‘And in battle, too; I have often been afraid.’ He pursed his pallid lips and gave a soberly rueful nod. ‘Yes. You appear surprised but it is true. At the battle of Baltimore I was certain I should die, David. We were cut off at one point. And I was afraid then.’
‘Afraid of dying, sir?’
His father peered absently into his glass as though he could see strange pictures in the vapours rising from it. Though the room was cold, his beard looked matted with sweat. ‘Yes. I expect so. Of the pain, I expect. When a young man has seen other young men die – when he has had the duty of sending them out to certain death – he will know that death is not a glorious thing at all, but a loathsome one.’ He gave a small shudder and brushed the dust from his sleeve in a desultory way. ‘All the lies we spout about dying for one’s country. That is all they are, you know, David. Barbarities and lies.’
‘Sir?
‘I have formed the view that these absurdities are a way of stopping us being afraid. Crush the fear that might otherwise drive us together. Religions. Philosophies. Even countries themselves – they are a kind of lie, too. As I see it.’
Merridith was confused. ‘In which sense, sir?’
‘I mean we are all comparable under the outward appearance. Human, I suppose. If you prick us, et cetera.’ He nodded again and took a long sip of brandy. ‘Except the French, obviously. Garlic-eating savages.’
‘Yes, sir.’
His father frowned. ‘That was a joke.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Yes. I am sorry, too. More than you know.’
He gave a short, sour laugh. ‘Matter of fact, I sometimes think the old Frog had it right. Liberty, equality, fraternity, et cetera.’ He gaped around the dismally cold room as though he despised it. ‘Wouldn’t say no to a slice of liberty. Would you?’ His words had a shading of irony which David Merridith couldn’t understand.
‘Well – no, sir. I shouldn’t think so.’
‘No indeed. No indeed. And neither should I.’
The grandfather clock gonged from deep in its chest: a sad sound, spent, a cough of chronometry. Shadows moved. The fire fizzed. The ratchet of windings readjusting to their drudgery. The father looked up at the warped brown ceiling; then at the clock; and then at his son.
‘What was I saying to you, David?’
‘You were talking about death, sir.’
‘Was I?’
‘Yes, sir. About the battle of Baltimore.’
Slowly his father began to speak again. ‘What I feared. Even more. Than that possibility’ – and Lord Kingscourt’s eyes seemed to dissolve with tears.
Merridith was as horrified as if his father had lost control of his bowels. For a moment he sat still, his head bowed very low, his left hand clenching at the length of silvered braiding which attempted to decorate the arm of the chair. Then his shoulders began convulsing as he quietly wept. Sobs racked his chest and still he tried not to move. Small sounds of resistance. A shake of the head. His breath came in gasps that seemed to stab into him.
‘Are you – quite all right, sir?’
Lord Kingscourt nodded but did not look up.
‘May I fetch you a glass of water?’
No answer was made. A dog was heard barking; an insistent, repeated two-tone yelp, and the whistle of a sheepman calling it to heel. Lord Kingscourt’s quivering fingers went to his forehead; shielded his eyes like a man in shame.
‘You must forgive me, David. I am a little out of sorts this evening.’
‘It’s quite all right, father. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Your mother … was the finest person who ever lived.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Her compassion for people. Capacity to forgive. Not an hour goes by without my feeling her loss. As a crippled man would miss a limb.’
Tears were seeping down his face again and Merridith was by now afraid to speak. He thought he might cry himself if he did.
‘You will be aware that we had our good days and our bad ones, David. God knows I was very far from what she deserved. I failed her so often. Through anger and stupidity. I have wasted so much that I cannot bear to think of it. But you must never think there was no love between us.’
‘I never would, sir.’
‘Because. What I feared that night at Baltimore, David. Was not just the pain – the physical pain. But that I should never. See you and your mother again. Particularly you. Not to embrace. My only son. Most terrifying feeling I have ever known.’
‘Sir, I beg you not to torture yourself with thoughts of the past.’
His father’s mouth was twisted with grief. ‘It is I – who beg. Please – never be afraid to come to me with any little difficulty you might be experiencing in life. Never, David. Everything can be overcome. Never feel you are alone. Will you make me that promise?’
‘Of course I shall, sir.’
‘Will you shake my hand on it?’
Merridith had gone to his father and taken his outstretched, lifeless hand. Never in his life had he felt more close to him; a visceral animal closeness he could not remember feeling for anyone. His father had wept like an orphaned child and David Merridith had clutched his hand. He had wanted to enfold him, to wrap him like armour, but the moment had passed while he was still trying to imagine it. Perhaps it was just as well. His father had never liked to be touched.
Lord Kingscourt dried his eyes and gave a small, brave grin. ‘So you’ve fallen in bloody love, then. Turn-up for the books.’
‘Yes, sir. Seems to look that way.’
‘And you’re sure?’
‘Yes, sir.’
His father suddenly chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Think your old ogre of a guv’nor never caught that little ailment, do you?’
‘Of course not, sir.’
‘I bloody did. Often. Wasn’t always the broken-down wreck I am now. Gave a few little Judies a good fright in my time, I may tell you. So I think I understand your predicament, my boy.’
‘Thank you, sir. I truly felt you would do when I put the situation.’
‘Yes. It’s all perfectly understandable. Natural thing in fact.’
He poured himself another balloon of brandy.
‘Pretty face. Sparkle in the eye. Nice bit of upholstery, I don’t doubt.’ He gave a strained cough and turned away to wipe his mouth. ‘Now that’s all very well, you see. None of us here without it. But there’s more to a marriage than that, after all.’
‘Oh yes, sir, I know.’
‘There’s one’s duty to consider. Marriage is a contract.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Lot of gush and blather about love these days. Know what the definition of love is?’
‘What is it, sir?’
‘Resolve to keep one’s word, David. Nothing more, nothing less. To do one’s duty, always; whether one feels like it or no.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The animals do as they feel. And an animal can be beautiful. That, in fact, is the nature of its beauty. But we men have morality. That is the only difference. The only thing which makes human life worth continuing.’
‘I certainly intend to keep my word to Miss Markham, sir. I should think keeping my word will be a great p-pleasure. When you meet her I’m certain you’ll agree.’
His father’s dying smile made David Merridith think of a fading coal. When he spoke again his voice was shrivellingly cold and quiet.
‘I was speaking of your word to Miss Blake and her father.’
The fire gave a spit and belched in the hearth. A red log fell out and sizzled on the floor of the grate.
‘You also have obligations to the people of this estate. Does that occur to you for even one moment?’
‘Sir –’
‘I have given my word that the lands are to be improved when funds become available from your marital settlement. Am I now to tell them that my word means nothing? As your own has meant less to your fiancée and her father.’
<
br /> ‘S-sir – I have written today to Miss Blake to explain the situation, and also to the Commander. As for the tenants – ’
‘I see,’ his father interrupted. ‘You have written. How very courageous. So this entire conversation has in fact been academic.’
‘I felt it was best to apprise the Commander of the new situation, sir.’
His father grinned mirthlessly. ‘And is the Commander the fool who has raised you, mister? Is the Commander the fool who puts bread in your mouth?’
‘I … have done my best to explain it to you, too, sir.’
‘You’re saying you’ll countermand me? That is your last word? Think carefully, Mister. Your actions have consequences.’ Lord Kingscourt had crossed to the bell-pull and was holding it in his gloved hand. ‘Your life has come to a crossroads now, David. The choice is your own. You must choose like a man.’
‘I’m sa-saying my situation has altered, sir. My feelings.’
Lord Kingscourt nodded abruptly and tugged on the bell-pull. The chime jangled somewhere far away. ‘All right then. So be it.’ He turned and limped heavily back towards the table.
‘Father?’
‘Be gone from this house by the time I rise tomorrow morning. Do not return.’
‘F-f-fah – ’
‘Your allowance will be stopped with immediate effect. Now go.’
‘Father, please –’
‘Please what, sir? Please continue to indulge my every latest whim? Please subsidise me to flounce about the country like a dancing-master? Do you think I hear nothing, sir, is that it? I have few friends left but I have some still, to carry me news of the latest embarrassment. Well, you’ll idle no more on any money of mine, Mister. I swear you that on the grave of your mother.’
‘It isn’t a question of money, sir, surely – ’
‘Oh, “it isn’t a question of money, sir.” Is that so, you insolent brat? And how did you mean to support this so-called wife of yours? On a junior lieutenant’s wages?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Yes, sir! Stand up when I speak to you! From what I am told of your bloody miserable efforts you are unlikely even to progress to Commander.’
‘Actually I thought I might resign my commission, sir.’
His father scoffed. ‘I presume you do not refer to the commission which my hard-earned money had to purchase for you.’
‘Miss Markham has means of her own, sir. Her family has made a success in business.’
Lord Kingscourt stopped pacing. A glower of repugnance widened his eyes. ‘Now you are joking.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Do you hate me so much? Do you want to kill me?’
‘Sir, I beg you – ’
‘Did I raise you and educate you and sponsor your uselessness for you to live like a shopkeeper on the proceeds of trade?’
‘I – didn’t see the matter in those kind of terms, sir.’
‘Oh you didn’t. How convenient. How touchingly modern. And you don’t consider it unseemly? For a man to be maintained by a bloody woman?’
‘Sir.’
Lord Kingscourt pointed vaguely in the direction of the window. His face seemed almost dirty with rage. Salach was the Irish adjective for dirty: a word that sounded like its own meaning. ‘Not a man on that land, not the poorest among them, would dream of allowing his wife to keep him.’ He slammed down his glass on the lid of the piano, so hard that the contents slopped over his glove. ‘Did you ever hear of responsibility or duty or loyalty? Do you have even a modicum of manliness in you, mister?’
David Merridith said nothing. The piano strings were rever-berating. Absurdly the metronome had clicked into life but Lord Kingscourt did not seem to notice its awakening.
‘I suppose you’ll suckle and wipe arses too, will you? While your bawd is out busily minding the shop.’
‘Sir, I know you are a little upset at the moment but you compel me to say that I resent your choice of – ’
His father lunged and struck him hard across the face.
‘Resent me, will you, you contemptuous wastrel?’ He clutched his own hand, the blow had been so violent. ‘By Christ that day hasn’t dawned yet, nor ever will. I’ll beat you from here to Clifden in a minute, you libertine God-blasted dog. Do you mind me now? Do you mind me, sir?’
David Merridith was weeping with shock.
‘Stand up when I address you, Mister! Or you’ll go through that wall!’
‘I ap-pologise, father.’
‘Cry one more tear in front of me and you’ll cry like a kicked bitch, you stuttering imbecile.’
‘Yes, father.’
‘I have done it before and I’ll do it again. Your life has been too damned easy by far. Everything you needed without the slightest condition. As my only son I had natural feelings, but I see to my shame that I have quite spoiled you.’
At that point Tommy Joyce, his father’s valet, had come in. He stopped near the doorway with an apprehensive mien. It was clear that he had overheard some of the argument.
‘Your Lordship rang, sir.’
‘Pack the Viscount’s clothes and other belongings. He will be leaving in the morning at first light. He will give you whatever address he would like them sent on to.’
The servant nodded slowly and turned to leave.
‘On second thoughts, rein up the pony and get out the phaeton. He will be leaving us tonight, my so-called son. Just as soon as his effects are packed.’
‘Begging Your Lordship’s pardon,’ Tommy Joyce attempted tentatively, ‘but it’s the devil’s icy night to be going the roads.’
‘Are you deaf?’
‘Sir, I only thought – ’
‘Are you deaf as well as brazen, you pig-ignorant lout?’
‘Sir.’
‘Obey your bloody orders and obey them fast if you wish to remain in my employment one minute longer.’
‘Father, I beg you – ’
‘Do not dare use the word “father” to me. You failed at Oxford. You have failed in the navy. In every small test which life has presented, you have failed. And now you mean to fail once more and to drag my name in the shit of this county as you do.’
‘Father, please calm down. You’ll make yourself unwell.’
‘Get out of this house before I whip you out. You disgust me.’
‘Father – ’
‘Out!’
David Merridith had left the room. Closed the door behind him as quietly as possible. Vomited in the hallway as the phaeton appeared in the yard. Vomited as his bags were trundled down the stairs. ‘Out’ was bellowed once again from the study.
The last word either Merridith would ever speak to the other.
Gaelic Mental Characteristics. – Quick in perception, but deficient in depth of reasoning power; headstrong and excitable; tendency to oppose; strong in love and hate; at one time lively, soon after sad; vivid in imagination; extremely social, with a propensity for crowding together; forward and self-confident; deficient in application to deep study, but possessed of great concentration in monotonous or purely mechanical occupations, such as hop-picking, reaping, weaving, etc.; want of prudence and foresight; antipathy to seafaring pursuits.
‘Comparative Anthropology’ by Daniel Macintosh, The Anthropological Review, January 1866
CHAPTER XVIII
THE TRANSLATOR
THE FIFTEENTH DAY OF THE VOYAGE: IN WHICH THE CAPTAIN HAS A STRANGE ENCOUNTER WITH A CERTAIN PASSENGER (AND REFLECTS ON THE FOLLIES OF YOUTHFUL LOVE).
Monday, 22 November, 1847
Eleven days at sea remaining
LONG: 41°12.13′W. LAT: 50°07.42′N. ACTUAL GREENWICH STANDARD TIME: 02.10 a.m. (23 November). ADJUSTED SHIP TIME: 11.26 p.m. (22 November). WIND DIR. & SPEED: E. (88°). Force 5. SEAS: Turbulent. HEADING: W. (271°). PRECIPITATION & REMARKS: Heavy fall of snow in the afternoon. Sky leaden all day. A human body was sighted in the water at a quarter to five, 300 yds to starboard. Sex indeterminate. Very decomposed and lower limbs
missing. Reverend Deedes and some others said a prayer as we passed.
Seven passengers died last night and were committed this morning to the mercies of the deep. Their names have been duly struck off the Manifest.
The queer stench about the vessel continues most over-poweringly and distressingly. Have ordered the boards scrubbed down thrice daily until it diminishes. Leeson reports that an unusual thing is happening in the holds. It seems they have been quite deserted by rats; but a great number of those vermin have been observed scuttling about the decks as though in a state of utmost frenzy. One child of steerage was bitten today and all have been warned not to approach if they see them. Surgeon Mangan is extremely concerned about the increasing infestation in public areas. I have ordered the laying down of poisons.
Several reports of mysterious cries from about the ship at night; or weeping or ‘yowling’. Doubtless the usual hubbub and racket we shellback Methuselahs of the Star know well by now: ‘John Conqueroo’s shanty’: but louder and even more eerie than before, it is said. Apparently the Reverend Deedes was approached by some of the steerage passengers and asked if he would perform a rite of exorcism. He said he felt such a course to be rather unnecessary but conducted a service on the quarterdeck tonight. Very large attendance.
It can only be that we have struck some great sea creature, possibly a very large shark or cetacean, and killed it; portion of the fluids or membrane of same having somehow adhered to the body of the vessel. For the stench is clearly that of some dead and decomposing beast. (Needless to say, King Duffy of Haiti has his own macabre theories but a rational man had rather look to the rational world.)
For some time I have allotted one half an hour of every day for any passenger who wishes to see me – but obviously only on matters of deepest urgency. (Leeson weeds out the wheat from the chaff, a separation most necessary given more pressing demands.) This afternoon a couple from steerage presented themselves at my quarters during that period, and announced that they desired to be married. Speaking no English, they had brought with them Wm. Swales the cripple whom I have mentioned previously, as interceder. And it is a mighty good thing they thought to do so; for otherwise I would have possessed no notion whatsoever of what they were saying in their strange but not entirely unpleasant language. He wished me good afternoon and pronounced it a pleasant coincidence to see me again. And I attempted to greet the young people in their own Gaelic vernacular – ‘Jee-ah gwitch’ – with some success, I am delighted to report, for they nodded back happily and repeated it to me. ‘God be praised this day,’ Swales laughed mildly and we all looked at each other like partners waiting for a dance to start; but it did not, sadly.