creaks slightly and the cabin falls into dead silence again. George feels the sympathy in the room is growing for Easton. Perhaps it is not
quite
sympathy. More like
inevitability
. More like a silent communal intelligence growing among them all. If Easton continues to make his case so persuasively, the silence seems to say, they will all have to give him the benefit of the doubt. They will have to because they are his prisoners and they are afraid.
“He charged me with murders foul and unprovoked,” Easton continues, “and with disloyalty to the country that I so adore.” He looks from face to face once again. Light and dark do battle in the deep pools of his irises. “All of this, sirs, I took most calmly and with a fortitude I flatter myself you would have honoured had you seen it yourself.”
Whitbourne gives the ghost of a nod, as though believing so much. Then he coughs. “Would it not, sir, have been better to have confined him until the time of the departure of the lieutenant and the good captain here? Then he might not have tempted your patience so.”
“But that’s the thing, sir,” Easton gasps with impressive humility. “I had been considering so much, for his safety. My own temper I can vouch for, but I was thinking about my crew, all men well-trained in matters of honour and chivalry. What if they were to overhear?”
“So what did happen, sir?”
Easton pauses and his gaze flits from face to face. It rests for a moment on Captain Pym, showing compassion and worry in equal proportion. “I can scarce tell it, my dear sirs, without impugning the reputation of the young man.”
Pym withdraws the handkerchief from his mouth. His eyes widen, perhaps in silent challenge. “Tell it, sir,” he croaks.
Easton casts his eyes down once more and tips his head to the side as if praying. “Perhaps he was enraged, or ill, or intoxicated by too much wine. But I turned from the table for a moment to give an instruction to one of my servants. When I looked back, he had drawn against me.”
“He drew his sword when your back was turned?” Pym asks hoarsely, each word like a bullet, unfriendly and disbelieving. His face flushes almost scarlet.
Easton merely nods and casts his eyes at the table.
“And the head, sir?” Pym counters. “Why was my officer’s head nailed to the door of his cabin?”
“My dear sir. It is the very highest mark of respect.”
“Respect, sir?” Pym gasps.
“I forget myself, sir, and you will bear with me. I have lived away from England for so long that customs at first strange and exotic have become as dear and comforting to me as the glorious customs of our own dear Church. I will explain.” He pauses for a moment, clasps his hands and goes on. “The African tribes from which we in England and the Spanish harvest our slaves have many strange and powerful beliefs. I do not take part in their extraordinary rituals myself. But I have grown to understand and respect even some of their most lurid practices. It is often the case in nature, sirs, that the most exquisite things in life derive from a savage source.”
“Please, sir,” interrupts the admiral. “Can you give us the facts as plainly as possible?”
“I am trying, sir,” Easton says, then pauses. The slave appears from the hatch with a large jug. Easton glances at her as she approaches. “I occasionally allow the African slaves which are aboard my ship to perform their ceremonies in respect of the dead. You have seen the girl who serves us?” He catches the slave’s eye. “It is she and another woman who have carried out what they sincerely consider to be a spiritual aid to the departing soul of the lieutenant.”
“Fie, sir!” says Pym. He is almost steaming with anger now, his head red as a cherry. “How can such a fiendish barbarity be anything but an insult to the dead?”
The slave circles the table with the milk jug, not looking at anyone’s face. Her eyelashes flicker. George finds himself
quite
sympathy. More like
inevitability
. More like a silent communal intelligence growing among them all. If Easton continues to make his case so persuasively, the silence seems to say, they will all have to give him the benefit of the doubt. They will have to because they are his prisoners and they are afraid.
“He charged me with murders foul and unprovoked,” Easton continues, “and with disloyalty to the country that I so adore.” He looks from face to face once again. Light and dark do battle in the deep pools of his irises. “All of this, sirs, I took most calmly and with a fortitude I flatter myself you would have honoured had you seen it yourself.”
Whitbourne gives the ghost of a nod, as though believing so much. Then he coughs. “Would it not, sir, have been better to have confined him until the time of the departure of the lieutenant and the good captain here? Then he might not have tempted your patience so.”
“But that’s the thing, sir,” Easton gasps with impressive humility. “I had been considering so much, for his safety. My own temper I can vouch for, but I was thinking about my crew, all men well-trained in matters of honour and chivalry. What if they were to overhear?”
“So what did happen, sir?”
Easton pauses and his gaze flits from face to face. It rests for a moment on Captain Pym, showing compassion and worry in equal proportion. “I can scarce tell it, my dear sirs, without impugning the reputation of the young man.”
Pym withdraws the handkerchief from his mouth. His eyes widen, perhaps in silent challenge. “Tell it, sir,” he croaks.
Easton casts his eyes down once more and tips his head to the side as if praying. “Perhaps he was enraged, or ill, or intoxicated by too much wine. But I turned from the table for a moment to give an instruction to one of my servants. When I looked back, he had drawn against me.”
“He drew his sword when your back was turned?” Pym asks hoarsely, each word like a bullet, unfriendly and disbelieving. His face flushes almost scarlet.
Easton merely nods and casts his eyes at the table.
“And the head, sir?” Pym counters. “Why was my officer’s head nailed to the door of his cabin?”
“My dear sir. It is the very highest mark of respect.”
“Respect, sir?” Pym gasps.
“I forget myself, sir, and you will bear with me. I have lived away from England for so long that customs at first strange and exotic have become as dear and comforting to me as the glorious customs of our own dear Church. I will explain.” He pauses for a moment, clasps his hands and goes on. “The African tribes from which we in England and the Spanish harvest our slaves have many strange and powerful beliefs. I do not take part in their extraordinary rituals myself. But I have grown to understand and respect even some of their most lurid practices. It is often the case in nature, sirs, that the most exquisite things in life derive from a savage source.”
“Please, sir,” interrupts the admiral. “Can you give us the facts as plainly as possible?”
“I am trying, sir,” Easton says, then pauses. The slave appears from the hatch with a large jug. Easton glances at her as she approaches. “I occasionally allow the African slaves which are aboard my ship to perform their ceremonies in respect of the dead. You have seen the girl who serves us?” He catches the slave’s eye. “It is she and another woman who have carried out what they sincerely consider to be a spiritual aid to the departing soul of the lieutenant.”
“Fie, sir!” says Pym. He is almost steaming with anger now, his head red as a cherry. “How can such a fiendish barbarity be anything but an insult to the dead?”
The slave circles the table with the milk jug, not looking at anyone’s face. Her eyelashes flicker. George finds himself
Similar Books
