Reverend,” Duncan pointed out, “to know why the military would be interested.”
Arnold considered the question for a long moment. “The Ramsey Company and the army share many of the same goals, but we are oceans apart in how to achieve them.” The vicar gazed toward the cells. “Your report. It shall point out the sins committed along the way, with the truth shining like the light of the Almighty at its conclusion.”
“You make it sound as if I am writing a sermon,” Duncan replied. “And you forget I have been locked in a cell,” he added.
“Your isolation but heightens your objectivity. You will record a simple and tragic tale. Evering was possessed by the demon of grief, compelling him to the unnatural act in the compass room. His lapse of faith gave the killer an opportunity. Amen.”
Arnold was indeed interested in a sermon. “Perhaps,” Duncan suggested with a solemn air, “there should be lightning. Evering could have been struck by a bolt that burned away his reason.”
“Excellent,” Arnold said, in the voice he used in the pulpit. “Poetic. A call from God. Worthy of the Ramsey scholar. You encourage me, McCallum.”
“Then a mermaid rose up and killed him.”
Arnold sighed, then answered by pushing open the door to the cell corridor. The smell of unwashed men and women, of mildew and human excrement, wafted into their chamber, mingled with the sound of weeping. The vicar paused, as if for effect, then approached the table again. “The killer will hang, whatever reason for the crime. Perhaps one of them stole something of value from Evering. His gold watch is missing. Linking the killing to a robbery would offer a strong moral lesson,” he suggested. “The Company will witness the punishment after we arrive at Edentown. A perfect ceremony for setting the proper tone of the prisoners’ new life. The path of righteousness,” he added in a suddenly contemplative tone,
“can be as slender as a thread. Do your work correctly, and there will be no need to raise the specter of sedition.”
Suddenly Woolford was back in the pool of light cast by the lanterns, with a writing box holding paper, ink, and a quill. As Duncan arranged them on the table, Arnold climbed back up the ladder. Woolford paused at the dark corridor of cells, then ascended the ladder, leaving Duncan alone, staring at the white empty paper. He paced about the table, considering the threat against Scots in Arnold’s parting words, fighting to dam up the unnatural fear that had surged through him when Woolford had mentioned the savages of the forest. British papers frequently reported on the cannibalism, the compulsive violence, the unquenchable blood thirst of the American natives. Animals in human form, they were often called.
When he finally lifted the quill, Duncan did not begin with the transcription of the letters, but with a list of names, sixteen names in a column, including his great-uncle, his father, and his grandfather. The name of every chieftain of Clan McCallum for the past four hundred years, names that had been burned into his memory as a young boy, an unbroken chain of names he and his grandfather had often shouted into the wind as they had sailed and rowed among the Hebrides. Angus McCallum, was the earliest, then Ian McCallum, Lame Rob, Alastair, Crooked James, and Blind William. When he was done he ripped away the long column and wrapped the paper strip around Adam’s amulet, close against his skin; then he pulled the silver button from his pocket, examining it for the first time in direct light. It was intricately worked on the top, and though its dome had been smashed inward, the violence had not obliterated what was obviously, as Lister had reported, a map. The surface of the button had held a tiny rendering in relief of eastern America and Europe, exquisitely worked in silver.
The ship’s beams creaked in the silence, and the table slightly canted as the vessel heeled in the wind. Duncan glanced
Arnold considered the question for a long moment. “The Ramsey Company and the army share many of the same goals, but we are oceans apart in how to achieve them.” The vicar gazed toward the cells. “Your report. It shall point out the sins committed along the way, with the truth shining like the light of the Almighty at its conclusion.”
“You make it sound as if I am writing a sermon,” Duncan replied. “And you forget I have been locked in a cell,” he added.
“Your isolation but heightens your objectivity. You will record a simple and tragic tale. Evering was possessed by the demon of grief, compelling him to the unnatural act in the compass room. His lapse of faith gave the killer an opportunity. Amen.”
Arnold was indeed interested in a sermon. “Perhaps,” Duncan suggested with a solemn air, “there should be lightning. Evering could have been struck by a bolt that burned away his reason.”
“Excellent,” Arnold said, in the voice he used in the pulpit. “Poetic. A call from God. Worthy of the Ramsey scholar. You encourage me, McCallum.”
“Then a mermaid rose up and killed him.”
Arnold sighed, then answered by pushing open the door to the cell corridor. The smell of unwashed men and women, of mildew and human excrement, wafted into their chamber, mingled with the sound of weeping. The vicar paused, as if for effect, then approached the table again. “The killer will hang, whatever reason for the crime. Perhaps one of them stole something of value from Evering. His gold watch is missing. Linking the killing to a robbery would offer a strong moral lesson,” he suggested. “The Company will witness the punishment after we arrive at Edentown. A perfect ceremony for setting the proper tone of the prisoners’ new life. The path of righteousness,” he added in a suddenly contemplative tone,
“can be as slender as a thread. Do your work correctly, and there will be no need to raise the specter of sedition.”
Suddenly Woolford was back in the pool of light cast by the lanterns, with a writing box holding paper, ink, and a quill. As Duncan arranged them on the table, Arnold climbed back up the ladder. Woolford paused at the dark corridor of cells, then ascended the ladder, leaving Duncan alone, staring at the white empty paper. He paced about the table, considering the threat against Scots in Arnold’s parting words, fighting to dam up the unnatural fear that had surged through him when Woolford had mentioned the savages of the forest. British papers frequently reported on the cannibalism, the compulsive violence, the unquenchable blood thirst of the American natives. Animals in human form, they were often called.
When he finally lifted the quill, Duncan did not begin with the transcription of the letters, but with a list of names, sixteen names in a column, including his great-uncle, his father, and his grandfather. The name of every chieftain of Clan McCallum for the past four hundred years, names that had been burned into his memory as a young boy, an unbroken chain of names he and his grandfather had often shouted into the wind as they had sailed and rowed among the Hebrides. Angus McCallum, was the earliest, then Ian McCallum, Lame Rob, Alastair, Crooked James, and Blind William. When he was done he ripped away the long column and wrapped the paper strip around Adam’s amulet, close against his skin; then he pulled the silver button from his pocket, examining it for the first time in direct light. It was intricately worked on the top, and though its dome had been smashed inward, the violence had not obliterated what was obviously, as Lister had reported, a map. The surface of the button had held a tiny rendering in relief of eastern America and Europe, exquisitely worked in silver.
The ship’s beams creaked in the silence, and the table slightly canted as the vessel heeled in the wind. Duncan glanced
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