swiftly into some chasm of corruption.
And of course he was right. Easton had been talking treason. He was a rogue. George had no right to be immersing himself in such comfort and luxury after a mere two nights on his ship. How quickly the brain and body adjust to such foulness and seek the compensation of the senses!
George wonders vaguely what happened between Easton and the lieutenant when they were left alone—what stiff accusations and tired denials were repeated. How long could such a fruitless argument last before each man must repair to his own bed exhausted? Why didn’t the fool of a lieutenant just celebrate his promised freedom and keep quiet until his release?
George turns and hauls off his bedsheets. He stands and goes over to the ready jug of water and washes his face. The sweet droplets run cool over his skin and he can almost taste the wine of his dream again, the tingle of effervescence on his tongue. He can feel from the movement of the cabin that the ship is still slicing through the water at a steady pace. There is a distant sound of hammering, no doubt the promised repairs to Pym’s ship, which must be travelling alongside.
He dresses and leaves the cabin. The deck of the
Happy Adventure
is a swarm of activity. Dozens of bronze and wiry seaman are scrubbing, hammering and climbing. George sees Pym’s ship, the
Loyal Pandora
, half a length behind. The rear mast is already mended and a group of Easton’s men are checking the rigging and sails while Pym’s own crew look on like a small deer herd smelling the wind, wondering if they are in danger.
The air is much warmer today, even though the sun has barely climbed above some low clouds on the horizon; the wind streams past like the breath of a benevolent Neptune and the ocean ripples gently from horizon to horizon. George scans the distant waters. Then, turning, he sees Captain Pym standing a couple of yards behind him. He steps forward to greet the captain but is halted by a curious expression on his face. Pym’s cheeks have taken on an even more lurid colouring than usual and his eyes are bulging. He appears to speak, but the wind carries his words away and he thrusts a handkerchief to his mouth as though he is about to be sick. George takes another step toward the captain and offers him a steadying hand.
“Are you ill, sir?” George cries above the wind.
But the captain pulls away and his shoulders dip like those of a bull before battle.
“No,” Pym grunts. “Our cabins. Mine and Baxter’s. Look.” He points behind him. George stares off toward the cluster of smartly appointed rooms. He follows the instruction without quite knowing why and walks slowly in that direction. Captain Pym stays where he is, coughing and retching. When George reaches the small staircase beneath the cabin entrance he turns around. Captain Pym, now by the deck rail, the handkerchief still in his face, nods and waves him on.
George climbs the staircase and, reaching the top, pushes open the unfastened door in front of him. Glancing back again he sees that Pym is now turned to the sea, gripping the deck rail. George goes through into a vestibule which is almost identical to the one that adjoins his own cabin. Only one detail distinguishes it. Attached to one of the cabin doors is an object George takes at first for a bizarre and rather tasteless decoration. It is a sculpture of a human head, in the exact likeness of the young lieutenant. Its chalky-white colour makes it somewhat like the Roman and Greek busts he has seen in the London exhibitions. But unlike those artifacts, the lips are of a different hue to the skin, the hair is lifelike—a plait of it is curled around a large nail on the door and tied into a knot—and there is an obscene and bloated slaughterhouse verity to the skin and the seams of the eyelids.
It takes no more than a second to realize that it is neither sculpture nor decoration. But that short time is pregnant with hopeful
And of course he was right. Easton had been talking treason. He was a rogue. George had no right to be immersing himself in such comfort and luxury after a mere two nights on his ship. How quickly the brain and body adjust to such foulness and seek the compensation of the senses!
George wonders vaguely what happened between Easton and the lieutenant when they were left alone—what stiff accusations and tired denials were repeated. How long could such a fruitless argument last before each man must repair to his own bed exhausted? Why didn’t the fool of a lieutenant just celebrate his promised freedom and keep quiet until his release?
George turns and hauls off his bedsheets. He stands and goes over to the ready jug of water and washes his face. The sweet droplets run cool over his skin and he can almost taste the wine of his dream again, the tingle of effervescence on his tongue. He can feel from the movement of the cabin that the ship is still slicing through the water at a steady pace. There is a distant sound of hammering, no doubt the promised repairs to Pym’s ship, which must be travelling alongside.
He dresses and leaves the cabin. The deck of the
Happy Adventure
is a swarm of activity. Dozens of bronze and wiry seaman are scrubbing, hammering and climbing. George sees Pym’s ship, the
Loyal Pandora
, half a length behind. The rear mast is already mended and a group of Easton’s men are checking the rigging and sails while Pym’s own crew look on like a small deer herd smelling the wind, wondering if they are in danger.
The air is much warmer today, even though the sun has barely climbed above some low clouds on the horizon; the wind streams past like the breath of a benevolent Neptune and the ocean ripples gently from horizon to horizon. George scans the distant waters. Then, turning, he sees Captain Pym standing a couple of yards behind him. He steps forward to greet the captain but is halted by a curious expression on his face. Pym’s cheeks have taken on an even more lurid colouring than usual and his eyes are bulging. He appears to speak, but the wind carries his words away and he thrusts a handkerchief to his mouth as though he is about to be sick. George takes another step toward the captain and offers him a steadying hand.
“Are you ill, sir?” George cries above the wind.
But the captain pulls away and his shoulders dip like those of a bull before battle.
“No,” Pym grunts. “Our cabins. Mine and Baxter’s. Look.” He points behind him. George stares off toward the cluster of smartly appointed rooms. He follows the instruction without quite knowing why and walks slowly in that direction. Captain Pym stays where he is, coughing and retching. When George reaches the small staircase beneath the cabin entrance he turns around. Captain Pym, now by the deck rail, the handkerchief still in his face, nods and waves him on.
George climbs the staircase and, reaching the top, pushes open the unfastened door in front of him. Glancing back again he sees that Pym is now turned to the sea, gripping the deck rail. George goes through into a vestibule which is almost identical to the one that adjoins his own cabin. Only one detail distinguishes it. Attached to one of the cabin doors is an object George takes at first for a bizarre and rather tasteless decoration. It is a sculpture of a human head, in the exact likeness of the young lieutenant. Its chalky-white colour makes it somewhat like the Roman and Greek busts he has seen in the London exhibitions. But unlike those artifacts, the lips are of a different hue to the skin, the hair is lifelike—a plait of it is curled around a large nail on the door and tied into a knot—and there is an obscene and bloated slaughterhouse verity to the skin and the seams of the eyelids.
It takes no more than a second to realize that it is neither sculpture nor decoration. But that short time is pregnant with hopeful
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