The Canaries

We dock at the Canaries under the watchful eyes of gulls. But the prospect of land under my feet has shrunk with the captain's medieval tactics. The terms of our punishment include the following:

1. You will remain afloat in the lifeboat throughout the day, towed behind the Frontier, from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon, for the boys, and from two in the afternoon until four pm, for the captain's daughter (I'm not surprised by her lighter sentence, I'm surprised she was sentenced at all! This captain will not be defied.) for a period of one week, no more, and certainly no less.
2. You will not be permitted access to the dining cabin and will take your evening meals alone in your sleeping quarters
   
3. At night the stowaway will, once more, be secured in the hold
   
4. You will, under no circumstances, be permitted leave to go ashore
   

This last point is a relief to the lad. He has no desire whatsoever to go ashore and covers his head under a canvas rain sheet. There is no sign of a black flag fluttering in the harbour and I'm starting to doubt the validity of his tale.

The volcanic Canary archipelago lies off the northwest coast of Africa, miles west of the Western Sahara. The sea currents here carry ships across the Atlantic to the coast of America and the Caribbean. If there are pirates to be found anywhere in this great blue abyss then there they will be. There is no shortage of stories about the pirates of the Caribbean. But our journey takes us south, following cold currents down the west coast of Africa, all the way to the Cape of Good Hope.

Surprisingly (given my current predicament) my spirits are lifted by this thought. The Cape of Good Hope is a pleasant enough sounding place and for once my thoughts drift toward a future that is not filled with savagery and death.

This misguided hope is short-lived.

Unpleasant predicament

'Take it!'

'I do not want it.'

'You don't want it, or you won't have it?'

'Is there a difference?'

The difference, it's fair to say, eludes me at this precise moment. He's being clever. 'Well I don't mean to dampen your spirits, but it is yours and I don't want it.'

'It is not mine, it is his, and I do not want it either. It has brought nothing but trouble.' His tone is measured, but I'm certain his heart is filled with quiet rage.

'Well why take it in the first place?'

He doesn't respond, instead he binds his arms across his chest and stares grimly out to sea. His anger is understandable. I watch his straight defiant back, willing him to speak, but I know he'll say nothing further. This conversation contains all the words that have passed between us for hours.

'Look ... I'm sorry. I don't know why I said nothing. I have no idea. It's not like me. It's not the way I was brought up. My father would be ashamed if he knew and my mother ... I dare not think it. You'll be redeemed, you'll see, when we get to the Canaries they'll be there and ...' and I realise then, of course, the last thing he wants is redemption that way, because with it, comes inevitable recapture.

I consider the moment of betrayal. Captain Burroughs points at the lad with an accusatory finger and declares him a thief. I assume he's making reference to the ring, but of course he has no knowledge of the stone heart. No, he's referring to the bread. The rhy loaf I stole for the lad.

'Did you steal the bread, or was it brought for you? It is a simple question, Boy.'

There was nothing simple about the question. The lad stared at the wooden floorboards. And I ... I said nothing. Nothing at all. Not a word. I damned him with my silence.

And here we are now, in his unpleasant predicament. We three in a lifeboat tethered behind the Frontier, bucking unhappily in her wake. All three. I turn about to find Miss Burroughs in precisely the same position. A mirror image of the boy. Not speaking. Quite upright, as though seated at the edge of an abyss, staring at the stern of the Frontier, willing herself back on board.

And here I sit in the middle, with a ruby red stone weighing down my pocket, calling me to the sea.

Punishment to fit the crime

This time the punishment is severe.

It was Effemery himself who found us ... none other of course. Alerted by the howling wails of a certain Miss aboard the ship, he seized the opportunity (as he seizes each and every day) to come dashing magnificently to the rescue.

She was guided, no doubt with appropriate decorum, up the stairs and we, being the lad and I, were hauled up by the ears. Of course I have no evidence to corroborate this fact, since I was wholly unconscious at the time, but the redness of both lobes stands testament to definite manhandling, and this imagined treatment is in line with the man's character.

I'm half-listening to the drone of the captain's voice. His face is purple with rage. A fine net of capillaries mushroom from his nose and cheeks and his eyes are hot coals. Yet I'm not cowered by the sight. I can't explain this indifference; it's simply a vagueness of feeling, a consuming disinterest. My hands dig into my pockets with notable displeasure for everyone and everything around me. Not even Miss Burroughs, with her pristine nose, holds any degree of affection. I am an empty vessel ... no, I'm not ... I'm filled with loathing ... for the sea, for the ship, for the captain, for Effemery, for my father, for the Stoway ... I pause mid-thought.

Inside my right pocket is a velvet pouch. Inside the pouch, something round and solid. As the captain recites his ten commandments of sailing, I carefully lift a corner of the pouch and explore with a forefinger. The tip of my finger brushes a cool hard surface, and an immediate feeling jangles every nerve in my body. I am swung to the other side of emotion. I am elated in a sudden moment, and yet, without understanding why, I snatch my finger back.

Somehow the stone heart has found a way from the lad's finger to the depths of my dry, crumb-filled pocket. In the swift retraction of my forefinger I am once again overcome with dissatisfaction, and immutable displeasure.

'A THIEF!' The captain declares with an explosion of force and, regrettably, I'm drawn back into the room with his alarming statement. 'We shall find a punishment to fit the crime.' He says glowering like a madman. 'Of this you can be certain.'