The Monsoon (14 page)

In contrast she was honeyed sweetness with Guy and Dorian, and even with Master Walsh. Tone-deaf Tom was excluded from their musical practices and Caroline seemed to take extra pleasure in Guy’s company.

The two would whisper together even during lessons, when Walsh made only half-hearted attempts to silence them. Tom protested, “I’m working on a problem in trigonometry, and I cannot think when you two are chattering away all the time.” Walsh smiled vindictively.

“I am unaware of any significant increase in your cerebral processes, Thomas, even in times of deepest silence.” At this Caroline gave a burst of tinkling laughter and leaned on Guy’s shoulder, as if to share the joke with him.

The glance she threw at Tom was malicious and taunting.

Both Dorian and Tom had inherited their father’s sharp eyesight so they were often sent aloft together as lookouts. Tom came to enjoy those long stints at the masthead: it was the only place in the crowded ship that they could ever be alone. Dorian had learned how to hold his tongue, and they could sit for hours in companionable silence, not intruding on each other’s thoughts, each indulging his imagination and his fantasies.

Where once Tom’s dreams had been of battle and glory, of the wild lands and great oceans whither they were bound, of the elephants and whales and huge apes on misty mountain peaks, which he discussed so avidly with Aboli and Big Daniel, his visions now were of Caroline. Of her warm soft body, which he had touched but never seen, of her eyes turned upon him with love and devotion, of doing with her the wondrous things he had done with Mary and the other girls from the village. Yet it seemed sacrilege) somehow, to allow those coarse creatures into the same dream as the divine Caroline.

He conjured up images of saving her when the ship was in flames and the decks swarming with pirates, leaping overboard with her in his arms and swimming to the snowy beach of a coral island where they could be alone. Alone!

That was the problem that confronted him at the end of each of his dreams. How to be alone. The Seraph could sail on to the ends of the oceans with her on board, but they would never be alone.

He tried desperately to think of some place on board where they might spend even a few minutes away from prying eyes, even if he could entice her to follow him there. Which, he admitted, seemed highly unlikely.

There was the cargo hold, but it was battened down and had the Company seals upon it. There were the cabins in the stern quarters, but even the largest of those afforded little privacy and all were packed to overflowing with humanity. The bulkheads were so flimsy that through the partitions he had heard the three sisters arguing because there was only room in their cabin for one to stand upright at a time.

Two had to crawl into their bunks so that one could dress or undress.

There was certainly nowhere there for him to be alone with Caroline and to pour out his love to her, or to further his knowledge of her delights. But still his imagination would give him little rest.

On those evenings when the weather was favourable, Tom and Dorian would fetch their food bowls from the galley and take them up to the bows, where they would eat, squatting on the deck, with Aboli and sometimes Big Daniel for company. Afterwards they might lie on their backs and stare up at the night sky.

Daniel would puff on his clay pipe and point out to them how the sky changed with every day as they ran down further into the south.

He showed them the great Southern Cross rising each evening higher above the horizon ahead of them, the shimmering clouds of Magellan, hovering like the aura of angels, showing at last beneath it.

Around each-constellation Aboli wove the legends of the stars from his own tribe, and Big Daniel would chuckle.

“Away with you, you great black pagan. Let me tell them the Christian truth. That is Orion the mighty hunter, not some savage bushman.” Aboli ignored him and told them, one night, the legend of the foolish hunter who fired all his arrows at the herd of zebra, here he pointed out the star cluster of Orion’s belt, and thus had nothing with which to defend himself when the lion of Sirius stalked him. For his lack of forethought, the hunter ended up in the lion’s belly “Which is a more satisfying story for the listener,” Aboli concluded complacently.

“And for the lion,” Big Daniel agreed, knocked out his pipe and stood up.

“I have, work to do on this ship, unlike others it seems.”

He went aft to make his rounds.

After he had gone they were silent for a while.

Dorian curled up on the deck, like a puppy, and fell almost instantly asleep. Aboli sighed with contentment, then murmured, in the language of the forests, which they often used when they were alone, “The foolish hunter might have learned many things if he had lived long enough.”

“Tell me what they are.” Tom spoke in the same language.

“Sometimes it is best not to chase after the zebra firing off your arrows wildly and from a distance.”

“What do you mean, Aboli? Tom asked, sitting up and hugging his knees to his chest, sensing a hidden meaning to the story.

“The foolish hunter lacks guile and cunning. The harder he chases, the faster runs the game. Those who watch cry, “Behold, the stupid hunter!” and they laugh at his fruitless endeavours.” Tom thought about this: he had come to expect hidden depths in all Aboli’s stories. Suddenly the moral of the story occurred to him and he moved restlessly.

“Are you mocking me, Aboli?

“That I would never do, Klebe, but it galls me to see lesser men laughing at you.”

“What cause have I given anyone to laugh at me?”

“You chase too hard. You let every man on board know what you are about.”

“Do you mean Caroline?” Tom’s voice sank to a whisper.

“Is it so obvious, then?”

“There is no need for me to answer that. But, rather, tell me what makes you pine for her most.”

“She is beautiful, Tom began.

“She is not ugly, at least Aboli smiled in the darkness.

“But what drives you mad is that she takes no notice of you.

“I don’t understand, Aboli.”

“You chase because she runs, and she runs because you chase.”

“What should I do rather?”

“Do what the wise hunter does and wait softly at the waterhole. Let the quarry come to you.” Until that time Tom had taken any excuse to linger in Walsh’s cabin after the day’s lessons had ended, hoping for some small sign from Caroline that she was still interested in him. His father had stipulated that all three boys undergo three hours of formal instruction each day before attending to their duties in the ship. It must have seemed even to Hal that three hours was enough of Master Walsh’s instruction, but until now Tom had braved it longer, simply to spend a few minutes longer in the presence of the object of his devotion.

After his talk with Aboli, this changed. During lessons, he forced himself to be silent and inscrutable, confining his exchanges with Walsh to bare necessities. As soon as the ship’s bell sounded the change of watch, no matter if he were in the middle of some complex mathematical problem, he would pack away his books and slate and rise immediately to his feet.

“Please excuse me, Master Walsh, I must go to my duties.” Then he would stride from the cabin without even a glance at Caroline.

In the evenings when Caroline came on deck with her mother and her sisters to take their constitutional stroll in the fresh air, Tom made sure that his duties kept him as far from her as the ship’s cramped conditions allowed.

For some days she gave no indication that she was aware of the change in his attitude to her. Then, one morning while they were at lessons, Tom glanced up inadvertently from his slate and caught her regarding him from the corner of her eye. She looked down instantly, but could not prevent the rise of colour to her cheek. Tom felt a flare of satisfaction. Aboli had been right. This was the first time he had ever caught her studying him.

With his resolve strengthened, it became easier each day to ignore her as she had once ignored him. This stalemate persisted for almost two weeks until he noticed a subtle change in her behaviour. During the morning lessons she became more talkative, addressing her remarks mostly to Walsh and Guy but particularly to Guy. She exchanged whispers with him, and laughed inordinately at his most famous remarks. Tom maintained his grim silence without raising his head, although her laughter galled him to the depths of his soul.

Once when they had been released from Walsh’s cabin and were at the foot of the companionway, Caroline asked, in an irritatingly theatrical tone, “Oh! These stairs are so steep. May I take your arm, Guy?” Then she leaned on him and looked up into his grinning face.

Tom brushed past them with no display of emotion.

Somehow Guy’s shipboard duties allowed him time to walk with Mrs. Beatty and the girls on deck, or to spend hours in earnest conversation with Mr. Beatty in his cabin.

In fact, both Mr. and Mrs. Beatty seemed to have taken to him. He still made no attempt to leave the deck and venture aloft, even when Tom teased him about it in Caroline’s hearing. Tom was surprised that he did not resent Guy’s timidity. In fact, he felt relief that he did not have the responsibility of keeping an eye on his twin in the high, dangerous dimension aloft. It was enough to have Dorian in his care, even though the younger boy was already so quick and agile in the rigging that he was soon of little concern to Tom.

Although Caroline’s intervention had first made it apparent, the twins had been drifting apart for some time.

They spent little time in each other’s company, and when they were together their talk was terse and guarded. It was a far cry from the days not so long ago when they had shared every thought and dream, and comforted each other when they encountered life’s small hardships and injustices.

After dinner Hal often invited his passengers to an evening of whist in the stern cabin. He was a keen player and he had taught Tom to enjoy the game. With his bent for mathematics Tom had developed into an excellent player, and often partnered his father against Mr. Beatty and Master Walsh. These games were taken seriously and contested to the knife. After each hand the play was discussed and dissected, while at the other table in the cabin, Guy, Mrs. Beatty and the girls giggled and squealed over infantile games of loo and spoil five. Guy had shown neither aptitude for nor liking of the more difficult game of whist.

On one of these evenings Tom found himself placed by his father in a tenuous contract of five hearts. He knew from the outset that he had a choice of two mutually exclusive plays. He could place Mr. Beatty with the queen of hearts and take the finesse through him, or he could play for a two split of trumps. He tried to calculate the odds on the hearts breaking evenly or the queen being a singleton, but the cries and feminine squeaks from the other table distracted him. He deliberated a while, then finessed for the lady. He saw his father frown as he began the play, and then, to his dismay, Master Walsh gave a snigger of triumph and made good his singleton queen.

Flustered by this miscalculation, Tom misplayed the clubs and the hand was a disaster.

His father was severe.

“You should have known from Master Walsh’s bidding that he had seven clubs, and his discard to your king confirmed the unfavorable distribution.” Tom squirmed in his chair. He looked up to see that, at the other table, all play had stopped and that they were listening to his father berate him. Both Caroline and Guy were watching him, their heads close together. In Guy’s expression there was a malicious glee that Tom had never witnessed before. Guy was actually glorying in his brother’s humiliation.

Suddenly Tom found himself plunged into a crisis of guilt. For the first time in his life he was confronted with the realization that he did not like his twin. Guy turned his head and winked at Caroline, who placed a small white hand on his sleeve. She covered her mouth with the other and whispered something in his ear. She was looking squarely at Tom, and her eyes were mocking. With a shock Tom realized that, more than merely disliking Guy, he actually hated him and wished him harm.

For days afterwards, he wrestled with his guilt. His father had taught all his sons that loyalty within the family was sacrosanct.

“Us against the world, he often said and now Tom felt that once again he had fallen short of his father’s expectations.

Then, unexpectedly, it seemed that he had been vindicated. At first he was only vaguely aware that something of great portent was afoot. He noticed Mr. Beatty and his father in earnest conversation on the quarterdeck, and he could tell instantly that his father was deeply displeased.

Over the next few days Mr. Beatty spent much time closeted with Hal in the stern cabin. Then Hal despatched Dorian to summon Guy to one of these meetings.

“What were they saying?” Tom demanded of his little brother as soon as he returned.

“I don’t know.”

“You should have listened at the door,” Tom muttered.

He was beside himself with curiosity.

“I didn’t dare,” Dorian admitted.

“If he had caught me, Father would have had me keel-hauled.” Dorian had only recently heard of this gruesome punishment, which fascinated him.

For days Guy had been dreading the summons to the stern cabin. He was busy with Ned Tyler in the powder magazine, helping him open the kegs and check the gritty black powder for damp, when Dorian came to find him.

“Father wants to see you now in his quarters.” The boy was beside himself with his importance as the bearer of such ominous tidings. Guy stood up and dusted the powder grains from his hands.

“Better go quickly,” Dorian warned him.

“Father’s got his Death-to-the-Infidel face on.” When Guy stepped into the cabin he saw at once that Dorian had not exaggerated their father’s mood. Hal stood by the stern windows with his hands clasped behind his back. He wheeled around, and the thick pigtail down his back twitched like the tail of an angry lion as he regarded his son with an expression not entirely of anger. In it Guy saw a touch of concern and even dismay.