And it was hot.
And there was no cold beer along, this time, either.
In part to make conversation, in part only thinking aloud, Limekiller said, “I was looking at His Grace’s old chart last night, and —”
Sir Joshua at once fell in with the subject. “Yes, indeed: man was a natural mapmaker. Man was a natural explorer, too. Some say, you know, that he was naturally proud, that is, over-proud. I suppose one would call it hubris. Oh, I don’t mean that he was a bloody Captain Bligh, though, mind you, Bligh has had a bad press, you know, a damned bad press. However. Beside the point. Yes. Polk’s men adored him.” Jack thought to himself, ‘Polk,’ hey. Not ‘Black.' As for the rest, Jack hadn’t a thought at all. “But there was that one fatal incident. That one fatal show of weakness. We might not consider it such, but such it wras. You recollect Kipling’s story of the man who would be”
Sir Joshua’s voice simply had ceased. There was no diminuendo. No one wmuld have been still listening, anyway. No one would have been looking at him, either. Everyone had suddenly, in one and the same instant, become aware of two things. One was sudden mist and cold.
The other was the head of a man protruding from the water just abaft the stem. The man’s body could be seen, wavering in the water, white and pliant. The man’s face and throat were between sun-reddened and sun-tanned. Once again Limekiller felt that deadly chill, but this time he did not fall into trembling. He was able to look the man’s face straight on. Chill though the air was to him, beads of sw: eat appeared on the face, and flowed downward, and fresh droplets took their place.
Sir Joshua’s crimson countenance had gone a very faint pink.
And now the aged archbishop was there, and he had his vestments on, or, at any rate, he had some of them on. He knelt and spoke, as simplv as though he were speaking to a familiar congregant in a familiar setting. He had, in fact, been speaking for a few seconds. “. if you have received Christian Baptism and if you desire to receive the Sacrament of Holy Communion according to the usage of the Church of England, indicate this desire by bowing your head.”
The head bowed slowly down until the chin touched the water.
‘Almighty, everlasting God,” the archbishop went on, “Maker of mankind, who dost correct those whom Thou dost love, and chastise everv one who Thou dost receive; we beseech vou to have mercy upon this Thy servant visited with Thine hand…”
Limekiller could no more have recollected every word or gesture than he could those in a dream. Thev went on. They went on.
“My son, despise not thou the chastening of the Lord, nor faint when thou are rebuked of him. For whom the Lord loveth, He chas- teneth; and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.
“Do you declare yourself to be truly repentent.?”
Again, and again slowly, the head, face a mask of pain, of agony, the head bowed itself to the brim of the sea.
The archbishop began to recite the Lord's Prayer, and, one by one, all those aboard joined their voices to his. Then they fell again silent, only the old man’s voice continuing.
“While we have time, let us do good unto all men; and especially unto them that are of the household of faith. ”
Not a breath disturbed the surface of the sea.
“Ye who do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins.
“Draw near with faith, and take this Holv Sacrament to vour comfort. ”
“. our manifold sins and wickedness, which we, from time to time, most grievously have committed, By thought, word, and deed, Against Thy Divine Majesty, provoking most justly Thy wrath and indignation. We do most earnestly repent, And are most heartily sorry for these our misdoings; the remembrance of them is grievous unto us; the burden of them is intolerable.”
Limekiller could no longer look upon the face, and indeed, it had seemed, before he looked away from it, that the face could no longer look at them: it had closed its eyes.
“Almighty God. Have mercy upon you; pardon and deliver you from all your sins. ”
The old priest had opened his black bag some time before, had arrayed its contents upon a cloth upon a board. He needed hardly pause at this point. “Take and eat this in remembrance. Drink this in remembrance that Christ’s Blood was shed for thee. forgive us our trespasses. deliver us from evil. grant that those things which we have faithfully asked accordingly to Thy will may effectually be obtained, to the relief of our necessity, and to the setting forth of Thy glory; through Jesus Christ Our Lord.
“Amen.
When Limekiller next looked, the water was empty. Almost a full fathom beneath the surface, the sandy bosom of Dead Man’s Cave lay open to his gaze. He saw… he thought that he saw. the prints of human feet. Even as he gazed, the water slowly moved, sand slowly trickled along and down and into; in another moment, all was as before.
As long, long before.
First, thev went to tell the Arawak that thev could leave the northern waters. Next thev went to tell the Bavmen that thev could once again go south. And to both they told that Captain Blood, the Bloody Captain, Bloody Man, would never sail his longboat ever along these coasts and shores. Were they believed? They were believed. As Harlow the Hunter put it, “‘By de mouds of two weet- nesses shahl ah teeng be establish.’” And such a two witnesses as an archbishop and a royal governor are not to be held lightly in their testifying to such a matter as that one.
The old high priest remained in the stern all the voyage back, praying, presumably, or meditating. Sir Joshua was at the helm, and Jack Limekiller was next to him. “What are you going to tell them in King Town?” he asked. “What report will you make to London?”
“Presumptuous boy,” Sir Joshua said, without malice. “Why — I shan’t tell them a thing, in King Town. They won’t even ask. In fact, they are no doubt simply delighted to have had me available in this crisis. Whom would thev have sent, instead? The Minister for Social Development? The Under-secretary for Public Health? — As for London, I can’t tell you a thing, my boy, ’twouldn’t be constitutional, you know. Suffice it to say: No trouble from London. In fact, no trouble in London. What would you think? A question asked in the House of Commons? Tchah. Put it out of your mind.”
Far, far ahead, the Mountains of the Morning lifted their hazy peaks against the early evening sky. Faint, faint, yet much, much nearer, the low-lying coast began to come into focus. “Gladly,’’Jack said. “So. well. Oh, yes. I want to ask you. What about Kipling’s story, The Man Who Would Be King.?”
“Ah, yes. Well. Well, I didn't mean that our poor man would have been king. I mean that Daniel whatever his name was, Daniel Dravit, was it? Kipling’s character. Where was I. Mmm. Yes. Back there in Kaffiristan. White Kaffirs of the Hindu Kush. Fact, you know, not fiction. Well, the story was fiction itself. What I mean is: fellow in the story, Daniel, allowed the heathen, the kaffirs, to think he was a god, you know. Didn’t in so many words say so. Let them think so. And when the wench bit him and drew his blood, why that was bloody well that. Well, similar thing with poor Cook. The Hawaiians thought that he was a god, one of their native gods. Name of Lono. Symbol of Lono was white cloth on a pole. They had no sails, you know, Hawaiian chaps, I mean. When they saw Cook’s ships coming in, poles crowded with white cloth sails, why — obvious conclusion — Lono. And Cook let them think so. He went along with it. Let himself be worshipped, accepted offerings, the whole thing — Then there was all that trouble at the shore, forget just why, and some native chap hit him with a spear, twasn’t a fatal thrust, no. The blow itself wasn’t fatal. But he groaned. Cook groaned!”