The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(35)
“Can I help you, sir?” he asked.
Reynolds thought his voice sounded a little hoarse, like someone who has not used it for a long time. He had to make a supreme effort to overcome his astonishment and utter a reply.
“No, thank you, Carson . . . I just came to say how glad I am to see you have recovered.”
“Very kind, sir, I’m sure,” the other man said amiably.
Reynolds could not help comparing his face with the one he had dug out of the snow—that bruised countenance, contorted by fear, identical to the one before him now, which had been etched on his memory forever. Carson’s face. But if that was Carson’s body . . . Reynolds’s heart missed a beat as a terrifying question formed in his mind: who was he talking to now? Yes, who the devil was he?
“Sir . . . can I help you?” the sailor repeated.
The explorer shook his head slowly, unable to speak. There was definitely something strange about the sailor’s voice. It belonged to Carson all right, yet it was subtly different. Perhaps all this was pure imagination on his part, thought Reynolds, and yet he sensed something was not quite right about the man. His gestures, his way of speaking, of looking . . . It was as if he were watching someone forcing himself to play a role. What are you? Reynolds said to himself, mesmerized by Carson’s small, unremarkable eyes, which seemed to peer back at him in an overly guarded manner, with a look of mistrust uncharacteristic of the sailor.
Just then, a bulky figure that could only be Peters emerged on deck, interrupting the two men’s mutual scrutiny. Peters descended the ramp agilely and, hunched against the cold, made his way over to the dogs’ cages, which he usually kept covered with a tarpaulin for a few hours during the day to enable the animals, unsettled by the continual half-light, to fall asleep. Carson and Reynolds watched the Indian go about his business in silence, grateful for the respite afforded by his sudden appearance—especially the explorer, who desperately needed time to order his thoughts. However, no sooner had Peters drawn back the tarpaulin than the dogs began to stir, visibly uneasy, scenting the air. All at once, as though following a choreographed gesture, the dogs turned as one toward where Reynolds and Carson were standing and almost immediately broke into a frenzy of barking, pressing themselves against the bars, lunging at the cage door. Reynolds was taken aback at the dogs’ sudden outburst of aggression, those wild barks and growls directed at them. Peters did his best to calm them, but the animals appeared possessed. Then the explorer looked at Carson, who stared back at him blankly.
“The dogs seem on edge,” Reynolds remarked, holding Carson’s gaze with difficulty.
Carson simply shrugged. But the explorer thought he glimpsed a flash of anger behind his tiny eyes. Then a mad thought occurred to Reynolds, swift as a bolt of lightning streaking across the sky; beneath all his layers of clothing he broke into a cold sweat. He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and with the complete calm of a suicide, who, hours before taking his own life, already feels he is dead, addressed the sailor once more.
“When you have finished your watch, Carson, come to my cabin. I’d like to offer you a glass of brandy. I think you’ve earned it.”
“That’s kind of you, sir,” said the sailor, looking straight at him with alarming intensity, “only I don’t drink.”
The look on Carson’s face, together with the disturbing tone of his reply, made Reynolds shudder. Or perhaps it was simply Carson’s thick Irish brogue that made his voice sound menacing, Reynolds reflected, trying to reassure himself.
“Think about it,” he forced himself to say, feeling a knot in his stomach. “A brandy like the one I’m offering you is not something to be passed up.”
Carson contemplated him in silence for a few moments.
“Very well, sir,” he replied at last, still fixing him with that disconcerting gaze. “I’ll go to your cabin when I’ve finished my watch.”
“Marvelous, Carson,” the explorer declared with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, his heart in his throat. “I shall be expecting you.”
With this, Reynolds turned around and walked casually toward the nearest hatch, unable to avoid feeling the dead sailor’s eyes boring into the back of his head. The die was cast, he told himself with a shudder. He had decided on that course of action almost on impulse, and now it was too late to change his mind. Like it or not, he had no choice but to carry it through to the end. However, he would need assistance, and there was only one person on the Annawan who could help him. Feigning nonchalance, he made his way toward Allan’s cabin, leaving the sound of the dogs’ frenzied barking behind him.
? ? ?
THE GUNNERY SERGEANT WAS in the middle of composing a poem when Reynolds burst into his cramped quarters. The explorer was visibly agitated and breathed uneasily, yet the young poet scarcely looked up at him before returning to his labors, as though inspiration were like a handful of sand that would slip through his fingers if he slackened his grasp. And despite having little time to spare, the explorer bit his tongue rather than interrupt. Allan had explained to him that many years earlier, after one of his countless arguments with his stepfather, he had set sail for Boston to try his luck there and had succeeded in publishing his first book of poetry, although sadly he did not sell enough copies to save him from poverty. Desperate, and without a penny to his name, he had enlisted in the army as a foot soldier and had even risen to the rank of sergeant major before fleeing that rough environment, scarcely appropriate for someone wishing to pursue his vocation as a poet. He had been forced to return, tail between his legs, to his benefactor’s home. This had happened prior to Allan’s strategy of enrolling at West Point, and Reynolds could see how vital it was to him to try to make his living from writing. So he sat down on his bunk and waited for Allan to finish, taking the opportunity to catch his breath and gather his thoughts. The trance into which Allan was plunged, however, ended up diverting Reynolds. The pale young man sat hunched over his table, a cascade of dark hair falling down over his eyes. He seemed more fragile than usual, his body wracked by an almost imperceptible spasm, as though he were distilling on paper the dark essence of his soul.