The North Water

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They carry Hannah’s body down to the mess cabin and lay it out on the table for Sumner to examine. The room is crowded but silent. Sumner, who can feel the heat of the other men’s breathing and sense the dour intensity of their concentration, wonders what they expect him to do exactly. Bring the boy back to life? The fact that he is a surgeon makes no difference anymore. He is as helpless and useless as they are. Trembling, he takes hold of Joseph Hannah’s hairless chin and moves it gently upwards to better note the dark chain of bruises around his neck.

“Strangled,” Brownlee says. “It’s a fucking outrage.”

There is a murmur of assent from the other men in the room. Sumner, feeling a degree of reluctance and shame, turns the boy over onto his side and pulls apart his pale buttocks. Some of the spectators lean in to look.

“The same or worse?” Brownlee asks.

“Worse.”

“Fuck.”

Sumner glances up at Cavendish, who has looked away and is whispering something to Drax. He turns the boy over again and presses down on his ribs to count the fractures. He opens the child’s mouth and notes that two of his teeth are missing.

“When did this happen?” Brownlee barks. “And how in God’s name is it possible that no one noticed?”

“I last saw the boy the day before yesterday,” Sumner says. “Just before the first flensing.”

There is a garbled rush of other voices as the rest of the men in the room recall their last encounters with the dead boy. Brownlee shouts them down.

“Not all together,” he says. “By Christ.”

The captain is pale and furious; his agitation is profound. He has never even heard of a murder occurring on a whale ship before — there are fights between crewmen, of course, plenty of those, stabbings even on some rare occasions, but not an outright murder and not of a child. It is an appalling thing, he thinks, repellent, sickening. And that it should happen now, on his final voyage, as if the Percival was not enough to darken his reputation forever. He looks around at the twenty or thirty crewmen packed into the mess cabin — grubby and bearded all of them, their faces burned and blackened by the arctic sun, their blunt hands clasped in front of them as though at prayer, or pushed deep into pockets. This is Jacob Baxter’s doing, he tells himself, that unrighteous bastard: he chose this idiot crew, he set this whole unnatural scheme in motion, he is responsible for the calamitous consequences, not I.

“Whoever is guilty will be taken back to England in chains and hanged,” Brownlee says, scanning the vacant twitching faces. “I promise you that.”

“Hanging’s too good for a fucker such as that,” one man says. “He should have his balls cut off first. He should have a red-hot poker rammed up his arse.”

“He should be whipped,” someone else suggests, “whipped down to the fucking bone.”

“Whoever he is, whatever he is, he will be punished according to the extent of the law,” Brownlee says. “Where is the sailmaker?”

The sailmaker, an aged, lugubrious man with vague blue eyes, steps forwards, his greasy beaver cap clutched in his hands.

“Stitch the boy into his shroud now,” Brownlee tells him. “We’ll bury him betimes.” The sailmaker nods and sniffs. “And the rest of you men get back to your duties.”

“Will we continue with the making off now, Captain?” Cavendish asks.

“Indeed we will. This atrocity is no excuse for idleness.”

The men nod meekly. One of them, a boat steerer named Roberts, raises his hand to speak.

“I saw the boy down in the forecastle after the first whale was flensed,” he says. “He was listening to the fiddler and watching the men dance their jigs.”

“That’s true,” another man says. “I saw him there too.”

“Did anyone see Joseph Hannah later?” Brownlee asks. “Did anyone see him yesterday? Speak up.”

“He was sleeping in the tween decks,” someone says. “That’s what we all believed.”

“Someone here knows what happened to him,” Brownlee says. “The ship is not so large that a boy can be killed without making some noise or leaving some trace.”

No one answers. Brownlee shakes his head.

“I will find the man who did this and see the bastard hanged,” he says. “That is a certainty. That is something you may all rely on.”

He turns to the surgeon.

“I would speak to you in my cabin now, Sumner.”

Once inside the cabin, the captain seats himself, removes his hat, and commences rubbing his face with the heels of his hands. When he is finished rubbing, his face is bright red and both his eyes are bloodshot and watery.

“Whether he acted out of pure evil or from a fear of being exposed for his perversions, I don’t know,” Brownlee says. “But whosoever sodomized the boy killed him also. That is plain enough.”

“I agree.”

“And do you suspect Cavendish still?”

Sumner hesitates, then shakes his head. He knows the first mate is an oaf, but he is less sure that he could be a murderer.

“It might be anyone,” he admits. “If Hannah was sleeping in the tween decks the night before last, then almost any man on the ship could have gone in there, strangled him, and lowered the body down into the hold without too much risk of being noticed.”

Brownlee scowls.

“I moved him from the forecastle to keep him away from difficulty, but I succeeded in abetting his murder.”

“He was a wretched and ill-starred child, all in all,” Sumner says.

“Fuck yes.”

Brownlee nods and pours them both a glass of brandy. Sumner feels humiliated, weakened, by this new outrage, as if the boy’s cruel death is a part of his own profound and lengthier diminishment. His right hand shakes as he drinks the brandy. Outside the room, the sailmaker whistles “The Bonnie Boat” as he sews the dead boy into his canvas coffin.

“There are thirty-eight men and boys left aboard this ship,” Brownlee says. “If we take away the two of us and the two remaining cabin boys, that leaves thirty-four. After the making off is finished, I will speak to all of them singly if necessary. I will find out what they know, what they have seen and heard, and what they suspect. A man does not develop such foul proclivities overnight. There will have been signs and rumors, and the forecastle is a hive of gossip.”

“The man, whoever he is, is likely insane,” Sumner says. “There’s no other explanation. He must be afflicted with some disease or corruption of the brain.”

Brownlee grinds his jaw one way, then the other, and pours himself another brandy before replying. When he speaks, his voice is low and taut.

“What kind of a crew has that Jew bastard Baxter afflicted me with?” he says. “Incompetents and savages. The filth and shite of the dockyards. I am a whaling man, but this is not whaling, Mr. Sumner. This is not whaling, I can assure you of that.”

* * *

The making off continues for the rest of the day. When it is done and the blubber casks are safely stowed away, they bury Joseph Hannah at sea. Brownlee grumbles some suitable verses from the Bible over the body, Black leads the men in a rough-hewn hymn, and the canvas shroud, weighted with shot, is tossed over the stern and swallowed by the flintish swell.

Sumner has no appetite for dinner. Instead of eating with the others, he goes up to walk on the deck, smoke a pipe, and take some air. The bear cub is growling and whimpering in its wooden cage, chewing on its paw and scratching itself constantly. Its coat is dull and matted now; it smells of excrement and fish oil and looks as lank and scrawny as a greyhound. Sumner gets a handful of ship’s biscuit from the galley, balances the pieces on the blade of a flensing knife, and tips them through the metal grate. They are gobbled up instantly. The bear cub growls, licks its muzzle, and glares back at him. Sumner puts a cup of water down on the deck a foot or so in front of the cask and then prods it forwards with the toe of his boot until it is close enough for the bear cub’s long pink tongue to reach. He stands awhile and watches it drink. Otto, who is commander of the watch, walks over and joins him.

“Why go to the trouble of catching and caging a bear if you plan only to let it starve?” Sumner asks him.

“If the bear’s sold, all the money goes to the dead man’s widow,” Otto says, “but the dead man’s widow isn’t here to feed him, and Drax and Cavendish feel under no obligation. We could set him free, of course, but the mother’s dead and he’s too young to survive on his own.”

Sumner nods, picks up the empty water cup, refills it, puts it back down, and prods it forwards with his toe. The bear drinks for a while longer, then stops drinking and retreats into the rear of the cask.

“What’s your opinion of the recent events?” Sumner asks. “What would your Master Swedenborg say of this atrocity?”

Otto looks solemn for a moment. He strokes his broad black beard and nods several times before answering.

“He would tell us that great evil is the absence of good, and that sin is a kind of forgetfulness. We drift away from the Lord because the Lord allows us to do so. That is our freedom but also our punishment.”

“And do you believe him?”

“What else should I believe?”

Sumner shrugs.

“That sin is remembering,” he offers. “That good is the absence of evil.”

“Some men believe that, of course, but if it were true, then the world would be chaos, and the world is not chaos. Look around, Sumner. The confusion and stupidity are ours. We misunderstand ourselves; we are very vain and very stupid. We build a great bonfire to warm ourselves and then complain that the flames are too hot and fierce, that we are blinded by the smoke.”

“Why kill a child though?” Sumner asks. “What sense can be made of that?”

“The most important questions are the ones we can’t hope to answer with words. Words are like toys: they amuse and educate us for a time, but when we come to manhood we should give them up.”

Sumner shakes his head.

“The words are all we have,” he says. “If we give them up, we are no better than the beasts.”

Otto smiles at Sumner’s wrongheadedness.

“Then you must find out the explanations on your own,” he says, “if that’s what you truly think.”

Sumner bends down and looks at the orphaned bear. He is crouched at the back of the cask panting and licking at a puddle of his own urine.

“I would rather not think,” he says. “It would be pleasanter and easier, I’m sure. But it seems I cannot help myself.”

* * *

Shortly after the burial, Cavendish requests to speak to Brownlee in his cabin.

“I’ve been asking questions,” he says. “I’ve been squeezing and grinding the bastards, and they’ve given up a name.”

“What name?”

“McKendrick.”

“Samuel McKendrick, the carpenter?”

“The same. They say he has been seen ashore in public houses canoodling with the Molly men. And this last whaling season when he shipped aboard the John o’ Gaunt, it is well known he was sharing his berth with a boat steerer, man name of Nesbet.”

“And this was in plain sight?”

“It’s dark in the forecastle, as you know, Mr. Brownlee, but let’s say noises were heard at night. Noises of a certain unmistakable kind, I mean.”

“Bring Samuel McKendrick to me,” Brownlee says. “And find Sumner also. I want the surgeon to hear whatever it is he has to say.”

McKendrick is a slight fellow, pale of skin and unrobust. His beard is wispy and yellowish; he has a slender nose, a narrow almost lipless mouth, and large ears tinged red by the cold.

“How well did you know Joseph Hannah?” Brownlee asks him.

“I doesn’t know him hardly at all.”

“You must have seen him in the forecastle though.”

“I seen him, yes, but I doesn’t know him. He’s just a cabin boy.”

“And are you not fond of the cabin boys?”

“Not especially.”

“Are you married, McKendrick? Do you have a wife waiting for you at home?”

“No sir, I int and I don’t.”

“But you have a sweetheart there, I suppose?”

McKendrick shakes his head.

“Perhaps you don’t like women much, is that it?”

“No, it’s not that sir,” McKendrick says. “It’s more that I have not found a woman that’s quite suitable for me as yet.”

Cavendish snorts at this. Brownlee turns, glares at him briefly, then continues his questioning.

“I have heard you prefer the company of men. That is what I’ve been told. Is that true?”

McKendrick’s expression doesn’t change. He seems neither scared nor agitated nor especially surprised by this accusation of unnaturalness.

“It int true, sir, no,” he says. “I am as red-blooded as the next man over.”

“Joseph Hannah was sodomized before he was killed. I suppose you know that already.”

“That is what all the fellows in the forecastle are saying, sir, yes.”

“Did you kill him, McKendrick?”

McKendrick frowns as though this question makes no sense.

“Did you?”

“No, that int me, sir,” he says placidly. “I int the one you seek.”

“He is a plausible fucking liar,” Cavendish says. “But I have half a dozen men who will testify to his well-known reputation as a buggerer of young boys.”

Brownlee looks at the carpenter, who seems, for the first time since the questioning began, less than comfortable.

“It will not go well for you if you are found to be lying, McKendrick,” he says. “I warn you now. I will be severe.”

McKendrick nods once, then scans the cabin ceiling before replying. His eyes are gray and fidgety, and there is something like a smile playing about his narrow lips.

“It hant ever been boys,” he says. “The boys int to my taste.”

Cavendish snorts derisively.

“You really expect us to believe you are so very particular about whose arse you lay siege to. From what I hear, after a pint or two of whiskey you would fuck your own granddad.”

“It int a matter of laying siege to anything,” McKendrick says.

“You are a fucking disgrace,” Brownlee says, jabbing his forefinger in McKendrick’s face. “And whether you are a murderer or not, I should have you whipped.”

“I int a murderer.”

“You are a proven liar though,” Brownlee says. “We have established that beyond a doubt already. And if you lie about one thing, why will you not lie about anything else?”

“I int a bloody murderer,” McKendrick says again.

“If you allow me to examine him briefly, Mr. Brownlee,” Sumner says, “there may be indications one way or the other.”

Brownlee looks quizzical.

“What indications would those be?” he says.

“The boy had a slew of sores around his arse, if you remember. If the sores are venereal, which is likely, the culprit may have them too. There may also be some soreness or abrasions on the culprit’s penis. A child’s fundament is quite narrow, after all.”

“Oh fuck me,” Cavendish says.

“Very well,” Brownlee says. “McKendrick, remove your clothes.”

McKendrick doesn’t move.

“Do it now,” Brownlee says, “or I swear we’ll do it for you.”

Reluctantly, slowly, McKendrick undresses in front of them. His legs and arms look strong but scrawny; between his dark red nipples there is a small, whiskery patch of light brown hair. For such a slight and colorless man, he possesses, Sumner notices, as he begins his examination, an unusually large and gaudy set of genitalia. The balls are heavy, dark, and pendulous; the yard, although not abnormally long, is thick as a dog’s snout, and its end piece is as broad and shiny as a kidney.

“No visible chancres,” Sumner reports. “No signs of soreness or abrasion either.”

“Perhaps he used a gob of lard to ease his entrance,” Cavendish says. “By any chance, did you check Hannah’s arsehole for signs of lubrication?”

“I did, and there were no residues to speak of.”

Cavendish smiles.

“Precious little gets past you, Mr. Sumner,” he says. “I swear to God.”

“No fresh cuts or scratches on the arms or neck as might be caused by a struggle either,” Sumner says. “You may put your clothes back on now, McKendrick.”

McKendrick does as he is told. Brownlee watches silently as he dresses himself and, when he is finished, instructs him to wait outside in the mess cabin until they call him back in.

“There is your murderer, right there,” Cavendish says. “Whether his cock is chafed or not, he’s the guilty one, I tell you.”

“It’s possible, but we have no convincing proof,” Sumner says.

“He’s a self-confessed sodomite. What further proof do you need?”

“A confession,” Brownlee says. “But if he won’t confess, I’m minded to put him in irons anyway and let the magistrates deal with him when we get back to port.”

“What if he’s not the one?” Sumner says. “Are you content to have the actual murderer walking free around the ship?”

“If it’s not McKendrick, then who the fuck could it be?” Cavendish asks. “Exactly how many sodomites do you think we have crammed aboard this vessel?”

“I would be surer of his guilt if someone had seen the two of them together,” Sumner says.

“Put McKendrick in irons for now, Cavendish,” Brownlee says. “Then let the rest of the crew know we wish to speak to anyone who has seen him talking to Hannah or paying the boy any sort of attentions. Sumner is most likely right. If he is guilty, there will be a witness.”