English passengers by Matthew Kneale Page B

The Jew, who murdered Christ our Saviour. And any others who’d been remiss confessing their sins and begging for pardon. The congregation were rapt as babes, having themselves a fine time as he danced them this way and that with his words. First there was a mighty tingle of fear as they wondered if they’d confessed enough, or if it might be themselves who’d be burning forever. Next there was the sweet relief of hearing that they’d probably not be on the bad list after all, so long as they went careful. Finally, and best of all, they’d have a smug little ponder of all those rich Lords and Ladies, and Kings and Emperors who, forall their fine clothes and carriages, were beyond saving, and would soon be knocked off their high perches clean into hell. It was strong stuff. Though I’m no end-of-the-world man myself, just hearing it told with such certainty did pull at me a scran, throwing up little doubts and wonderings.
    ‘‘Let’s be off now,’’ I whispered.
    It was as if China never heard. I saw he was staring at the preacher wide-eyed with fear, hooked like a fish to his words. Then again, that one always was a fool for being persuaded, soft gorm of a body that he was. When I gave him a nudge he actually turned his back on me. Well, discipline aboard Manx boats may be thin as milk compared to your English or American vessels, Man Island being too small for the formal, but there are limits. I gave him a jab in the ribs. ‘‘Crewman Clucas, I’m ordering you to come along.’’
    I suppose it did come out a little loud. All at once one of the other listeners was giving a sharp tug at my jacket. ‘‘That’s enough. If you can’t stay quiet then you should go.’’
    The trouble was that the cloth lining had already been ripped half to pieces by those low dirts of robbers reaching into my pockets. All at once I felt something give and fall. Now, if there’s one sound that will carry nicely, it’s breaking glass, and even our friend in the spectacles went quiet for a moment. Likewise there’s no smell like brandy to catch the nostrils, and everyone nearby was peering round to see what was doing. A fine little sight there was for them, too. Next to a smashed flask of brandy was the tin of spilled tobacco, and next to that was the glass plate. This last was broken but it still wasn’t hard to make out what was pictured on it, as it was nicely done and there are certain particular shapes that a man will notice. It was of a young miss, brave as could be, sat in a comfortable chair, smiling and holding a little kitten. As for clothes, well, she had a neat little bonnet and a fine pair of ankle boots with laces up to the top. And of course the kitten. But that was about as far as it went. The detail was very fine.
    ‘‘Drunkard,’’ hissed a voice.
    ‘‘Fornicator,’’ spat another.
    Altogether it seemed like I’d not be doing too well on hellfire day after all. At least it got Clucas moving, though, and you couldn’t have gothim out of there quick enough. The other good thing was that as we stepped outside there was no sign of our friend in the rags or his many relations. The street was quiet, while just a few yards down, sunning himself on a wall, was that sly one chief mate Juan Brew. It was typical of the man. If all the world went stepping in dog muck he’d be the one to spy himself a guinea instead. Sometimes it was tempting just to give him a good kicking.
    ‘‘D’you think it’s true, though?’’ That big gorm Clucas had got himself in a proper blather. ‘‘Is Armageddon coming?’’
    ‘‘For you, certainly.’’ My thoughts were on those samples the big walloper had gone and made me break. The fact was it was no small disaster. There was no point even trying to find the right Waterman’s Arms now we had nothing to show.
    To my surprise Brew seemed hardly bothered by the news of what had happened. ‘‘Ah, don’t worry yourself Captain. I’ve had an idea.’’ He smiled.