explanations, steering George away from the obvious. First he thinks it might be the result of some macabre joke of Easton’s by which clay or some similar substance can be made to look like human flesh. Then he considers how the slave or slaves who live below might have some way of creating such an illusion. The thing that finally confounds these explanations is the presence of a plump black housefly on the rug directly beneath the hideous object. The insect stands in the midst of a dark, drying puddle—a viscous, foul-smelling stain that can only be blood.
George takes a step backward. His heart hammers, sending echoes through his ears. Something warm rises from his stomach and he swallows it down. He has seen such things many times before, he tells himself in a vain attempt to calm down. He thinks of the heads stuck on poles above the entrance to London Bridge. He recalls his more recent experience of hanged men and rogues over whose execution he has even helped to preside. He has seen the helpless twitch and struggle of the dying. He has seen their remains change from pink, dripping carcasses to leather and bone. Why should this be so much more shocking?
He spins away from the vestibule, half backing out of the door. The wind enwraps him on the stairs and he tells himself it should not be so; he should not be so upset. Yet he is not convinced.
Images return like the spokes of a windmill: the candlelight of the previous evening; the sharp, bright buttons of the lieutenant’s tunic; Baxter’s glistening, indignant eyes; and most of all, Easton’s calm and tolerant smile. These things tumble back into his brain as partial answers as to why the gruesome discovery is uniquely disturbing. It is because this was so unexpected, because things are most definitely not what they seem with Easton. Most of all, it’s because the severed head, with its blanched white skin and closed eyes, could so easily have been his.
Chapter Six
“ It was, I confess, quite unforgivable of me to let you find him like that.”
Easton addresses them all in quiet, even tones. His eyes are cast meditatively down at the table. The cabin creaks gently like a church pew under the weight of worshipers’ knees. The tunic Easton wears today is darker and less embroidered than usual. George has seen similar clothing in portraits of the pious King Philip II of Spain. He wonders if Easton has Catholic leanings.
No one has eaten, including Easton this time. Bread remains unbroken in a basket at the centre. The solemnity and the tension are almost unbearable.
At last the admiral stirs.
“Perhaps, sir,” he begins with a cough, “you could give us some indication as to the circumstances through which the young lieutenant came to meet his fate.” As he talks, the admiral glances at Captain Pym, who holds a handkerchief to his mouth and seems too unsettled, perhaps too angry, to say anything himself.
“Of course, sir,” Easton replies penitently. “That is the very least I owe you all. Oh, that such a disaster of inhospitality should have occurred on my ship!” Easton seems almost overtaken with grief for a moment. He takes a deep breath then rouses himself. Tipping his head to the side and gazing down at the oak grain patterns of the table, he begins. “You all saw, sirs, how the young lieutenant was when you retired,” he says quietly. “It was my ardent wish at that time to continue calming him with soft and patient answers until such a time that we might part from each other as friends.”
Easton’s dark eyes seem unusually sensitive in the midst of his embarrassment. Their very depth seems to attract all the scattered daylight in the cabin. “I took the blows most meekly,” he says, looking up and gazing directly at each of them in turn, begging that his sincerity be accepted. “Even the accusations of...treason,” he adds closing his eyes. The word “treason” comes in a sigh as though it turns his breath to flame.
A chair
George takes a step backward. His heart hammers, sending echoes through his ears. Something warm rises from his stomach and he swallows it down. He has seen such things many times before, he tells himself in a vain attempt to calm down. He thinks of the heads stuck on poles above the entrance to London Bridge. He recalls his more recent experience of hanged men and rogues over whose execution he has even helped to preside. He has seen the helpless twitch and struggle of the dying. He has seen their remains change from pink, dripping carcasses to leather and bone. Why should this be so much more shocking?
He spins away from the vestibule, half backing out of the door. The wind enwraps him on the stairs and he tells himself it should not be so; he should not be so upset. Yet he is not convinced.
Images return like the spokes of a windmill: the candlelight of the previous evening; the sharp, bright buttons of the lieutenant’s tunic; Baxter’s glistening, indignant eyes; and most of all, Easton’s calm and tolerant smile. These things tumble back into his brain as partial answers as to why the gruesome discovery is uniquely disturbing. It is because this was so unexpected, because things are most definitely not what they seem with Easton. Most of all, it’s because the severed head, with its blanched white skin and closed eyes, could so easily have been his.
Chapter Six
“ It was, I confess, quite unforgivable of me to let you find him like that.”
Easton addresses them all in quiet, even tones. His eyes are cast meditatively down at the table. The cabin creaks gently like a church pew under the weight of worshipers’ knees. The tunic Easton wears today is darker and less embroidered than usual. George has seen similar clothing in portraits of the pious King Philip II of Spain. He wonders if Easton has Catholic leanings.
No one has eaten, including Easton this time. Bread remains unbroken in a basket at the centre. The solemnity and the tension are almost unbearable.
At last the admiral stirs.
“Perhaps, sir,” he begins with a cough, “you could give us some indication as to the circumstances through which the young lieutenant came to meet his fate.” As he talks, the admiral glances at Captain Pym, who holds a handkerchief to his mouth and seems too unsettled, perhaps too angry, to say anything himself.
“Of course, sir,” Easton replies penitently. “That is the very least I owe you all. Oh, that such a disaster of inhospitality should have occurred on my ship!” Easton seems almost overtaken with grief for a moment. He takes a deep breath then rouses himself. Tipping his head to the side and gazing down at the oak grain patterns of the table, he begins. “You all saw, sirs, how the young lieutenant was when you retired,” he says quietly. “It was my ardent wish at that time to continue calming him with soft and patient answers until such a time that we might part from each other as friends.”
Easton’s dark eyes seem unusually sensitive in the midst of his embarrassment. Their very depth seems to attract all the scattered daylight in the cabin. “I took the blows most meekly,” he says, looking up and gazing directly at each of them in turn, begging that his sincerity be accepted. “Even the accusations of...treason,” he adds closing his eyes. The word “treason” comes in a sigh as though it turns his breath to flame.
A chair
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