The North Water(27)
“These days it is. Twenty years ago, the waters about here were full of whales too, but they’ve all moved north now—away from the harpoon. Who can blame them? The whale is a sagacious creature. They know they are safest where there is most ice, and where it is most perilous for us to follow them. Steam is the future, of course. With a powerful enough steamship we could hunt them to the ends of the earth.”
Sumner nods. He has heard Brownlee’s theories on whaling already. The captain believes the farther north you sail the more whales there will be, and he has come to the logical conclusion, based on this fact, that at the top of the world there must exist a great ice-free ocean, a place not yet penetrated by man, where the right whales swim unhindered in numberless multitudes. The captain, Sumner strongly suspects, is something of an optimist.
“Joseph Hannah came to see me today complaining of a foul stomach.”
“Joseph Hannah, the cabin boy?”
Sumner nods.
“When I examined him, I discovered he had been sodomized.”
Brownlee stiffens briefly at this intelligence, then rubs his nose and frowns.
“He told you this himself?”
“It was evident from the examination.”
“You’re sure?”
“The damage was extensive, and there are signs of venereal disease.”
“And who, pray, is responsible for this abomination?”
“The boy will not say. He is frightened, I imagine. He may also be a little simple-minded.”
“Oh, he is stupid enough,” Brownlee says sourly. “That’s for sure. I know his father and his uncle both, and they are fucking imbeciles also.”
Brownlee’s frown deepens, and he purses his lips.
“And you are sure that this happened on board this ship. That the injuries are recent?”
“Without a doubt. The lesions are quite fresh.”
“The boy is a great fool then,” Brownlee says. “Why did he not cry out or complain if this was being done to him against his will?”
“Perhaps you could ask him yourself?” Sumner suggests. “He won’t speak to me, but if you order him to name the culprit it’s possible he’ll feel obliged to do so.”
Brownlee nods curtly, then opens the cabin door and calls to Cavendish, who is still standing by the stove smoking, to have the boy brought aft from the forecastle.
“What’s the little shit done now?” Cavendish asks.
“Just bring him to me,” Brownlee says.
They drink a glass of brandy while they wait. When the boy arrives, he looks pale with terror, and Cavendish is grinning.
“You have nothing to be frightened about, Joseph,” Sumner says. “The captain wants to ask you a few questions, that’s all.”
Brownlee and Sumner are seated next to each other; Joseph Hannah is standing nervously on the other side of the round center table, and Cavendish is standing behind him.
“Should I stay or leave, Captain?” Cavendish asks.
Brownlee thinks for a moment, then gestures for him to sit.
“You know the habits and personalities of the crewmen better than I do,” he says. “Your presence may be useful.”
“I certainly know the personality of this little savage,” Cavendish says, cheerfully lowering himself onto the upholstered bench.
“Joseph,” Brownlee says, leaning forwards and attempting so far as possible to soften his habitually vigorous tone, “Mr. Sumner, the surgeon, tells me you have sustained an injury. Is that true?”
For a long moment, it seems as if Joseph has either not heard or not understood the question, but then, just as Brownlee is about to repeat it, he nods.
“What injury is this?” Cavendish asks skeptically. “I’ve not heard of any injury.”
“Mr. Sumner examined Joseph earlier this evening,” Brownlee explains, “and found evidence, clear evidence, that he has been ill-used by another member of the crew.”
“Ill-used?” Cavendish asks.
“Sodomized,” Brownlee says.
Cavendish raises his eyebrows but seems otherwise unalarmed. Joseph Hannah’s expression does not change at all. His already sunken eyes seem to be receding into his skull, and his breath is coming out in brief but audible pants.
“How did this occur, Joseph?” Brownlee asks him. “Who is responsible?”
Joseph’s bottom lip lolls slick and rubicund. Its sensual obviousness contrasts disconcertingly with the funereal gray of his cheeks and jaw and the dark, helpless recession of his eyes. He does not reply.
“Who is responsible?” Brownlee asks him again.
“It was an accident,” Joseph whispers in response.
Cavendish smiles at this.
“It is awful dark in that forecastle, Mr. Brownlee,” he says. “Is it not possible the boy merely slipped one night and landed on his arse in an unfortunate fashion?”
Brownlee looks across at Sumner.
“That is meant as a kind of joke, I assume,” the surgeon says.
Cavendish shrugs.
“The place is cramped and cluttered. There is barely an inch of space to move around in. It would be easy enough to trip.”
“It was not an accident,” Sumner insists. “The idea is ridiculous. Such injuries as I saw could occur in one way only.”