order came to take a shot. Polson had repeated, since the expedition had made first camp, that the dangers in the forest were many, but unknown. The local Indians, while not unfriendly, had been unwilling to leave their homes ‘for glory,’ and who indeed could blame them? The other native men, Mosquitoes and a few of indeterminate caste and parentage, either spoke no ‘useful’ language (Polson), or chose to pretend they didn’t. Mistrust and unpleasantness between the factions was already rife.
Hastie, not for the first time, wondered how he had come to this. The heat, the drink, the levels of exhaustion of the last few days, had made him prone to slipping into dreams. He was now rated officially (Nelson said) as surgeon’s mate, although he was unclear how this could be, or who indeed would pay him. He had joined the 69th in Liverpool as a volunteer, marched to Portsmouth with the army, and somehow been adopted or coerced to tend to Nelson when his intermittent sickness had first come back upon him. Hastie had tried, once, to ask Colonel Polson officially what the position was, but Polson, harassed and overworked beyond belief, had looked at him with unseeing eyes, and muttered words of formless confidence. Tim did not even care to go further into his status, even in his private journal. He was, somehow, in limbo.
When he opened his eyes and focused on an empty, staring pair, his tired brain said nothing to him for a moment. And then he jumped, as if he had been stabbed, and let out a cry. Nelson, right beside him, gave a bark of laughter.
‘Wake up, Tim,’ he said. ‘It is a crocodile. Be polite, or he will snap your head off. It is not a jest, I promise you.’
It was a jest, Tim hoped, but as he jerked upright, the long, strange, silent head slid backwards. First the squareness of the skull went under, then the plank-like jaw, then the upturned nostrils, bejeweled with yellow fangs. Last to disappear were the eyes, as pale and soulless as he thought that death must be.
‘Shoot it!’ he said. It came out as a croak. The soldier’s eyes turned onto his, mournful and uninterested. ‘Shoot it, it’s a crocodile! Did you not hear?’
‘Or perhaps an alligator,’ said the stroke oar, conversationally. ‘Mebbe a cayman. Be buggered, sir, if I can tell the differ. Ain’t seen one in Portsmouth ’arbour, though. Not even on the Turktown side.’
‘Turks?’ Hastie’s confusion grew. ‘Sir? Captain Nelson?’
The oarsmen on the nearest thwarts were laughing happily. A bloody foreigner! From bloody Liverpool!
‘Gosport,’ said Nelson. ‘Just don’t ask me why. The other side of Portsmouth harbour, a God damn long way off the Barbary. And from the Isle of Wight come Corkheads. It makes Norfolk seem quite civilized, sometimes. You there. Number three oar, larboard side. I could keep a better stroke than that when I was ten.’
‘Beg pardon, sir. May I rot for it!’
More laughter. Nelson and his men were like a village music band. A large fish jumped clean from the water by the captain’s hand and flopped back with a splash.
‘Damn me!’ he cried. ‘Next time we bring a net!’
Tim Hastie was recovered. His dream had faded. He studied the brown and swirling waters of the river hoping to see more things weird and wonderful. He could not believe how bold the animals appeared to be. On the bank, once his eyes had adjusted to the violent light and alternate deep black shadows, he could see a positive menagerie. Like greasy lizards the crocs (or caymen? A word that he had never heard of) slipped up and down the slopes, indifferent to each other, indifferent to the world. Until he saw a snout, an eye, a nostril trailing behind a gaudy, handsome duck not twenty feet away, and the trail became a mighty swirl, and the snout a giant scissor, and the top jaw came down on the duck like a guillotine. There was no squawk, although a jet of blood sprang through the air, and mixed into the water as the
Hastie, not for the first time, wondered how he had come to this. The heat, the drink, the levels of exhaustion of the last few days, had made him prone to slipping into dreams. He was now rated officially (Nelson said) as surgeon’s mate, although he was unclear how this could be, or who indeed would pay him. He had joined the 69th in Liverpool as a volunteer, marched to Portsmouth with the army, and somehow been adopted or coerced to tend to Nelson when his intermittent sickness had first come back upon him. Hastie had tried, once, to ask Colonel Polson officially what the position was, but Polson, harassed and overworked beyond belief, had looked at him with unseeing eyes, and muttered words of formless confidence. Tim did not even care to go further into his status, even in his private journal. He was, somehow, in limbo.
When he opened his eyes and focused on an empty, staring pair, his tired brain said nothing to him for a moment. And then he jumped, as if he had been stabbed, and let out a cry. Nelson, right beside him, gave a bark of laughter.
‘Wake up, Tim,’ he said. ‘It is a crocodile. Be polite, or he will snap your head off. It is not a jest, I promise you.’
It was a jest, Tim hoped, but as he jerked upright, the long, strange, silent head slid backwards. First the squareness of the skull went under, then the plank-like jaw, then the upturned nostrils, bejeweled with yellow fangs. Last to disappear were the eyes, as pale and soulless as he thought that death must be.
‘Shoot it!’ he said. It came out as a croak. The soldier’s eyes turned onto his, mournful and uninterested. ‘Shoot it, it’s a crocodile! Did you not hear?’
‘Or perhaps an alligator,’ said the stroke oar, conversationally. ‘Mebbe a cayman. Be buggered, sir, if I can tell the differ. Ain’t seen one in Portsmouth ’arbour, though. Not even on the Turktown side.’
‘Turks?’ Hastie’s confusion grew. ‘Sir? Captain Nelson?’
The oarsmen on the nearest thwarts were laughing happily. A bloody foreigner! From bloody Liverpool!
‘Gosport,’ said Nelson. ‘Just don’t ask me why. The other side of Portsmouth harbour, a God damn long way off the Barbary. And from the Isle of Wight come Corkheads. It makes Norfolk seem quite civilized, sometimes. You there. Number three oar, larboard side. I could keep a better stroke than that when I was ten.’
‘Beg pardon, sir. May I rot for it!’
More laughter. Nelson and his men were like a village music band. A large fish jumped clean from the water by the captain’s hand and flopped back with a splash.
‘Damn me!’ he cried. ‘Next time we bring a net!’
Tim Hastie was recovered. His dream had faded. He studied the brown and swirling waters of the river hoping to see more things weird and wonderful. He could not believe how bold the animals appeared to be. On the bank, once his eyes had adjusted to the violent light and alternate deep black shadows, he could see a positive menagerie. Like greasy lizards the crocs (or caymen? A word that he had never heard of) slipped up and down the slopes, indifferent to each other, indifferent to the world. Until he saw a snout, an eye, a nostril trailing behind a gaudy, handsome duck not twenty feet away, and the trail became a mighty swirl, and the snout a giant scissor, and the top jaw came down on the duck like a guillotine. There was no squawk, although a jet of blood sprang through the air, and mixed into the water as the
Similar Books
