Infernal Devices - KW Jeter [87]
"I– I think you've made some sort of mistake," I stammered. "I don't know what you think my… connection with all of this is, but–"
"Silence!" Sir Charles stepped back from the three of us. "All such prevarications are useless. We know God's truth; you shall soon know what fate has been deemed appropriate for your kind. I bid you farewell."
Two of the sailors assisted him down to a small boat that had been tethered at the ship's side. As they rowed him towards the harbour, the sails billowed over our heads. I gazed hopelessly at the edge of land sliding under the sea's horizon.
PART THREE
A Description of a Voyage to the Hebrides
12
Glimpses of the Future
It has been my experience that being under a sentence of death produces in one's self a beneficial calm, both physical and spiritual. Time and the petty cares of the world recede, taking on their proper insignificance against notions of Eternity. These ennobling concepts are perhaps more easily entertained on board a ship, where the ceaseless rolling of the ocean and the featureless grey horizon provide no cheap distraction from one's meditations. But even here, in my refuge at a great city's edge, a fragment of that peace returns to me; the dog, my companion through so many arduous adventures, drowses before the fire, and I scribble on, heedless of the harsh costermongers' cries in the street below. I realise now that it was but a clearer vision achieved while under sail, of the condition to which we all, man and beast alike, are sentenced. Though at most times we are ignorant and forgetful of the fact, we all are on a Voyage of short duration, making towards the Landfall of our Death. Fortunate is that mariner who scans the horizon and spies a brighter cloud somewhere beyond.
The ship on which Scape, Miss McThane, and I found ourselves unwilling passengers was named the Virtuous Persistence, though the faded evidence of an earlier incarnation as the Miss Clementina Peckover was still visible on its prow. The crew – more of a Godly Navy than Army, though they clung to the military forms handed down from Cromwell's time – was captained by one Lieutenant Brattle; he it was who took upon himself the duty of informing his cargo of their ultimate destination.
"In time of war, cruel measures are often necessary." The lieutenant, a junior version of his superior Sir Charles, paced sombrely before us. Our party of three, four, counting the dog stationed at my feet, following the words spoken with keen expression if perhaps not full comprehension – had been assembled on deck a few hours after the ship had set sail. "And the war against Satan," pronounced the lieutenant, "is unceasing."
"Shit," muttered Scape beside me.
The lieutenant gave him a sharp glance, but pressed on. "This vessel is on a course bound for the Outer Hebrides. Very nearly the farthest from the coast of Scotland is the islet known as Groughay; it is the ancestral seat of the infamous Bendrays. What little population the island supported abandoned it some years ago. Its barren rocks will be the witnesses of the sentence passed upon you by the compassionate wisdom of God Almighty, through the persons of His appointed defenders–"
"What a load of crap."
Scape's louder comment brought an even sterner glare. "I would caution you to silence; you can only bring greater misfortune upon yourself through this show of disrespect."
"Hah!" The blue lenses swung to myself and Miss McThane. "Get him." He turned back to the lieutenant, having divined what the speech's import would be. "How much worse can you make it, huh?"
The lieutenant set his disdainful expression even more rigid. "Upon the island of Groughay, you