THE INN PARLOUR and the adjacent commercial room were rarely busier. Eighteen men and Katie Norris were waiting for their dinners. Aymer’s invitation to the Norrises to share ‘his’ table had been too optimistic. There were two tables only, the large oak formal table in the parlour — waited on by Mrs Yapp herself — and a softwood trestle in the commercial, reserved for the more raucous of the Americans and served by George. Everybody shared, though Katie had been spared the pressing thighs and invasive elbows of her fellow diners. She sat at the head of the parlour table on a seat with a straight, spindled back, and a laced cushion, much like a governess with eight slow learners. She was the closest to the fire. She felt both vulnerable and powerful, with such a retinue. All the men had narrow places on backless benches. Aymer Smith, with one arm strapped to his chest in its sling, could hardly find room to place his elbow on the table, but he was in no mood for complaining. His life had never been as purposeful as this. Even the unruliness of the Americans, even the wooden plates and earthenware cups (despite the evidence of glass and china in Mrs Yapp’s buffette), could not disturb his feelings of well-being.
Here were two universes, the solemn and the jubilant, the reverential and the scurrilous, connected by an open door. The ten young ‘castaways’ (as they had named themselves) in the commercial were intemperate with beach-fever. They hadn’t spent a night ashore since leaving Wilmington, Carolina, with cotton for Montreal in mid-September. Now that their cargo east — the four hundred cows — had been prematurely landed, they would not sleep at home again until the westward cargo of emigrants from Wherrytown, Fowey and Cork had been shipped to quarantine at Grosse Isle in the St Lawrence and — the fourth side of the merchant square — a consignment of Canadian logwood taken south to Wilmington. They’d be hammocked for ten more weeks at least, curled in sleep like prawns — if, that is, the Belle was saved. If not, who knew when or how they’d see their families again? They were becalmed and idle and, almost, bored. Boredom, with such unpolished turbulents as these, would turn to mischief given half a chance — with women, money, fists. Their heartiness would sour unless the Belle was soon back at sea.
Already there were one or two who’d seen a chin they’d like to punch, a silver timepiece or a pair of boots they’d like to lift, a mouth they’d like to kiss. But for the moment, over squabs, they were content to be at ease. At least there were no midnight watches to be kept. They’d not be called away from their food to pull in canvas. The sea would not upset their plates nor put a reckless angle on their drinks. They — almost — could forget the sea, and make the most of being safe and far from home, except they all had boat cough and their throats were never clear. They raised their drinks to the Belle (‘Long may we sail in her!’) and to America and to baffling ‘George, the parlourman!’ who kept their cups topped with rough beer and wine. They smoked their rations of Virginia. Soon they were singing in praise of squabs and calling out what fine pigeons Mrs Yapp and Katie were. ‘Would the ladies care to dance or sing a verse?’ If only Katie were a flirt! If only Mrs Yapp had Katie’s hair and throat! What then?
The mate had chanced his arm with Mrs Yapp. He’d put a hand across her back when she’d reached over for the empty pie dishes. She hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d try again — and somewhere fleshier. ‘Don’t organize a search if my bed’s empty for the night,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in safe hands.’ The sailors laughed in unison at that. The mate was always claiming conquests, though he wasn’t equipped to be Lothario. His nickname on the Belle was ‘Captain Keg’, perfect for his size, his shape, his hollow self-importance and what mostly he contained, gas and beer. The only reason Mrs Yapp hadn’t pushed his hand away was because the mate was too much a gargoyle to be threatening, particularly in that low, unsteady light of oil lamps.
If any man there was equipped to win the admiration of women it was the straw-haired deckhand, Ralph Parkiss. He was nineteen, tall and beautiful. This was his first trip on the Belle — and at least some of his adolescent softness had — so far — survived the rough life of the decks. He was not the hardened sailor yet. He had the kind of easy, guileless smile that could turn ice to steam.
‘That Mrs Yapp hasn’t even noticed you,’ one man told the mate. ‘She’s only eyes for baby Ralph. She hoped it was his hand across her butt, not yours.’
‘You keep off, Ralph,’ the mate said. ‘The lady’s mine!’
‘There’s younger and there’s finer down the coast!’ Ralph Parkiss defended his embarrassment by deepening it. ‘I’ve found myself a sweetheart already.’
‘Who is she, Ralph? A she-goat or a ewe?’
‘I know her name is Miggy, and she’s a fine sight. That girl down on the beach when we were rowed ashore, the one that had our ensign round her throat …’
‘The one dressed like a fellow, Ralph? You’d best find out what’s hidden in her breeches before you buy the ring.’
‘I will find out. If I’ve the chance.’
‘You better had. A cork’s no good without the bottle.’
They drank another toast, ‘To Ralph and Miggy. Long may he sail in her!’ They banged the trestle with their pots. They shouted to be heard. They coughed, and laughed, and thanked the heavens that the Belle, with them aboard, had not gone down at sea.
Next door the parlour company was less jubilant. The five oldest sailors talked quietly at one end of the table, uneasy in the company of the sandy-haired woman and the two dull-looking men, and wary of the captain. He introduced himself to Aymer, and tried to reassure the Norrises that the Belle would soon be fixed and heading off, with them aboard, for Canada. ‘There’s not a ship afloat that could have ridden out that storm last night and not had damage done,’ he explained.
‘You have no need to give the details of the storm,’ said Aymer. ‘I was at sea last night myself. I cracked a shoulder bone.’ He didn’t want to say to the captain that he had tumbled from his bed. ‘I fell across the deck when we were struck and scarcely kept aboard.’
‘You’ve been baptized then, Mr Smith …’
‘No, Captain, I’m a Sceptic.’
‘… and need not fear the sea again. You’ve sea salt in your blood.’
‘We have no need to fear the sea at all, I think. And as for sea salt in my blood, then that is true of all of us, whether we be sailing men or Hottentots.’ He gave the captain time to contradict, and set a thoughtful profile for Katie Norris. ‘I speak, of course, about the chemistry of blood. It is not much known, but the elements of calcium, potassium and sodium are found in equal rations in our blood as in the oceans.’ He sought a metaphor that was grand enough, and memorable: ‘Our veins are tides. Our blood is brine. The organisms of our blood …’ (are fish, he’d meant to say. But this would strike a comic note) ‘… are common to us all. The grandest captain of a ship, the meanest Negro slave, are both ancestors of the seas. What is your view?’ He hoped the captain had the brains to take the hidden meaning.
‘My view is, Mr Smith, that I leave chemistry to chemists. And they, I hope, will leave me well alone and let me go about my business. That’s all that any man can ask.’