The Beothuk Expedition by Derek Yetman Page A

to me that my friend was far from recovered. I placed a hand upon his arm and said, “Friday, you are not well. Let me help you to your hammock.”
    â€œNo!” he cried, pulling away from my hand as if it carried the plague. “No more! Get away!” His pupils were dilated with fear. His voice was as thin and strained as a sickly child’s.
    â€œYou have been down with the scurvy, my friend,” I pleaded. “Your constitution is still unsettled. Please do me the favour of resting, if only for a while.”
    I looked him in the eye and doubted whether he saw me at all. Small beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead and his hands trembled like halyards in the wind. I was about to call for help in getting him into the hammock when the voice of Lieutenant Cartwright came sharply to my ear. How had he gotten alongside the Dove without being seen? Then I remembered that Grimes had the watch.
    â€œI see that Mister Froggat is up and about,” he said, his voice betraying his disappointment. “And only just in time. I had intended to order him ashore before we sailed.” He paused and I saw that he was looking at my friend more closely. “Though perhaps I may do so yet.”
    It can only have been a reflex from his years of service that caused Froggat to stand at that moment and offer a bow. It was the automatic salute of a man who was not in his senses but it was enough to weaken the lieutenant’s suspicion.
    â€œVery well then,” he sniffed. “Perhaps he will do after all. Mister Squibb, I am expecting Mister Cousens with his Red Indian. As my second-in-command, you will accompany me to the interview, so step lively if you please. And bring your hat and sword. We must impress upon this savage the importance of our mission.”
    I was relieved that John Cousens did not possess the character that I might have ascribed to him, were I to judge the man by his appearance alone. On any given day the Bedlam Hospital is able to turn out its inmates in more conventional attire. The lieutenant had gone to great lengths to ensure that he and I were presentably dressed, while Cousens seemed to have taken pains to ensure that he was not. He was wearing one, and possibly two, woolen caps topped by a shiny hat of mink’s fur, the earflaps of which stuck out at right angles from his jaundiced face. Two or three coarse woolen shirts were layered onto his narrow frame and these fell to the tops of his canvas boots, which were tied above the knee. All worn in the oppressive heat of August.
    This odd appearance was enhanced by a long clay pipe that protruded from beneath a nose of equally generous proportion. He took the pipe from his mouth only to speak, while the smoke encompassed his head like a tiny patch of fog. To his credit, Lieutenant Cartwright acted as if there were nothing unusual in all of this. He made our introductions without expression, and proceeded to deliver a long-winded discourse on the purpose and plan of our expedition. Cousens appeared to listen and stared back at us through the haze of smoke.
    When the lieutenant had finished, we sat in silence, expecting a response of some kind. We sat thus for several minutes before the man raised his hand and took the pipe from his mouth. We fixed our attention upon him in full expectation of an utterance, but when it came it was only an ambiguous grunt. Clearly he was not disposed to conversation generally, which forced the lieutenant to address the matter more directly.
    â€œI was hoping, Mister Cousens, that you might be of some assistance in our endeavour.” He was not to be so easily drawn out, however, and Lieutenant Cartwright continued: “In fact, sir, I had hoped that you would be kind enough to assist us in finding the Red Indians.”
    Still nothing. The cloud wreathed in an easterly flow, orbiting the yellow face and the hat of mink’s fur. The lieutenant cleared his throat in the silence and I