Neptune's Fingers Page 8

  The singing sailor had a fine tenor voice and Jack listened a while, mesmerized, while he strained his eyes to see what had moved.

  Give me a boat that can carry two,

  And both shall row, my love and I.

  It must help pass the time, he thought. It must be a lonely business on your own in the dark.

  There is a ship and she sails the sea.

  She’s loaded deep, as deep can be.

  Occasionally, the sailor forgot the words and a merry whistle filled in the gaps. There used to be music in Jack’s home when his mother was alive. She loved it above all else and played her piano of an evening while he listened, snug in its warmth. The crisp air ceased to bother him and had to find someone else to annoy as he listened to the song, wrapped in its spell. Without realizing it, tears filled his eyes until his vision blurred and he wiped them away, a little surprised to find his hands were shaking. It was not from the cold.

  But not as deep………..

  There it was again. He was certain of it. A movement, furtive, covert, flickered above the longboat. He sat very still, unaware he held his breath, watching the movement take shape and evolve into a person. The figure cast surreptitious glances about as he moved, darting from one dark patch to another, clinging to the shadows as though his life depended on it. Jack watched in awe. Suspicions grew in his mind. Someone lay concealed in the longboat, probably under ropes, canvas and oars until the night hid him better. Now he was free to wander.

  There were no prizes for guessing where his feet would take him. He must be starving. He was getting closer to the stairs. He would have to go below to get to the galley. It was late and the cook’s snores mingled with those of the rest of the crew, he supposed. Cautiously, silently, as deftly as a cat, the small figure moved. At that inauspicious moment, the moon lost interest in the cloud it hid behind and sailed out into clear sky sending brilliant shards of light across the deck. The figure reacted like a frightened gazelle and skittered away into the remaining shadows, under the stairs.

  Jack crouched deeper into its recesses, pretending to be invisible. Maybe he was invisible. Best not test that theory, though. The stealthy person could be anyone. What if he’s a lazy lay-about hiding from duty. He might be a thief or a cut-throat waiting his chance to pounce. Or, thought Jack, sympathy welling up inside him, he might be a frightened boy, far from home, with no one in the world to care where he is or how he fares. Jack took shallow breaths, wary, for fear he made a sound. He needn’t have worried, however, as it was not the sound of an intruder that gave him away, but his smell. Sailors take on the smells of the hemp ropes and the tar, the salt and the sweat of their labors. Jack had none of these. He smelt of soap.

  The boy, for boy he was, cocked his head and sniffed. He was alert and tense, assessing his position. Slowly, he scanned the space under the stairs. He was a creature of the dark and his eyes were adjusted to it. He looked long and hard when his gaze met the back of the cramped space, tucked up under the furthest stairs.

  Jack froze. The boy was looking straight at him, a puzzled frown between his brows. He tilted his head the other way, trying to focus better, as though he did not believe what he saw, only believing what he should have seen. Jack was sure his trembling would give him away. He did not want to be seen. He had no idea if he was safe or not. Even a small boy could inflict harm if frightened enough.

  The frown relaxed and the boy turned back towards the deck, although his head lingered in Jack’s direction a little longer than the rest of his body. It appeared he did not believe his own faculties as his eyes revealed no one to account for the foreign smell of soap. What he would give for soap, even the most carbolic!

  A short pause and he had turned again for he felt the eyes of a ghost on him, boring into his back. He shuddered and opted to get out of his hiding place as fast as he could. His stomach rumbled in protest, giving him further cause to be gone. Long dark hair, greasy, by the smell of it, hung about his shoulders, escaping from a tie of some kind, long rendered useless. He wore breeches, much like Jack’s ‘boy’, for so he called him to discern the difference. His short jacket of a tough material covered his loose shirt and he had a scarf knotted about his neck. The sweat and stale odor of his clothes were overpowering.

  While Jack struggled to breathe, he kept his eyes on the boy, and realized, with dismay, he was quite young, no more than a child. His thin body was testimony to the scant meals he had seen on the voyage and he was not well. His breathing was labored and his breath bad. In spite of a Depression that turned the world into a family of paupers, Jack was well fed. Food wasn’t an issue in his life. As long as they could fish, free food was available. The boy could guarantee he’d miss more than a few meals along the way.

  The treacherous moon was playing a great game. Threads of cloud streaked the sky and it sailed through them, sending alternate light and shadow across the deck. There was no pattern to it, only a random flashing of light, ready to snare a rabbit in its trap. The boy waited for it to glide beneath the next cloud. As it did he scuttled out from the stairs, clinging to the ship’s cabin like an extra skin, until he reached the hatch leading below deck where there was food for the taking. He moved silently, an extra shadow cast by the fickle moon. Jack crept to the edge of his hiding place and watched his progress. It was fascinating. Not in his wildest dreams could he imagine such stealth. Then again, Jack had never been hungry enough for the need to arise.

  The whole episode made Jack think very hard. He was still thinking when the waif emerged from the hatch and scurried to the longboat once more, something held securely in his tightened fist, a prize he would savor in the safety of the longboat.

  Once more, the moon sank behind a cloud, blocking out all light. He closed his eyes, overcome with a turmoil of emotions. Life was not meant to be like this for a small boy. Surely there was food enough in the world for even this starving, frightened creature. A voyage of this length took over six months. Imagine not having a soul to talk to in all that time. He thought of his friends with gratitude. They could be difficult at times, but they were always there. He would never complain about Bill’s ceaseless chatter again. He would prize it.

  It was a comforting thing. Sapped of energy, Jack lay down and curled into a ball to keep the night air out. It was cool out on the sea at night. Even the rocking of the ship failed to keep him awake, indeed it brought on sleep faster than he would have believed. The morning found him in his bed, bedclothes awry from his tossing and turning and his legs hanging over the edge of the mattress. A faint smell of tar and hemp wafted through the open window.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jack sat up. He furrowed his brows together. He was back in his room. He let his thoughts travel to the long-gone world of The Kestrel. He could still feel the wind on his arms and in his face, carrying the salty odor of the sea to mingle with the tar and sweat and carbolic, making a cocktail for the senses unique to a sailor’s world. Even Harry’s boat did not smell like this. Jack knew he was not imagining the odor as it filled his nostrils most provokingly. Yet, it could not be coming from his room. There had never been tar in there as long as he could remember. He worked hard enough to raise a sweat but his chores paled into insignificance beside that of a sailor. He went out with Harry sometimes and even there, the smell was predominantly of fish and blood mixed with petrol.

  The Kestrel smelt of another time. He tried to recapture the sounds of the vessel as it churned through the water like a swimmer in a race. The movement of the deck under his feet made the ship feel alive, as though it had a soul of its own.

  His eyes flew open. That dead ship, or what remained of it, wedged in the rocks below the lighthouse, had been the home of brave sailors. Most of them died right there, outside his door – all but two; the frightened stowaway, lurking in the longboat and the boy on the derrick. Jack was pleased he could not see the faces of the rest of the crew. Their faces would always be a mystery to him. The survivors, however, he now knew well.


  The boy, still nameless, with his jaunty stride and careless laugh, came ashore and vanished. What happened to him? On a ship of strong sailors, why did only two boys survive when men could not?

  The boy in the longboat was no mystery. Jack could still see his puzzled eyes staring through him. He knew those eyes very well. His own mother had them and when he looked in a mirror, he saw that he, Jack, did also. The McPhail characteristics were very strong. The boy from the longboat was his Grandfather, Edward McPhail. A compassion that surprised him welled up in Jack. The tough man everyone disliked was once a lost boy. His loneliness and fear were as strong as his determination. In all his life, Jack had never known such need. He saw a small boy content with weevilly ship’s biscuits and a slither of salted pork when he was able to get it. He saw a boy prepared to face whatever punishment was dished up if he was discovered.

  “My God! My Grandfather was very brave,” he thought. “He looked so frightened.” A shudder went through Jack. “I could smell his fear.” Emotions raged in Jack without benefit of words. They rolled about inside his skin, and he felt Edward McPhail’s terrors as surely as if he were the man himself. Beneath all the fear and hunger was an overwhelming feeling of intense anger. Jack was not given to anger. The power of the anger coming from the boy disturbed him. He felt violated himself knowing someone from his family had been so abused and unwanted. Never again would he hear a word against his Grandfather.

  The tide was on the wane so most of the day the wreck would be within reach. Jack made up his mind to explore The Kestrel that day. The need and the opportunity dictated that it would be so. His grandfather’s de facto world was the breeding ground of his personality. A determined boy survived where others were lost. Edward McPhail had not travelled half way around the world only to die without having set foot on shore. He was made of sterner stuff. Jack could not believe how effortless his own life was, here on the secluded island. There was plenty of work to do but there was plenty of love to go around too.

  He climbed out of bed and washed. He had a strange sense of salt on his body, residue of his adventure on The Kestrel. He did not want to wash it off. It seemed perfectly logical and gave credence to it all. Jack knew it was not a dream. He became a believer when he lost his shoes.

  The water felt cool on his warm body. The huge galvanized iron water tank stayed amazingly cool in the heat of the day. It was the best water on earth, straight from the skies. He dunked his head in it and washed his hair before toweling it dry with vigorous rubbing. The end result was a frightening array of spikes and tangles. The harsh soap kept his hair clean but knotted it up with a vengeance. Long hair was not the fashion but Jack’s was longer than most other boys. There was no woman to fuss over his appearance so Henry Lambeth only took to the shears when it was completely unruly. With a sigh, Jack took out the comb and fought the tangles until order was restored. Feeling more human, he ventured into the kitchen.

  Henry Lambeth was there already. He looked up as Jack entered, and smiled.

  “I was wondering when you’d get rid of that salt,” he said.

  Jack shrugged and grinned. His father noticed everything even when Jack was sure he had no idea. It was a comforting feeling to know someone watched him so closely. He had met a boy who could not boast the same luxury.

  “Dad, I love it here,” he said.

  “I know you do, son,” said Henry Lambeth. “The world’s changing for you, though, isn’t it? How do you feel about it?”

  It took a few seconds to realize his father meant his new life outside school. For a fleeting moment, he believed his father knew of his ‘dreams’.

  “There’s so much to do and so much to learn,” he said, although he knew he was answering a different question to the one asked.

  His father grunted, satisfied apparently, and continued with his breakfast. Jack helped himself to some bread, cutting thick slices from the high round loaf. The wonderful bakery that wafted the most mouth-watering smells up the hill to tantalize the captive children in Guthrie’s Bay School, also did the rounds delivering bread each day. The Baker had a horse and cart, a square, box-like structure that reminded Jack of a gypsy’s caravan. He delivered to Sandy Bay and made the trek to False Bay. It was usually Jim Madigan who picked it up as everyone else was too busy. Bread was a large part of the diet in Sandy Bay and places thereabout. Often the baker was paid in fish or oysters and such. To the baker, it was all very satisfactory.

  “It will be a bit crowded here tomorrow,” said his father, once Jack had settled. “Might be nice if you got things shipshape around here. Can’t have the Tarrants think we are slovenly.”

  Jack could see the humor. Anyone would think the place was the Palace, or something. It always looked the same. It just needed a bit of a dust and a sweep. He knew what his father meant, though. Tomorrow was special and a clean house was one thing. A clean oven was another. Jack sighed, for he knew his plans to explore The Kestrel were not going to happen today.

  Tomorrow would be Christmas Day and the Tarrants were coming, turning the quiet of the lighthouse keeper’s home into a bustling noise. Here in the southern seas, summer bathed the trees in sparkling sunshine. Millions of diamonds glittered from the sea while the sun, unimpeded by even the most intrepid cloud, gloried in this special day. Deep red Christmas Bush dressed the countryside and no self-respecting family was without a bunch picked and taking pride of place in wherever they called home.

  Tradition, according to Mrs. Tarrant, began last year when she would not hear of the Lambeths being on their own with no one to cook a grand meal. She had arrived with her brood and commandeered the kitchen, bossing everyone about mercilessly until they left her to revel in her own creativity. The cheerful bustle the Tarrants brought with them made the first Christmas without Jack’s mother just a little more bearable. This year Mrs. Tarrant was set to repeat her mothering, arriving early in the morning by boat and laying siege to an array of seafood before serving up a culinary miracle.

  Resigned to his fate, Jack busied himself with the oven first thing. It was hot work and better done before the sun took a stranglehold on the day. He remembered Christmas cards with snow scenes and a warmly clad Santa Claus on them. It had nothing to do with an Australian Christmas where summer baked everything it touched. The stone cottage was as cool a place as could be found in summer. It was like living underground, hidden from the heat or the cold. It was much the same all year unless the westerly’s blew in the winter. They found their way into every cranny until they found a warm body to chill.

  Jack worked like an automaton but his mind was elsewhere. He thought about the wreck. It was a barque and fairly big, but the sea had carved it up and thrown the pieces about like matchsticks. Little was left, wedged in the rocks, except the hull and part of the mainmast, sticking up like an arm of a drowning man, trying to hold onto the dry air. The rotting wood was black and covered in barnacles, oysters and periwinkles. Seaweed draped over it like a Spanish mantilla, protecting the modesty of this fine lady of the sea.

  The grating of the steel wool over the oven surface and the sound of the waves breaking were all he heard, background noises to his thoughts. Rasp, rasp. Crash, splash. Rasp, rasp. Crash, splash. The mesmerizing sounds wove round him like Scotch mist until he was in a cocoon, severed from the drudgery of his task and thrown into the drudgery of another.

  Rasp, rasp, slosh. Rasp, rasp, slosh.

  His vision cleared and the origin of the sounds were different. A sailor, pigtailed and tanned, scrubbed the deck with vigorous sweeps of the arm and strength from his bulging biceps. A much practiced action, covering the boards with ease, his arm arced a wet soapy path like a river in flood. Jack was standing behind him, horribly exposed, in his bare feet and flannel pants, plain cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He felt conspicuous in his twentieth century clothes. The only thing comparable was his suntan. He was as swarthy as any sailor because of his life near the sea. There was nothing he could do about
his shorter hair. It was long for his time but falling short of the mark for now. He wondered if he was visible. He was never sure.

  The sailor scrubbed without pause. On the other side of the deck, another gallant fellow was engaged in the same task. He looked up and winked at Jack. It was the boy from the derrick. He looked merry. It was a good joke to see Jack looking so stunned. Jack always felt wrong-footed for a moment when he arrived on board The Kestrel. The feeling of familiarity was always a surprise. It was becoming ‘his ship’.

  He wondered where his Grandfather was. He felt strange thinking of him this way. It was hard to equate the terrified boy with the bristle-bearded, taciturn man his father had known. It was no use thinking this way, he knew. He was here to observe, maybe to understand. Maybe to walk a mile in his shoes. With that thought, Jack forgot his apprehension about being seen. Somehow, he felt it did not matter. There was purpose to these visits, he was sure. They were meant to happen.

  A huge coil of rope lay behind him. It was as good a place as any to sit. For the moment, he had nowhere to go so he sat on the uncomfortable pile without any sensation of discomfort. The smell of the sea and the splashing of the waves had taken him under their wing. Lord, there was no feeling like it!

  The vessel was in full sail, its mighty sheets bulging like cheeks laden with air, the masts creaking and straining, the smell of tar and hemp wafting by with each breath of the wind. High overhead, birds swung along with the ship, hoping for some fish for dinner. A cheeky seagull sat perched on the spar of the mizzen gallant mast, safe from the frenzy of operation on deck. Now that he looked, Jack was aware of sailors coming and going, some disappearing below decks, nimble as you please.

  Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in shock. The next sailor to appear from the hatchway was Edward McPhail. The stealth he witnessed during the last visit was gone. Instead, a grim lad, with the lines on his face etched by constant frowning and looking into the sun, hove to with a book in his hand. He turned abruptly and hurried up the stairs, no longer needed as a hiding place, it seemed. Jack’s eyes followed him until they took in another figure. This one was dressed like an officer, another stern-faced man, who took the book from Edward with not so much as a thank you and opened it. Shortly after, he turned and enquired something of Edward, who pointed to an entry on the page and stepped back to await instructions.