‘I don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough.’ He couldn’t give a stalk of parsley what it was. He put his head back in his coat, and crossed three thousand miles of sea, and was American again.
By six o’clock — with just a hint of Monday in the sky — they’d found out what was ‘not alive’. Nathaniel Rankin bobbed and eddied closer to the Dolly boat, propelled by grazing fish. He was face down and so waterlogged that pilchards swam across his body. His clothes were shredded by the sea. Palmer poked him with a rigging pole. The body sank. The water blackened where he’d been, filled up with fish, and then was cleared again as Seaman Rankin floated back in view. Palmer’s rigging pole had come out of the water with a gluey tip. The body was as soft and decomposed as Bordeaux cheese. Palmer had to look away and swallow hard on icy air. He called out to his father with the news. ‘Wake Skimmer,’ he was told, ‘and get it out of the water. We’ll not sell pilchards, else. Not with a taint like that!’ Together Palmer and Skimmer pulled Rankin’s body clear of the water by his open collar and his belt. They put him on a piece of sail on deck. His clothes were tight. A man who’s marinated in the sea for two days is bound to swell. His flesh becomes porous and water enters him. He begins to peel and split. He loses shape. His margins flake.
They squeezed the water out of him, and threw the tunnelling crabs and pilchards into the air, for gulls. At first they thought it was the African. His skin, in that no-light, was black. But once they’d got their lantern lit, they saw the colour was a plum, a damson blue. His veins and arteries had burst. His face and hands were bruised. His lips and tongue were fungi. His eyes were gone. And he was wounded on his forehead and his neck by gulls. He’d lost a good part of his waist and shirt to a fish. A single bite. There was — surprisingly — no smell, except the oily odour of the pilchards. Skimmer searched the outer pockets of the coat: more crabs, a blue neckerchief, a dollar and a swivel knife. He bit the dollar, put it in his shirt. ‘You’d better go for help,’ he said to Palmer. ‘Tell their captain. Get Preacher Phipps.’ He shook his head as if to say, ‘We’ve netted bad luck here. I knew we would.’
For Palmer, though, the netting of Nathaniel Rankin was not bad luck. It was just the opportunity he was hoping for. ‘Give me the dollar, Skimmer,’ he said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Just fish it out. It in’t yours to have.’
‘Nor in’t it yours.’
‘You robbin’ dead men, is it then? It in’t no good to you, not hereabouts. Let’s have it now. It’s dead man’s money, ’n’ you in’t dead.’
‘Good as dead,’ said Skimmer. He pulled the dollar from his shirt and slapped it into Palmer’s hand. ‘Palmer is the proper name for you. Picking pockets … palming other people’s tin.’ Palmer didn’t wait to hear the rest. He had to make his way to shore, through seven nets of fish. He dropped into the water. It was too deep to find a footing, though the pilchards kept him up. He slid across their tumbling backs, and pulled himself towards the edges of the net. His heart was battering his chest. He could hardly find the air to breathe. The water was so heavy and so cold that Palmer scarcely had the strength to move his arms through it. He had ten minutes at the most. More time and he would freeze. Then there would be two corpses and a mystery to bring ashore, for Rankin’s dollar would be found in Palmer’s mouth.
Once he’d reached the edges of the Dolly net, Palmer could use the surface rope and corks to pull himself more swiftly through the water. He could then transfer to the outer edges of a neighbour’s net, and — half-circling that — bring himself into the shallow waters of the shore. He could hear his father and Skimmer calling to the nearest boats, explaining what they’d caught and why it was that Palmer was taking such a risk. It was a risk. But Palmer Dolly was a pioneer. He’d be the one to bring the news to Captain Comstock. He’d die for it. His neighbours held their lanterns up and shouted their encouragement. They couldn’t help in any other way. They watched him pull himself over the outer rim of the last net, into even colder water, where there were no fish — and fish, compared to this, were warm. Now he could find his feet. His upper body was clear of the water and he was wading, burdened with the weight of sodden clothes. What breeze there was was raw and aching on his skin. He gripped the dollar between his teeth and came up on the snow and sand. His boots were full of sea.
He walked — he couldn’t run — along the backshore to the quayside where the Tar had docked. Thank God the lower entrance to the inn was open. It was quiet in the snow-packed courtyard, no wind, no gulls. Somewhere inside the inn a dog began to bark. There was no light. He had to find the narrow passageway by hand and by nose: the fish-head, urine, earthy smell of somewhere always damp and dark. The passageway was steep. Palmer was winded by the time he’d reached the raised front door. It wasn’t locked against the night, or Africans. The handle turned. He knew it would. He didn’t feel unlucky.
Perhaps he should have stopped to warm himself at the embers of the parlour fire, but he wanted to be seen as wet and cold and dutiful, a man who could be reckless if required. He found a candle on the mantel. He held it in the fire and blew into the ashes and the few remaining cherks of wood. His hand was shaking, and the candle wouldn’t make a flame. He had to hold it with both hands. His fingers were both numb and throbbing as the fire revived. The candle lit. What should he do? Where should he go? He shook the parlour handbell, but its ring was far too timid and discreet. He’d have to find the parlourman or, better, Alice Yapp to ask where Captain Comstock was. He knew her rooms. He’d been there once. She was the only entertainment in the town.
Palmer hurried through the snug to Mrs Yapp’s door. He rapped on it and shook the latch. The door was locked. ‘Mrs Yapp. Wake up!’
‘And who the Devil’s that?’
‘It’s Palmer Dolly, Mrs Yapp. Where’s the captain of that ship …?’
‘Why don’t you scram, Palmer? What time is it?’
‘We’ve got the body of the man who drowned!’
‘Why wake me up, besides?’
‘Tell me where the captain is. It’s his man that’s drowned …’
He heard some movement in the room, some heavy steps, and then the door was opened. The American captain was standing there, and naked too, but for the blanket round his waist and pillow cotton in his hair.
‘Say all of that again,’ he said.
Palmer Dolly stood to attention at the door, the candle held before him like a sword, a little shakily. The water ran off him and puddled at his feet. He couldn’t stop the clatter of his teeth. ‘We’ve netted the sailor, sir. The drownded one that’s lost …’
‘My man?’
‘He’s yours for sure.’ He held the dollar up. ‘I could’ve thieved it, sir. But that in’t right …’
‘Where is he?’
‘On our tuck boat. On a bit o’ canvas.’
‘What state’s he in?’
‘Dead as stone.’
The captain turned, and spoke into the dark bedroom. ‘Alice, did you hear? They’ve Seaman Rankin’s body on their boat. Where do the bodies go in Wherrytown?’
‘You’d better lay him in the stable block. The tackle room. Let Mr Phipps take care of it.’
‘You hear that? What’s your name …?’
‘It’s Palmer Dolly, Captain. And I’m a sailor too.’
‘So, Palmer Dolly. Put the body into Mrs Yapp’s tackle room. And keep that dollar for yourself …’
‘I’ll hope to spend it in America, then.’
‘You spend it how you want.’
‘I mean, I hoped to ask if you were looking for a sailor for the Belle … you being one hand down.’