The White Voyage (3 page)

Mary and the child had come on deck to watch. Mouritzen walked along and stood beside them.

‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘The horses are almost the end. Then we sail.’

Another row of ten moved forward from the darkness into the glow of lights.

‘Where are the horses going?’ she asked. ‘To Copenhagen?’

Mouritzen shook his head, grinning. ‘In Denmark, we do not eat horse.’

‘Eat?’

She bit her lip and looked quickly at Annabel, who had turned from watching the scene in the hold to stare at Mouritzen.

He said softly: ‘I am sorry.’ In a normal voice, he went on: ‘It is a saying. I mean, we do not use horses to work in the fields. We have tractors instead.’

She said gratefully: ‘Where will these horses be sent to work?’

‘Some will leave us at Dieppe, the rest at Amsterdam. You are not a country woman?’

‘No. Why do you say that?’

‘They are not young, these horses. Ten years old and more. We think all Irish people have a deep knowledge of horses.’

‘I’ve always lived in Dublin.’

‘And now you go far away – to Amsterdam?’

‘Yes.’

He waited for her to say something more, but she remained silent. He asked:

‘Is it your first visit?’

‘Yes.’

‘I hope you will like it there.’

She made no comment. Annabel asked:

‘Do people eat horses?’

Mouritzen looked at Mary. She said after a moment:

‘In some countries they do.’

‘Will these horses be eaten?’

‘No. Not these.’

The next load went to the No. 2 hatch, and Annabel went along there to look. Mary moved to follow her.

Mouritzen said: ‘She is quite safe. You do not wish her to know – about the horses?’

‘Why should she?’

‘There is death in the world. It cannot be hidden.’

‘She will have time enough to find out.’

‘So you lie to her? Is that better?’

She looked at him, unsure whether to be angry or not. She had it in mind to tell him that she had not asked for his advice and that he had no right to offer it unasked. But in the seriousness of his face she read his innocence of any wish to give offence.

She said, smiling slightly: ‘You aren’t married, are you? Or if you are, you have no children.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you don’t understand that children are not the same as adults.’

‘So it is a good thing to lie to them?’

‘In Denmark,’ she asked him, ‘do you have Santa Claus?’

He nodded. ‘Saint Nicholas. That is different, I think.’

‘How different?’

‘A game, a fancy. But this – you seek to protect her, but there are things we must all learn, and it is better, I think, to learn them early and not later. In that way, one accepts them more easily.’

Annabel was still out of earshot, looking over the side of the hatch.

‘I think you’re wrong,’ she said. ‘A child has a right to be protected, a right to innocence.’

‘Innocence is tougher than you think. Do not confuse it with ignorance.’

She smiled again. ‘Do you always give this kind of advice to passengers?’

He smiled also. ‘Not always.’

They were silent for a time. The business of loading went on – the line of horses forward, a couple led into the box, the dizzy arc through the night air, the cries and commands as it was lowered into the hold, and then the empty box swinging back for the cycle to start again.

Mary said: ‘A life of hard work, and then to be shipped overseas to a foreign butcher. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?’

‘I have thought that, too,’ he said. ‘But a farmer cannot be sentimental.’

‘Can a sailor?’

‘More easily.’

‘Yourself?’

‘Sentimental? No, I am a realist.’

‘But you said that you have thought how unfair it was.’

‘One must be realistic about one’s emotions, too. Only an idealist thinks himself rational in all things.’

They were coming to the end; the last batch of horses was brought up. Among them a large dappled grey was restless, jerking its head against the rope. When it was brought forward to the box, it refused to enter; they heard the clatter of its hooves on the stone as it resisted the attempts to get it forward. Finally it was led to one side, and another horse brought up to share the box.

‘Will they let it stay?’ she asked.

‘No. It is just that it will be easier to take by itself.’

This was what happened; when the other horses had been loaded, the grey was urged once more towards the empty box. It made less resistance this time. As it was borne through the air towards them, they could see that it had striking light blue eyes.

‘He’s beautiful,’ Mary said.

‘Yes. Beauty does not help any more than courage.’

Annabel ran back to them. ‘Will there be any more horses?’ she asked.

‘No more.’ Mouritzen bent down to her. ‘But something else. Do you wish to see?’

She nodded, and he lifted her in his arms.

‘Look!’ he said. ‘Over there. Where the men are fastening the net to the iron bars.’

‘It’s just a box,’ Annabel said. ‘A big box, painted green.’

‘There is something inside. Guess!’

‘Another horse?’ she looked more dubiously at the crate. ‘A pony?’

‘No. Guess again.’

‘I can’t.’ The crane began to whir, and the crate lifted from the quay. ‘Tell me,’ she demanded.

‘A bear!’ Mouritzen said.

She looked at him, her lips compressed. ‘You’re joking.’

He wagged his head solemnly from side to side.

‘No joke. A bear, a real bear. Tomorrow you will be able to see her. She is called Katerina. She does tricks. She is a circus bear.’ In explanation to Mary, he added: ‘It belongs to a Polish circus family, who have been with a circus in Ireland. They are passengers, too.’

‘I’ve met them.’

The crate was set down on deck, between the hatch and the forecastle.

‘Can the bear get loose?’ Annabel asked.

‘No, no. There is a cage inside the crate, with thick iron bars. She will not get loose. I promise you that.’

The door from the passengers’ quarters opened. A woman’s figure was framed against the bright oblong of light. Mouritzen put Annabel down.

‘And now I must go back to the bridge,’ he said. ‘To my work. And it is almost time for you to go for your supper, and then to bed.’

‘Will you be at dinner?’ Mary asked.

‘Not tonight. We are late and there is much to do. Good-bye now.’

He bowed slightly to them and left. They saw him cross to the other side and climb the steps leading to the bridge.

There was light rain falling when the
Kreya
backed out into the main stream of the Liffey. Mouritzen stayed on the bridge, not so much because he was needed as to act as a buffer between Olsen and the Dublin pilot. Olsen resented all pilots, and this man in particular. It was his conviction that, after half a dozen entries and departures, he was capable of taking his ship, unaided, in and out of any port in Europe; and he had once been misguided enough to say something of this to Murray, the pilot in question. Murray, seeming at first, in his soft Dublin brogue, to agree with the thesis, had led Olsen on, step by step, until it became transparently clear that he was mocking him. Since then the terms between them had worsened at each encounter. Mouritzen was relieved that, this time, Olsen contented himself with brusque and icy acknowledgments of the pilot’s remarks, and that Murray did not seem disposed to object to this or to provoke anything beyond it.

The siren was sounded for the pilot’s cutter, and Mouritzen went down with him to the deck.

‘Better weather than when we came in this morning,’ he said.

They leaned over the side, watching for the cutter.

‘How do you live with him?’ Murray asked.

‘With whom?’

Murray jerked his thumb. ‘That one up there.’

‘He’s not so bad. You made a fool of him once. He does not like that.’

‘I’ve never taken kindly to little men, but there’s some worse than others.’

‘He’s not so bad,’ Mouritzen repeated. ‘He has a sense of humour, you know. You have seen the worst of him.’

‘I’d be as glad to see the last of him.’

‘He is a good captain. The best seaman I have sailed under.’

‘Is he now? All the same, I would choose to sail under a man with less pride. Pride’s before judgment with his kind.’

The cutter was sweeping round towards them. Murray climbed over the side and shook hands with Mouritzen before climbing down the rope ladder.

‘Good luck,’ he said.

‘And to you.’

He continued to descend as the cutter came alongside and, with a lurch, jumped on board. A seaman began to haul in the ladder.

Mouritzen turned away and saw Thorsen coming along the deck from the direction of the galley.

‘Ready for dinner yet?’ he asked.

‘More than ready,’ Mouritzen said. ‘But I will wait for the Captain. He’ll be down when we clear the Howth lighthouse.’

Thorsen smiled. ‘Someone’s been looking for you. I told her you were busy with Mrs Cleary.’

‘You can keep her amused yourself, can’t you?’

‘You’re the one she wants. And these strong women make me nervous. I went to Stockholm on holiday when I was sixteen and it left a mark on me.’

Mouritzen did not care for the sly obscenity which, from Thorsen’s side, pervaded this kind of conversation, but he suffered it as a contribution towards shipboard harmony. At the moment, though, he did not feel up to contributing his share. He merely nodded, with a slight smile.

‘She’s nice,’ Thorsen commented, ‘the Irish woman?’

‘Yes, she’s nice. And the little girl.’

‘I offered to take her passport to give to the Customs Officer, but she insisted on keeping it to herself.’

‘It’s her first time abroad. She’s probably nervous of losing it.’

‘You think so? I was in her cabin while they were at dinner, seeing to the beds.’ He paused. ‘Your list is not quite accurate. It’s Miss Cleary, not Mrs.’

Mouritzen kept rein on his temper. As he had told himself before, Thorsen was what he was, and nothing could alter that or the fact that, for the time being, they must spend the greater part of their lives together. He merely said coldly:

‘How long have you been going through the passengers’ belongings?’

‘I didn’t do that,’ Thorsen said quickly. ‘There was no need. She had left the passport on her bunk.’

Mouritzen was not sure whether he believed him, but there was no point in expressing his doubt. He said:

‘Anyway, it’s her own affair.’

‘I thought it might be yours,’ Thorsen said. ‘A tip on form before the big race.’

‘You observe a lot, don’t you, Jorgen? You are a student of human nature.’

‘In this job, one has to be. And there’s plenty of opportunity.’

‘It’s a pity you’re not better fitted to take advantage of it. You are like a student of music who can only hear notes in one octave.’

‘And you – you read characters by intuition?’

‘Yes. By intuition.’

‘Does it tell you what success you will have with Miss Cleary?’

Mouritzen turned away. ‘I’m going to wash,’ he said. ‘I’ll be down in ten minutes.’

There had been grousing in the mess-room at the quickness of the turn-round after the rough westerly voyage. It was the kind of talk to which, normally, Carling was quick to put a halt: he had always been a strong disciplinarian and the outward show of authority had remained after the narrow spring of purposefulness which originated it had broken and grown slack. And Olsen was not a popular captain: the sardonic quality in his personality would only have been condoned in a man physically bigger. In him it was resented.

But this time Carling left them grumbling and went up on deck. He felt the thrust of wind and rain as he climbed up to the poop-deck. Behind him were the lighted port-holes of the passengers’ cabins and higher up the lights of the wheelhouse. He looked over the rail at the ship’s wake, fading away into the black night of the river. To his right the line of regular yellow lights marked the road from Howth to the city; opposite lay the scattered points east of Ringsend. Far back in the distance there was the city itself, a glow of brightness touched with the flicker of neon.

Was heaven like that, he thought – a bright ball in the faraway night, a city seen from the sea? There had been a story once, when he was a child, about a man who travelled over a dark desert land and came at last to the heavenly city, a light that grew and grew. But this light dwindled, as the
Kreya
left the Hill of Howth on her port side and drove out to the open waters.

Carling felt a brief despair that was close to anger. If there had been another day, time to go again to Mrs Guire’s, she might have spoken. She was there – she was always there – but she would not speak. During their courtship and the short year of their married life she had sometimes exasperated him with her mysteries, her teasing silences, but he had not seriously minded them. She would yield at last, overwhelm him with a torrent of talk and laughter, and that which remained of the enigmatic was always there to be resolved in the future. Each time he had left her with a sharper pang, and on each return the rein of anticipation had been tighter, more compelling.

He thought of their last time together, an afternoon in autumn, with the sunlight falling warmly through the windows of the little flat, and Tove lying on the couch, basking in it like a small cat. He had been collecting his things together; he was due to join the
Kreya
at five.

‘Eiler,’ she said. She spoke his name slowly, reflectively, as though for the first time.

‘I must be going.’ He went over to kiss her. ‘Don’t get up.’

‘I’ve been wondering.’

‘Wondering what?’

‘Why I married you.’

Carling knelt beside her, holding her soft hand against his cheek, making no reply.

‘Strong,’ she said. ‘Quite handsome. But old, so old. And a sailor. I’m a wife for a few days in each month – no more. I’m not sure that it’s worth it.’

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Carling said, ‘that I might give up the sea.’

She looked at him, brow furrowed, eyes half closed, as though he were a stranger whom she could not be sure of trusting.