“You are fortunate,” Cavendish says. “We’ll show you the ropes, will we not, Drax? We’ll show you all the ins and all the outs. You can rest assured about that one.”
Cavendish laughs. Drax, who has not spoken since they left the ship, looks up from his oar and stares at Sumner for a moment as if deciding who he is and what he might be good for.
“In Lerwick,” Drax says, “the cheapest whiskey is sixpunce a glass and a decent whore will set you back a shilling, or possibly two if your requirements are more specialized. That’s about all the know-how anyone needs.”
“Drax is a man of few words, as you can see,” Cavendish says. “But I like to blabber so we make a fine team.”
“And what about Jones here?” Sumner asks.
“Jones is a Welshman from Pontypool, so no one ever understands a word he’s fucking saying.”
Jones turns around and instructs Cavendish to go fuck himself.
“See what I mean?” Cavendish says. “Complete fucking gibberish.”
*
They begin at the Queen’s Hotel, then move on to the Commercial, then the Edinburgh Arms. After leaving the Edinburgh Arms, they go over to Mrs. Brown’s on Charlotte Street and Drax, Cavendish, and Jones each pick a girl and go upstairs while Sumner (who can never perform after laudanum and so makes the excuse that he is recovering from a dose of the clap) and Black (who insists with a straight face that he has promised to remain faithful to his fiancée, Bertha) stay downstairs drinking porter.
“May I ask you a question, Sumner?” Black says.
Sumner, peering back at him through a thickening haze of intoxication, nods. Black is young and eager but he is also, Sumner believes, more than a little arrogant. He is never openly rude or disdainful, but one senses sometimes a self-belief which is out of scale with his position.
“Yes,” he says, “you certainly may.”
“What are you doing here?”
“In Lerwick?”
“On the Volunteer. What’s a man like you doing aboard a Greenland whaling ship?”
“I explained my situation in the wardroom the other evening, I think—my uncle’s will, the dairy farm.”
“But then why not find work in a city hospital? Or join another practice for a time? You must know people who could help you. The job of surgeon on a whaling vessel is uncomfortable, dreary, and badly paid. It is usually taken by medical students in need of funds, not a man of your age and experience.”
Sumner blows twin tubes of cigar smoke out of his nostrils and blinks.
“Perhaps I am an incurable eccentric,” he says, “or just a fucking fool. Did you ever think of that?”
Black smiles.
“I doubt either is true,” he says. “I have seen you reading your Homer.”
Sumner shrugs. He is determined to stay quiet, to say nothing that might suggest the truth of his estate.
“Baxter made me an offer, and I accepted it. Perhaps that was rash of me, but now we have begun I’m looking forward to the experience. I intend to keep a diary, make sketches, read.”
“The voyage may not be as relaxed as you think. You know Brownlee has a great deal to prove—you heard about the Percival, I’m sure. He was lucky to get another ship after. If he fails this time, that will be the end of him. You are the ship’s surgeon, of course, but I have seen surgeons made to hunt before. You wouldn’t be the first.”
“I’m not afraid to work, if that’s what you mean. I’ll do my share.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will.”
“And what about you? Why the Volunteer?”
“I’m young, I have no family still living, no important friends; I must take risks if I’m to get on. Brownlee is known for being reckless, but if he succeeds he may earn me a good deal of money, and if he fails no blame will attach to me and I’ll still have time on my side.”
“You’re shrewd enough, for a young man.”
“I don’t intend to end up like those others—Drax, Cavendish, Jones. They’ve all stopped thinking. They no longer know what they’re doing, or why they’re doing it. But I have a plan. Five years from now, or sooner if I get my share of luck, I’ll have my own command.”
“You have a plan?” Sumner says. “And you think that will help you?”
“Oh yes,” he says, with a grin which hovers between the deferential and the supercilious. “I expect it will.”
*
Drax comes back down first. He lowers himself into a chair beside Black and lets out a long and noisome fart. The other two men look at him. He winks, then waves to the barmaid for another drink.
“For a shilling I’ve had worse,” he says.
Two fiddlers start up in the corner and some of the girls begin to dance. A party of deckhands from the Zembla arrives and Black walks over to talk to them. Cavendish appears, still buttoning up his britches, but there is no sign of Jones-the-whale.
“Our Mr. Black over there is a smug-looking little prick, int he?” Cavendish says.
“He tells me he has a plan.”
“Fuck his fucking plan,” Drax says.
“He wants his own ship,” Cavendish says, “but he won’t get it. He has no fucking idea what’s going on here.”
“And what is going on here?” Sumner asks.
“Nothing much,” Cavendish says. “The usual.”
The men from the Zembla are dancing with the whores; they are all whooping and stamping their feet on the floorboards. The air is filling with sawdust and peat smoke. There is a warm, fetid odor of tobacco and ashes and stale beer. Drax looks disdainfully across at the dancers and then asks Sumner to buy him another whiskey. “I’ll give you my note of hand,” he offers. Sumner waves him away and orders another round.
“You know, I heard all about Delhi,” Cavendish says to him, leaning in.
“And what did you hear?”
“I heard there was money to be made. Loot aplenty. You get anything?”
Sumner shakes his head.
“The Pandys cleaned the city out before we got inside. They took it with them. All that was left when we arrived was stray dogs and broken furniture; the place was ransacked.”
“No gold then?” Drax says. “No jewels?”
“Would I really be sitting here with you two bastards if I was rich?”
Drax gazes at him for several seconds, as if the question is too complex for an immediate reply.
“There’s rich and rich,” he says eventually.
“I’m neither one.”
“You saw some famous butchery though, I’d bet,” Cavendish says. “Some heinous fucking violence.”
“I’m a surgeon,” Sumner says. “So I’m not impressed by bloodshed.”
“Not impressed?” Drax repeats, with a mocking carefulness, as if the word itself is girlish and faintly absurd.
“Surprised then, if you like,” Sumner says quickly. “I’m not surprised by bloodshed. Not anymore.”
Drax shakes his head and looks across at Cavendish.
“I’m not too surprised by bloodshed myself. Are you surprised, Mr. Cavendish?”
“No, not too often, Mr. Drax. I generally find I can take a little bloodshed in my stride.”
After finishing his drink, Drax goes upstairs to look for Jones but can’t find him. On his way back to the table, he exchanges words with one of the men from the Zembla. As Drax sits down, the man shouts something back at him, but Drax ignores it.
“Not again,” Cavendish says.
Drax shrugs.
The fiddlers are playing “Monymusk.” Sumner watches the grubby, mismatched dancers as they swirl and stamp about. He remembers dancing the polka in Ferozepore in the days before the mutiny, he remembers the damp heat of the colonel’s ballroom and the mingled scent of cheroots and rice powder and rosewater sweat. The tune changes and some of the whores sit down to rest, or bend over, hands on knees, to better catch their breath.