sure.â Fitzmaurice peered at fig.3 and wondered whether he should use a focusing cloth. âJust bear with me.â
Not having any idea what either a Fresnel lens or a loupe was, he moved on to fig.6 and pulled back the ground glass to slide the film holder into place within the plane of the lens (fig. 7) . There was a crunching sound. He adjusted the film holder but this caused a sharp snap, as of an over-stretched spring returning to an unextended position, and a fragment of glass shot out of the side of the bellows.
âCome on Fitz, whatâs taking so long?â
âJust another minute. Weâre almost there.â
He opened the lens wide and peered through the viewfinder at the ghostly forms in front of him. It was no good. He removed his jacket, draped it around his head and leant over the apparatus, pulling the fabric close to block out the light. He began to ease it all into focus, and slowly, slowly, the picture began to form. Slowly⦠And then, the dinner gong sounded, a low rumbling came from the bow and the cabin boy and the twins thundered into and through the cameraâs range of vision plucking Rafferty, without a word or backward glance, into their slipstream.
âBloody hell,â shouted Fitzmaurice.
Â
Crozier wasnât hungry (it was salt-beef and boiled cabbage and he could abide neither) so he stayed on deck and settled himself on a perch below the bridge to watch some gannets (Morus bassanus ) diving for fish. The Dolphin was managing a good six knots and it wasnât long before they were gone from view. He lay back and listened to the myriad sounds of the ship: the creaking and ticking of her timbers, the seethe and plash of the ocean against the hull, the whip-crack of the sails; all the various inexplicable tinklings and clankings sought out by the wind. Above him a gull was dreaming at the masthead, floating with barely a wingbeat, and he marvelled at its effortless detachment. What would it be like to be as free as a bird?
Just as the question formed he was distracted by a sound on the starboard side of the deck. It was coming from the lifeboat. Shielding his eyes against the sun, which had just pierced the clouds, he watched as the canvas tarpaulin that was stretched over the mouth of the craft went slack and dropped away, and to his utter amazement a face appeared. It was deathly pale. A pair of wild eyes peered from beneath a tangle of dark hair. He squinted. The creature looked around, listening intently, then rose further into the light and after one more scan (Crozier was largely hidden by the mainmast) vaulted nimbly onto the deck and loped with silent footsteps over to the water butt that stood beside the hatchway.
He could see now that the figure was a young woman in a grimy white blouse and ragged grey skirt. She took the tin scoop from its hook and drank, droplets spilling down her chin. And again. She replaced it, then froze, head on one side. She had sensed him. He shrank back into the shadow of the mast, holding his breath, his heart pounding. When he ventured another peek, she had vanished.
He sat thinking about what heâd just seen, wondering if he had, in fact, seen it. Could he have hallucinated? There was no doubt that heâd been feeling unusual of late, what with the seasickness and the hit-and-miss nutritional value of Victoorâs basse cuisine . Or had he witnessed an apparition? It wouldnât have been the first time. As a child heâd described to his nervously-smiling family a number of other-worldly encounters, later referred to, sotto voce , as âWalterâs visionsâ. These included a conversation with a neighbourâs wife dead some fifteen years, and a premonition, relayed with great excitement to an uncle who worked for Harland & Wolff Heavy Industries, of the sinking of a mighty ship between âwhite mountainsâ.
Â
âAre you sure it was a woman?â
âI told you, she was
Not having any idea what either a Fresnel lens or a loupe was, he moved on to fig.6 and pulled back the ground glass to slide the film holder into place within the plane of the lens (fig. 7) . There was a crunching sound. He adjusted the film holder but this caused a sharp snap, as of an over-stretched spring returning to an unextended position, and a fragment of glass shot out of the side of the bellows.
âCome on Fitz, whatâs taking so long?â
âJust another minute. Weâre almost there.â
He opened the lens wide and peered through the viewfinder at the ghostly forms in front of him. It was no good. He removed his jacket, draped it around his head and leant over the apparatus, pulling the fabric close to block out the light. He began to ease it all into focus, and slowly, slowly, the picture began to form. Slowly⦠And then, the dinner gong sounded, a low rumbling came from the bow and the cabin boy and the twins thundered into and through the cameraâs range of vision plucking Rafferty, without a word or backward glance, into their slipstream.
âBloody hell,â shouted Fitzmaurice.
Â
Crozier wasnât hungry (it was salt-beef and boiled cabbage and he could abide neither) so he stayed on deck and settled himself on a perch below the bridge to watch some gannets (Morus bassanus ) diving for fish. The Dolphin was managing a good six knots and it wasnât long before they were gone from view. He lay back and listened to the myriad sounds of the ship: the creaking and ticking of her timbers, the seethe and plash of the ocean against the hull, the whip-crack of the sails; all the various inexplicable tinklings and clankings sought out by the wind. Above him a gull was dreaming at the masthead, floating with barely a wingbeat, and he marvelled at its effortless detachment. What would it be like to be as free as a bird?
Just as the question formed he was distracted by a sound on the starboard side of the deck. It was coming from the lifeboat. Shielding his eyes against the sun, which had just pierced the clouds, he watched as the canvas tarpaulin that was stretched over the mouth of the craft went slack and dropped away, and to his utter amazement a face appeared. It was deathly pale. A pair of wild eyes peered from beneath a tangle of dark hair. He squinted. The creature looked around, listening intently, then rose further into the light and after one more scan (Crozier was largely hidden by the mainmast) vaulted nimbly onto the deck and loped with silent footsteps over to the water butt that stood beside the hatchway.
He could see now that the figure was a young woman in a grimy white blouse and ragged grey skirt. She took the tin scoop from its hook and drank, droplets spilling down her chin. And again. She replaced it, then froze, head on one side. She had sensed him. He shrank back into the shadow of the mast, holding his breath, his heart pounding. When he ventured another peek, she had vanished.
He sat thinking about what heâd just seen, wondering if he had, in fact, seen it. Could he have hallucinated? There was no doubt that heâd been feeling unusual of late, what with the seasickness and the hit-and-miss nutritional value of Victoorâs basse cuisine . Or had he witnessed an apparition? It wouldnât have been the first time. As a child heâd described to his nervously-smiling family a number of other-worldly encounters, later referred to, sotto voce , as âWalterâs visionsâ. These included a conversation with a neighbourâs wife dead some fifteen years, and a premonition, relayed with great excitement to an uncle who worked for Harland & Wolff Heavy Industries, of the sinking of a mighty ship between âwhite mountainsâ.
Â
âAre you sure it was a woman?â
âI told you, she was
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