expanded. It is not just their own skins Whitbourne is charging George with protecting here. It is no longer just strategy they are upholding, but also England and the King and, perhaps by implication, the whole of Christendom. The claim makes little sense to George, nor does the dismemberment of such a prized possession when there are so many other and more direct ways of sending such a communication.
Only while he considers this last point, does he flip the page around. There is a note, scratched rather hurriedly, on this blank side. It is clearly not Whitbourne’s writing but a hand quite unknown to him. He holds it close to the bobbing flame and reads.
Dear Captain,
You have come so far in trusting and wishing to help us, I must tell you. I do not know for sure where the meat I have been serving you is from. We have only fowl, fish, bulls and cows on board. What you have been eating is none of those things.
Please forgive if I am right, Jemma.
Please destroy this.
George stares at the note for some time. He reads it through again once, twice, then three times. He smiles to himself several times. It is a great relief that this note is not from Whitbourne and he is more than a little flattered by the concern that Jemma is displaying. But he is puzzled too, catching the details of her fears only obliquely. The meat tastes fresh and surely cannot be poisoned. He would have felt its effects by now.
Soon certain phrases are looking larger than others:
only fowl, fish, bulls and cows; none of those things
. It is the
kind
of animal, it seems, rather than the quality of the meat that seems to concern her. Does she think that the English only eat certain types and that if she has served him with wild boar or deer, this is some violent sin against tradition? He has heard that there are prohibitions against certain meats in the East. Perhaps she is afraid he has trespassed against his religion, hence her use of the Bible?
George sits down on the chair and reads over the note again.
Please forgive if I am right
. No, she has a specific suspicion. And she expects him to work out what she means. George considers the fact that Jemma can read and write, that she converses like one schooled, at the very least on a rudimentary level. He considers that, more than any of these things, there is a sharp intelligence behind this training, sharp enough at any rate to confound him with guilt and uncertainty when they are at opposite ends of an argument. This is not a woman to carry around erroneous ideas of English eating customs, not when she has been under English influence, apparently, for so many years.
An answer comes, but it is too ludicrous and too foul for serious consideration. It surfaces in the form of fizzling bubbles rising to the surface of the ocean. He remembers Lieutenant Baxter’s burial at sea, the way his corpse wrapped tightly in the flag fell like a single object even though he had been decapitated. He remembers the speed of the falling too. The corpse seemed heavier than he would have thought Baxter. He sighs, dismissing it from his mind, and reads through the note again.
Yet even on a fifth and sixth reading, this is the only explanation that seems to fit. It’s the only one that would account for the extreme anxiety, the note slipped under the door, the plea for forgiveness for serving the meat and the insistence he burn the note. The taste of the pork returns to him and his stomach jumps slightly with a hint of the violence to come. He sees Baxter’s head once more, the chalky skin and blood-dripping neck, and then remembers Easton’s calm penitence, so much more chilling since he has been made aware of the insincerity behind it. What would a man like that
not
do? The answer comes like the swell of a hurricane: there are no limits to such horror.
George tries to control his nervousness at breakfast. Jemma is working hard not looking at him, and George tries to help, acting as before—stiffening slightly
Only while he considers this last point, does he flip the page around. There is a note, scratched rather hurriedly, on this blank side. It is clearly not Whitbourne’s writing but a hand quite unknown to him. He holds it close to the bobbing flame and reads.
Dear Captain,
You have come so far in trusting and wishing to help us, I must tell you. I do not know for sure where the meat I have been serving you is from. We have only fowl, fish, bulls and cows on board. What you have been eating is none of those things.
Please forgive if I am right, Jemma.
Please destroy this.
George stares at the note for some time. He reads it through again once, twice, then three times. He smiles to himself several times. It is a great relief that this note is not from Whitbourne and he is more than a little flattered by the concern that Jemma is displaying. But he is puzzled too, catching the details of her fears only obliquely. The meat tastes fresh and surely cannot be poisoned. He would have felt its effects by now.
Soon certain phrases are looking larger than others:
only fowl, fish, bulls and cows; none of those things
. It is the
kind
of animal, it seems, rather than the quality of the meat that seems to concern her. Does she think that the English only eat certain types and that if she has served him with wild boar or deer, this is some violent sin against tradition? He has heard that there are prohibitions against certain meats in the East. Perhaps she is afraid he has trespassed against his religion, hence her use of the Bible?
George sits down on the chair and reads over the note again.
Please forgive if I am right
. No, she has a specific suspicion. And she expects him to work out what she means. George considers the fact that Jemma can read and write, that she converses like one schooled, at the very least on a rudimentary level. He considers that, more than any of these things, there is a sharp intelligence behind this training, sharp enough at any rate to confound him with guilt and uncertainty when they are at opposite ends of an argument. This is not a woman to carry around erroneous ideas of English eating customs, not when she has been under English influence, apparently, for so many years.
An answer comes, but it is too ludicrous and too foul for serious consideration. It surfaces in the form of fizzling bubbles rising to the surface of the ocean. He remembers Lieutenant Baxter’s burial at sea, the way his corpse wrapped tightly in the flag fell like a single object even though he had been decapitated. He remembers the speed of the falling too. The corpse seemed heavier than he would have thought Baxter. He sighs, dismissing it from his mind, and reads through the note again.
Yet even on a fifth and sixth reading, this is the only explanation that seems to fit. It’s the only one that would account for the extreme anxiety, the note slipped under the door, the plea for forgiveness for serving the meat and the insistence he burn the note. The taste of the pork returns to him and his stomach jumps slightly with a hint of the violence to come. He sees Baxter’s head once more, the chalky skin and blood-dripping neck, and then remembers Easton’s calm penitence, so much more chilling since he has been made aware of the insincerity behind it. What would a man like that
not
do? The answer comes like the swell of a hurricane: there are no limits to such horror.
George tries to control his nervousness at breakfast. Jemma is working hard not looking at him, and George tries to help, acting as before—stiffening slightly
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