Collector of Lost Things (2 page)

I nodded. We both looked at the cabin. He smelt strongly of eau de cologne.

‘I have never met a collector before,’ he said.

‘Well, I wouldn’t entirely call myself …’

‘… Captain Sykes will lap you up. He thinks he is an expert on the natural world, but he is not. Not really. I know a lot more than he does. But he is the captain, so we won’t tell him, will we?’ He smiled, and I saw a row of thin teeth, slightly pointed, below the edge of his lips. ‘You may put your books there, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Have you many books?’

‘A few.’

‘People like you have many books. I admire bookworms, burrowing their way. That’s good. Working on a trading ship makes for a narrow mind and a mean outlook upon life. I shall be educated by you. I’m anxious to see what they are.’

‘Oh yes, well, I have brought a range of volumes covering the key natural sciences, and some that detail Arctic observations—’

‘In good time,’ he said, curtly. ‘I am expected on deck.’

‘Of course,’ I replied, somewhat snubbed. ‘Are there other passengers on board?’

Mr French regarded me, again rather curiously. He had ash-grey eyes, and an expression that showed a smile, not quite formed, or recently passed, that made him look vaguely mistrustful.

‘A gentleman by the name of Bletchley, I believe. A good shot, he claims, although we will wait to see if he is also a good hunter, wouldn’t you say? And one other passenger.’ Here, the first mate did a strange thing. He mouthed a word, silently. He looked vexed when I failed to understand it. ‘A
woman
,’ he repeated.

I have often wondered whether, had I known what would happen, I would have left the
Amethyst
at that very moment. No. Truly, I think that even if I had known, I would do it all again, even though the voyage would change my life, alter the way I think about the world and the men who spoil it, and probably there was nothing I might have done to alter the course of events. These things move towards us from the horizon, whether we set sail for them or not.

But on that morning all this was unknown to me. Standing on deck I let myself be thrilled by the spectacle of the ship’s departure, watching as the hawsers were carried to the head of the quay by a team of men, all singing, bearing the ropes between them to encircle a pair of cast-iron capstans. Spars were slotted into the sockets and the men began to turn the axles, walking round them with a surprisingly smooth motion, while the ship, wound upon these giant’s cotton reels, moved at a glide towards the wooden gates of the lock. As we approached, a vein of white light ran up the front of the gate, before it opened into a view of the sea beyond. The dock workers’ caps rose in goodwill and farewell, the men shouted luck across to the ship and were answered back by those on board, as they clung to the ratlines or stood perilously on the ship’s rail, one hand on a rope and the other pointing and waving. A tied bundle was thrown across the gap, an apple, too, gleaming like a cricket ball, tossed from the quayside to a man at the rail. It was bitten into at once, the sailor smiling wet-lipped with enormous satisfaction at his catch.

Still, as I remember how I had stood on deck as the ropes were thrown in the water and the caps were raised, surrounded by the web of rigging and the grind of machinery that turned and pulled in mysterious patterns, I see myself as an unenlightened man, poised leaning against the rail, watching the quay begin to slide away, a gap of smooth water opening alongside the length of our ship. I see myself, but I see through myself too. I was deluded.

I
SHOULD HAVE NOTICED
more in the captain, that first glimpse I had of him, when we were moored a mile or two offshore. I had turned my collar against the sea breeze and was adjusting my hat when I saw him, already on deck and standing by the helm. He was small and rotund, dressed in a heavy tunic buttoned up the front, and older than I had expected, perhaps sixty years, with a quizzical—slightly monkeyish—expression, bald on the top of his head and blond wiry hair on either side of it. Without a hat, he had a vagrant appearance. It was only from his stance next to the wheel, with fleshy hands clasped behind his back, and the dutiful greeting Mr French gave him, that I realised this inconspicuous man must be Captain Kelvin Sykes. Together, they were discussing the breeze, looking aloft at the arrangements of the three masts and the movement of the flags. The captain licked a finger and turned it about his head and, at that moment, he caught my eye and gave me a barely perceptible wink.

‘Is she coming about?’ French asked the helmsman.

‘Yes, sir. About slowly.’

French nodded at Sykes. The captain stroked his moustache and consulted his watch. ‘Man the windlass, loose the sails and set the tops’l,’ he ordered.

‘Aye, sir,’ French replied, then repeated the order to the men. ‘And smart!’ he added.

What began at that moment was unforgettable. The men climbed the ratlines and edged themselves along the yards working with their hands and arms in unison, loosening the canvas and letting it fall. A sail began to emerge, misshapen and bulky, an object that appeared casual and unconcerned by the breeze. It billowed and swayed while ropes were gathered and tightened, and I wondered how this plane of canvas—that so resembled a laundry sheet—might have any ability to move the ship. The air collected across the sail’s face, a hesitant caress, then gently eased forward. Suddenly it filled in one smooth intake of breath and snapped taut, as if punched by a giant fist. At the same moment I heard the ropes stretch, and along their lines I saw a mist of droplets being wrung from them.

As the men climbed for the next sail, the mast began to lean, as the ship and its tall trees bent and pulled and began to move. What complete joy I felt. I rushed to the side and noticed the water beginning to stream alongside, the weed on the boards below the surface pulling in a current.

I missed, entirely, the arrival of the other passenger on the quarterdeck rail, until in the corner of my view I recognised the wild checked design of the trousers I had seen in the saloon, edging towards me.

‘Splendid stuff!’ he said.

My fellow passenger was a young man, possibly twenty-five, with bright sandy hair in long fashionable curls, and a wide uncomplicated grin on his face. He was wearing a cornflower blue pilot coat with large buttons and slanted pockets, had a golden cravat around his neck—as bright as a kestrel’s throat—and a bamboo cane tucked under one arm.

‘Edward Bletchley,’ he said, offering his hand.

‘Eliot Saxby.’

He shook my hand smartly, giving it a very strong squeeze, adjusted his coat and stared up at the sails in an appreciative manner.

‘Mr French has told me we shall be setting twelve sails,’ he said. ‘He used all manner of names I cannot remember, but I shall learn them all, it can’t be too hard.’

‘I have just about figured out we are standing on a quarterdeck and that cabin before the mast with the two whaleboats on it is the fo’c’sle,’ I replied.

‘Very good!’ Bletchley snorted. ‘Now you must see this.’ He angled a riding boot towards me: ‘I have engraved a star into the toe of this one, to remind myself that this is my starboard side. How about that!’

‘The wrong foot,’ I said.

‘No! Is it? Ah, I see you are joking. Very amusing.’ He glanced towards the helm and whispered, ‘Have you met the captain yet?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither. From the look of him he seems a quirky fellow.’

Bletchley wandered off, in the manner of a ship’s officer, his hands behind his back and his cane stowed, while the sails continued to be set. Full of confidence, an easy charm and direct expression—a man I have always known I could never be. His clothes were flamboyant, his posture without apology. Yet even in that first glimpse of him, I believe I sensed something unusual. A glimmer in his eyes that was unsettled and furtive, at odds with the rest of his impeccable demeanour.

It was apparent, at supper that evening, that Bletchley’s travelling companion had no intention of joining us. Her place at the table was glaringly empty. Mr French stood, formal and straight-backed, by the stove, warming his hands above the hotplate. He had the bearing of a naval officer, stiff collared and erect, smiling privately to himself. Perhaps he was amused by the impoliteness of the second mate, Mr Talbot, a most disagreeable fellow on first impressions, built as solidly as an ox, who refused to sit at the table or properly introduce himself. He merely stood at the far end, in a coat too thick for the warm room, regarding the companionway door, a frown on his face, occasionally sinking his fingers into his beard in the pursuit of an itch. When I went to introduce myself he looked back at me angrily, as if I had failed some requirement of proper approach. He refused to shake my outstretched hand so I quickly made my leave, choosing to stand near Bletchley instead, who was absorbed with studying a barometer fixed to the mast.

‘It is gimballed,’ he pointed out, ‘to counteract the motion of the ship.’

‘I see,’ I answered. Bletchley was obviously wishing to be an expert in all things, and I worried that I might not be able to cope with his enthusiasms, in such confined quarters.

Talbot and French remained standing, Talbot like a tethered bull, uncomfortable in any room, and French as upright as an undertaker. Quite a couple, with little friendship between them. They remained awkward and formal, until the captain opened his cabin door and marched briskly to the table. As I’d noticed on deck, he was a short man, round in the belly, with a slightly florid face and a ram’s horn look to the blond hair either side of his head. His bald pate gleamed surprisingly smooth in the candlelight. Immediately he began to speak in a brusque but not unfriendly manner:

‘Good evening, Mr Bletchley, Mr Saxby, I am Captain Kelvin Sykes and I would like to formally welcome you to the
Amethyst
. Please, your seats,’ he instructed, taking his at the head of the table. ‘She’s a three-hundred-ton barque built in Bristol forty years ago. Not what we would call fast, but steady. She is made from a veritable forest—three hundred and twenty oak trees for her frame, and one hundred and forty long-grained Douglas fir for her decking, masts and yards. She is bound with no less than nine miles of rope. Nine miles, I say! And in her life she has sailed … well, how far, gentlemen? Would you like to guess?’

Bletchley was straight off the mark: ‘Three times around the world.’

The captain rubbed his chin with a finger, contemplating. ‘Mr Saxby?’

‘I would say twice that.’

He laughed, satisfied. ‘Wrong, sirs. She has sailed a distance equivalent to the moon and back.’

Sykes allowed us to feel dutifully impressed before he continued. ‘She’s a plump vessel, double walled with English oak between the wales to the six-foot waterline and a tripling of oak in the bows in addition to iron plating. Fortification timbers have been applied within the stem for resisting blows, and these consist—at considerable expense—of four large ice beams.’ The captain made an estimate of their girth with his hands. ‘From fine trees I personally chose in the yard. Thirteen inches square and twenty-six feet in length, each butted with its foremost end against strong fore-hooks. As you can appreciate, gentlemen, I am a keen engineer when it comes to the forces of man against nature.’ He arranged his cutlery into rows, demonstrating his design. ‘Each of these ice beams is connected in various places, here, and here, for example, by carlines, so that a blow to any part of the stem or bow will be communicated evenly across the shores of the timbers.’ He scattered the cutlery with a strike of his palm.
‘Boom
, like that, gentlemen. It is quite marvellous.’ The knives, fork and spoon looked a mess, a catastrophe, an approximation of a shipwreck. He drank thirstily from his wine. ‘This year, I have also had fitted ice-knees beneath the bow. Your captain is a most cautious man, sirs, and you will be quite safe on board, in all circumstances.’ He knocked the tabletop, for luck.

‘To the business of our route, gentlemen, we will be sailing north-west directly into the Arctic Circle until we make a sighting of the sea ice, and will venture several excursions along the edge as required for hunting, Mr Bletchley. We will do that as soon as we are able, because I can see you are anxious to bag some skins, and it is the time of their cubbing, so we must not delay. At this time of year I shall expect us to be in the vicinity to the west and slightly to the north of Iceland before we encounter the floe. As is convenient, and winds and general weather permitting, we shall then leave the ice behind us and proceed to Mr Saxby’s concerns.’ He regarded me, his face lowered so he was effectively watching me through his eyebrows, seemingly in an act of permission to continue. I raised my glass to him.

‘We have been asked to veer from our usual route in order that we might visit an island and various skerries to the south-east of Iceland,’ he said, ‘in accordance with Mr Saxby’s duties as an agent for the collection of eggs and other natural artefacts for his influential acquaintances. We shall be looking for an extinct bird, I believe.’ He paused. ‘I see you are amused, Mr French, but we shall conduct this search for the bird because we have received payment to do so. Mr Saxby, you might settle an ornithological question that has long vexed me. The Scottish ptarmigan is black in summer and pure white in winter. So is it a black bird or a white bird?’

‘It is both,’ I replied.

‘Exactly! You have passed my first test!

‘So,’ he continued, ‘after our business with these extinct birds of yours, we shall be returning to our usual merchant route, passing Cape Farewell at the southern point of Greenland and delivering supplies to the whaling stations on the east coast of Davis Strait. At several points we shall offer trade with Esquimaux groups. Powder, rifles, flints and hooks and the like. Sheffield steel and plate is particularly admired there, as in the rest of the world. You will require your overcoats once more, as we travel north, again into the Arctic Circle. We shall navigate the western coast of Greenland, seeing many icebergs, gentlemen, but none so close that we shall touch them. I see you are excited at the prospect, Mr Bletchley! We will admire these bergs at distance, I say, and we shall pass the snouts of the finest glaciers in the Northern hemisphere, too, as they prod out to sea. It is a frozen and wondrous world up at the top. Our final destination, ice permitting—for it is very cluttered up there—will be Jakobshavn. It is 69 degrees north in latitude and you will be pinning your felt curtains over the portholes in your cabins, gentlemen, for it is light early. You might well observe the dipping-needle compass there, for it will be pointing largely down into the earth, rather than a flat north. That is where we shall embark upon our return journey.’ Sykes took a healthy draught of his wine and dabbed his lips with the napkin.