Drax shrugs and looks down at the tooth lying on the table where the surgeon left it.
“That tooth int none of mine,” he says. “The surgeon dug it out my arm, but how it got there is the gravest kind of mystery.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
For four days and nights, Brownlee lies insensible on his cot, open-eyed but barely breathing. The left side of his face is blackened and misshapen. His eye is swelled shut. Unknown liquids ooze out of his ear; high on his forehead where the skin is split apart the bone is palely visible. Sumner thinks it unlikely that he will live, and, if he does live, impossible that his mind will ever fully recover. He knows from experience that the human brain cannot tolerate such contusions. Once the skull is breached, the situation is almost hopeless, the vulnerability is too immense. He has seen such injuries on the battlefield, from saber and shrapnel, rifle butts and the hooves of horses—unconsciousness is followed by catatonia; occasionally they shout out like lunatics, or weep like children—something inside them (their soul? their character?) has been scrambled, reversed. They have lost their bearings. It is generally better, he thinks, if they die rather than go on inhabiting the twilit half-world of the mad.
Cavendish has a badly broken nose and has lost several of his front teeth, but is otherwise unaltered. After a brief period on his back sipping bouillon soup from a serving spoon and taking opium against the pain, he rises and resumes his duties. On a gloomy morning with clouds clagging the horizon and the scent of rain hovering in the air, he gathers the men on the foredeck and explains that he is taking command of the Volunteer until Brownlee recovers. Henry Drax, he assures them, will certainly hang back in England for his murderous and mutinous acts but for now he is firmly chained in the hold, rendered incapable of mischief, and he will play no further part in the voyage.
“You may ask yourself how such a fiend came to move amongst us, but I have no good answer to that,” he says. “He bamboozled me as much as he did any man. I’ve known some deviant and malignant fuckers in my time, but none, I confess, a patch on Henry Drax. If the good Mr. Black here had chosen to put that other shotgun barrel in his chest when he had the opportunity, I for one would not be mourning over much, but, as it is, he is caged below like the beast he is and will not see the daylight till we land again in Hull.”
Amongst the crew, the sense of amazement as to what had occurred in Brownlee’s cabin is soon replaced by a general certainty that the voyage itself is cursed. They remember the gruesome stories of the Percival, of men dying, going mad, drinking their own blood for sustenance, and ask themselves why they were ever foolish or ill-advised enough to sign on for a ship commanded by a man so notable for his fearsome ill luck. Even though the ship is less than a quarter full of blubber, they would like nothing better now than to turn round and sail directly home. They fear that worse is yet to come, and they would rather reach home with empty pockets but still breathing than end up sunk forever below the Baffin ice.
According to Black and Otto, who do not try to keep their opinions to themselves, it is too late in the season to be in these waters—the majority of whales have swum farther south by now, and the farther north they stray as the summer recedes, the greater the risk of ice. It was Brownlee’s own particular idiosyncrasy, they say, to set them on this northerly course in the first place, but now that he is no longer in command, the most sensible action is to return to Pond’s Bay with the rest of the fleet. Cavendish, however, takes no account of either the superstitions of the crew or the suggestions of the other officers. They continue moving northwards in the company of the Hastings. Twice they see whales in the distance and lower for them but without success. When they reach the entrance to Lancaster Sound, Cavendish lowers a boat and has himself rowed across to the Hastings to confer with Campbell. On his return, he announces over dinner in the mess that they will enter the sound as soon as a suitable passage opens up in the ice.
Black stops his eating and stares at him.
“No man has ever caught a whale this far north in August,” he says. “Read the records if you doubt me. We’re wasting our time here at best, and if we enter the sound we’re putting ourselves at risk also.”
“A man don’t profit unless he takes a little risk from time to time,” Cavendish says lightly. “You should show more boldness, Mr. Black.”
“It is foolishness, not boldness, to enter Lancaster Sound this late in the season,” Black says. “Why Brownlee took us north again I can’t say, but I know if he were here, even he would not consider taking us into the sound.”
“What Brownlee would or wouldn’t do is moot, I’d say, since he can’t speak or even raise his hand to wipe his arse. And since I’m the one in command now, not you or him”—he nods at Otto—“I guess what I say goes.”
“This voyage is marked with enough calamity already. Do you really want to add yet more to the total?”
“Let me tell you something about myself,” Cavendish says, leaning in a little and lowering his voice. “Unlike some, perhaps, I don’t come whaling for fresh air or for the fine sea views. I don’t even come for the pleasing company of men like you and Otto here. I come whaling to get my money, and I will get my money any way I can. If your opinions came in gold with the Queen’s head stamped upon ’em I might pay them a little mind, but since they don’t, you won’t be too offended, I hope, if I take no fucking notice of them at all.”
When Brownlee dies two days later, they dress him in his velvet morning coat, stitch him into a stiff canvas shroud, and carry the body on a pine plank to the stern rail. Drizzle is falling, the sea is the color of boot polish, and the sky is wadded with cloud. The crew sing “Rock of Ages” and “Nearer My God to Thee,” and Cavendish leads them all in an off-kilter version of the Lord’s Prayer. The voices of the mourners as they sing and pray are low and reluctant. Although they mistrusted Brownlee by the end, believing him unlucky, the nature of his death is a blow to the general confidence. That Drax, who they thought was reliable, even admirable, is actually a murderer and a sodomite, and McKendrick, who they thought was a murderer and a sodomite, is actually an innocent victim of Drax’s godless machinations, has created amongst the men of the forecastle feelings of perplexity and self-doubt. Such unlikely reversals make them uneasy and fitful. Their world is hard and raw enough, they think, without the added burden of moral convolution.
As the men disperse, Otto appears by Sumner’s side. He touches the surgeon’s elbow and leads him forwards until they are standing by the bowsprit looking out at the dark sea, the low gray cloud, and, in the middle distance, separated from the Volunteer by several loose floes of ice, the Hastings. Otto’s expression is somber and gravid. Sumner senses he has news to impart.
“Cavendish will kill us all,” the harpooner whispers. “I’ve seen it pass.”
“You’re allowing Brownlee’s death to depress your spirits,” Sumner says. “Give Cavendish a little time, and if we see no whales in the sound, we’ll be in Pond’s Bay again before you know it.”
“You will survive, but you will be the only one. The rest of us will drown or starve or perish of the cold.”
“Nonsense. Why would you say such things? How can you possibly know?”
“A dream,” he says. “Last night.”
Sumner shakes his head.
“Dreams are just a way to clear the mind; they’re a form of purging. What you dream is whatever’s left over and can’t be used. A dream is nothing but a mental shite pile, a rag and bone shop of ideas. There is no truth in them, no prophecy.”