabin offered nothing to help her.
“I need to eat,” she said, trying another tack.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“I have a medical condition,” she said, warming to the lie.
This seemed to disquiet him. He glanced down the passageway, as if fearing someone might overhear.
“If you keep me without food, I could faint. It could kill me.”
“These are my orders.”
“You’d be responsible. What would the commodore say when you told him?”
“But I can’t leave you here.”
“Then take me with you. We can go to the galley together.”
When she saw the flicker of relief in his eyes, she knew she’d won the first battle.
Several galleys were needed to feed the crew of the mother ship. But at that time in the afternoon, the fastest service would be had in the starboard hull, according to Steward Watkins. And getting the excursion over with quickly was clearly a priority. Before, he’d been content to walk in front of her, but now he hovered close and a few inches behind. She experimented by tilting one shoulder a fraction, as if readying herself to run. His hand darted out.
“What are you doing?” she asked, as if offended.
“I’m sorry. I thought…” His hand dropped to his side.
The tallest of the above-deck structures had been built on the mother ship’s portside hull. Those on the starboard hull were less extensive. The central hull had been sparsely built on by comparison. As they approached it, Elizabeth scanned the superstructure for doorways. She could see none, but there were access hatchways in the deck itself, for the purpose of maintenance, she supposed.
“How many crew do you have?” she asked.
“It varies.”
“Are there sleeping quarters in all of the hulls?”
He took a moment before answering. “There are.”
“Even the central hull?”
“Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t.”
Having passed through a gap between two of the central structures, they continued on over the wide deck towards the starboard side. The buildings of the starboard hull came between her and the sun. Details which had been obscured in the glare now became clear. Some parts were painted orange, others white or green. A gang of sailors were hard at work, scrubbing and mopping one of the upper decks. Black smoke drifted forwards from two great chimneys. The ship could be making little headway, if any.
“What about you?” she asked. “Where’s your cabin?”
“I… That is to say, I’m billeted near the commodore.”
“And where is he stationed?”
“He has rooms in each of the hulls.”
“One man has many rooms?”
“You wouldn’t understand. He never sleeps for more than two hours. He barely rests at all. But if there is a cot nearby, sometimes he can be persuaded.”
There was something in the way Steward Watkins said this that caused Elizabeth to turn. He maintained a rigid forward gaze. Who was it that persuaded the commodore, she wondered.
“Through here,” he said. And then: “What is your medical condition?”
“Hunger,” she said.
On the whaling ship, when mealtime was called, those crew not on watch would crowd together below decks, holding out pewter plates and mugs. The cook and his assistant would ladle out the stew or pudding and slosh the spiced tea, bitter and sweet. Then the jostle of conversation would die as all set to the important task of eating.
The canteen of the mother ship could not have been more different. Knots of men sat eating and talking in low voices. Five great copper pans steamed at the side of the room. Elizabeth peered into them. The first four she recognised as savoury foods. The fifth smelt powerfully of oranges.
“Tell them what you want,” Steward Watkins said.
So she pointed and watched as a cook’s assistant filled a plate.
“Put it on my account,” said Watkins.
The cook’s assistant nodded and noted something down in a ledger. Behind him was a serving hatch, and beyond that more copper pans in a wide galley. Standing between two of them was the ship’s boy. He was staring intently at her. She met his gaze and made the slightest of nods. Then he was gone.
She seated herself on a bench before a narrow table. Steward Watkins sat facing her.
“Must you pay for your food?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“And you can come here any time?”
“When you’re not on duty. Now eat. I wouldn’t want you to get ill.” This he said in an arch tone, as if he was beginning to doubt her story.
So she dipped in her spoon and began. The meal, potato and fish chowder, tasted better than anything she’d eaten in months. The mother ship was more frequently supplied than the rest of the fleet, even though it remained far from land. In a sense, the mother ship was a piece of land – or a substitute for one.
She tilted her plate to scoop up the last of the juices. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“You paid for it. It’s on your account.”
“The commodore’s account,” he said. And then: “We’d better get you back to that cabin.”
“Why the hurry?”
“Orders.”
“Hasn’t this been some little diversion for you? Better surely than standing in that passageway.”
“Indeed no! You ask questions all the time. It puts me on edge. All of the time.”
“I don’t believe my questions disturb you,” she said. “It’s the answers you’re afraid you might let slip. But I’ll offer you this deal – you walk me around the deck and talk to me about whatever feels safe. I’ll ask no more questions.”
“If I knew what was safe all this would be easy.”
“Then let’s walk in silence. I’ve been confined in a whaling ship. And now there’s an expanse of deck wide enough to play a game of ball. One time around the outside and I’ll be satisfied.”
“I can’t disobey the commodore.”
It seemed unnatural to leave her dirty plate and cup on the table. But Watkins indicated that it was the thing to do. In leaving she glanced back and saw the cook’s assistant gathering them up.
The shadows had grown longer whilst she had been eating. She crossed the decking between the starboard and centre hulls without once feeling the sun on her back. Steward Watkins had begun to inch ahead in his eagerness to have her in the cabin once more. He had already begun to step into the gap between two of the central buildings when she turned aft. He jolted after her.
“What are you doing?”
“Going by a different way.”
He seemed ready to make a grab for her. She felt the balance of authority wavering between them. If he did launch towards her she would have to put out an arm for him to grab. Even then he might be able to feel through the disguise. No man would have wrists so delicate.
She took a step backwards. He followed. It seemed he too was reluctant to grapple. She turned and set off in her chosen direction. He fell into step behind. She breathed more easily again. Whilst she remained outside, there was a chance for her to see that ship’s boy again.
He had been there in the crowd of sailors who had hauled her free from the cargo net. And he’d been there in the galley. He would surely have followed them out. She glanced around, eyes seeking out the doorways and deeper shadows.
They had reached the end of the superstructure above the central hull. Steward Watkins shifted closer to her shoulder, edging her around towards the port side of the ship once more. Hearing the metallic squeak of a hinge she glanced behind her. There was no boy to be seen. But there was an open doorway and a small hand, beckoning.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing in the opposite direction.
And when Steward Watkins turned, too polite to not look along her arm, she stepped back in the direction of the beckoning hand and was through the doorway before he could react. The door slammed closed, shutting out the sunlight. There was a screech of something heavy being pushed across the metal floor. Then a child’s sticky hand grabbed hers and she found herself pulled deeper into the dark.