The Devil's Mask by Christopher Wakling Page B

swallow it back down and contain the next wave: the sensation was so overpowering, the effort of resisting it soobliterating, that for long moments I had no idea what the Captain was saying, much less why I had followed the man down here, what I was looking for. My very awareness of where I was faltered; every sense, every shred of reason, all of it dimmed.
    â€˜â€¦ and Waring. That’s the surgeon as was. Well he … impossible to staunch. No point wasting … he said, if I hadn’t … we lashed the man down, against himself you understand, but there was no need … my God … quickly faded. It was an almighty squall, you see … a proper blow.’
    I took in the new joinery the Captain appeared so keen to highlight, blond wood whose rough-cut grain was still beaded with sap in places. Against it the old timbers looked like something burned and buried and dug up. But they had held firm. Addison stroked a length of black plank and explained how nearly the ship had come to wrenching entirely apart. Perhaps the memory of this recent scare was to blame for having unhinged the Captain? I tried not to breathe in through my nose and nodded with him.
    â€˜But she’s a marvellous tough tug. The squall would have stowed many a newer vessel in the locker, I’m sure of that.’
    My legs still swaying beneath me, I steadied myself with a hand on one of the ship’s ancient spars. Instantly I recoiled: the woodwork had the greasy feel of cold meat.
    Addison stumped off further into the hold, pointing this way and that at the refitted interior as if by doing so he could conjure the nightmare the ship had endured. There was something frightening in his enthusiasm. It was manic, sharp-edged . I could think of no reason to hang back, however, and followed the Captain deeper into the hold’s recesses.
    â€˜We were broadsided by the swell! The sea shipped itself through that hole, dropping us three feet nearer the waterline. I tell you, by the time we made port, the waves were lapping at the waist!’
    Pawing at my coat-tail to rid my hand of the ship’s clammy touch, I managed a further sympathetic nod. I did not feel I was beneath the waterline so much as interred; the planks of the ship’s hull and deck seemed the walls and lid of a buried coffin. My breathing was shallow, confined to sips of the rotten air. How on earth did sailors manage to survive the long months of a transatlantic voyage? The tour of the empty hold continued aft, past a storeroom strewn with filthy straw. Perhaps disturbed by the sound of our approach, a rat sped out of the open door, around the Captain, and straight over the toe of my right boot. I kicked out instinctively, but missed; the rat fled.
    â€˜You have to be quicker than that to catch them,’ Addison grunted. ‘The log’s still in my cabin. As are the ledgers.’ He pointed past the stairs to the upper deck and continued, ‘Back this way.’
    I faltered. The light pouring through the hatch into the ship intensified at that moment, the sun having emerged from behind clouds above no doubt, so that the block of brightness in the hold appeared suddenly celestial. I walked towards it. ‘No need,’ I said. ‘No need.’
    â€˜Why ever not? The delay is all accounted for, written down in black and white. You’ll need to see it, won’t you? Ink! It runs in lawyers’ veins, does it not?’
    â€˜It does,’ I muttered, my foot upon the first step.
    â€˜Well the log’s taut rigged, Sir.’
    I climbed towards the light. ‘I’m sure it is. You’ve no objection to my taking it back to the office, have you? My master will want to review it …’
    â€˜As you wish,’ Addison muttered, disappointed. ‘As you wish.’

Twelve
    Regaining the deck, I found myself blinking and sucking down deep draughts of air. The stink of the port had never tasted so good. I lifted