Easton by Paul Butler

exit. George sees a flicker of terror pass over his face.
    George, Whitbourne and Pym make their way onto the deck. The night wind blusters warm around George’s ears. The sails are at full stretch like the bellies of pregnant cattle. The slave walks before them in order to show Pym his cabin. They circle together in silence around the maze of cabins with the clear, starry night watching them from above. The slave leads Captain Pym into a doorway and soon after George and the admiral reach their entrance.
    “What do we do now?” George asks quietly as they reach the shelter of the little vestibule.
    “Our options are even more limited than before. We are now bound to stay on his side and argue in his favour. We have no choice. Pym will report that we carried his arms. He has to.”
    They stand in front of their respective doorways, both weary and lost. It is a sad, unwholesome kind of defeat because it springs not from honest battle on their part, but from cold strategy which has failed. The strain of humiliation shows on the admiral’s face.
    “Will he bring us back to our own harbour, do you think?” asks George.
    “It’s where he has left more than half his own fleet and so he must return there himself. We have to trust he will, that’s all.”
    George bids the admiral goodnight and goes into his cabin. He waits there, pacing, his heart beating faster than its usual pace; he is not at first sure why. Only when he hears approaching footsteps a few minutes later, does he recognize the reason for his anticipation. The door opens slowly after a soft knock. Without looking at him, the slave enters and places a tray with a plate, a jug and a goblet down on the side table. George finds himself frozen in the middle of the room like a statue, unable to move away yet helpless to speak to the one who has entered. The slave glances at him curiously as she leaves, her footfalls soft upon his rug then echoing in the vestibule beyond the room. Her leaving creates a tug somewhere deep in George’s chest.
    George wakes up feeling vaguely ashamed though the reason for such an emotion is obscure to him. Daylight scatters over the bed linen and he realizes he has slept soundly for many hours. He now remembers that before lying down he enjoyed two full goblets of Easton’s excellent wine and much of the roast fowl. The hunger of recent self-deprivation, it seems, caught up with him quite suddenly, and he let go. But while his brain and body were relaxing his dreams were preparing to weave his enjoyment into images of self-reproach.
    In his sleep he found himself on a shining deck made of gold. Rosalind was beside him, but her face was again ebony like the slave’s. The warmth of her body was pressed close against his and he could taste the sweet breath from her smiling mouth. A cannon on the main deck was turned inward; it seemed to be shaped like a giant curved mouth, the contours of its rim like human lips. Rosalind held a jug underneath this curious aperture and it spewed forth a steaming liquid the colour of blood. Rosalind filled a goblet with the jug’s contents and gave it to George to taste. The flavour had his senses in raptures, sparkling on his tongue with richness and zest intermingling. It was like the music of the finest minstrels translated magically into taste.
    None of this troubled George while he was asleep. Indeed the sweet, oozing sensations of the dreams only added to the rich comfort of his slumber. But now with morning sun glinting on the silver tray and wine jug resting together on the side table, all his recent comforts begin to pick at his conscience. He thinks of young Baxter. What would the lieutenant say if he knew George had enjoyed Easton’s bounty so thoroughly? How indignant and self-righteous he would be! How he would stiffen and stand if George were to reveal the details of his strange dream! To the lieutenant, the fancies of his sleep would surely prove that George’s soul was descending