Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [111]
‘I see, yes.’ Paris thought he could detect the accents of Wales in the other’s voice, much muted. He looked up briefly to see Hughes still straddling the boom, his bare feet against the smooth projections of the saddle on the bowsprit. Beyond him the sky was darker now and there was a hush over everything, presaging rain.
‘There is quite some wear on the pins then?’ he said.
Cavana looked for some moments at the face of the surgeon. He saw nothing there but a serious and kindly attentiveness. ‘Well, the pins now,’ he said at last. Unaccustomed feelings of friendliness rose in him. He was suddenly glad to have this work to do and to explain; and he felt something like gratitude towards this vague-seeming man for providing the occasion. ‘The pins,’ he said, almost eagerly, ‘they have got to be as hard as you can get and they have got to fit snug because the wheel that is inside the shell of the block turns on them, d’you see; the hole is bored through the middle and the block-maker must take care to make it a one-tenth part less than the measure round of the pin.’
Paris, to whom this had not been entirely comprehensible, nodded gravely. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I can see that the choice of wood is of first importance.’
‘I know about all manner of blocks,’ Cavana said. He paused a moment, then added – and Paris did not know what a mark of favour was being shown him – ‘I was apprentice to a block-maker for the navy. I worked three years in the dockyards at Plymouth.’
‘Did you so? But you left it for the sea?’
‘I took to the sea, yes.’ Cavana looked down again to his work. He had spoken on a brusquer note which Paris at first thought due to the nature of his question, pressing too closely on the man’s past; but then he saw that Barton had appeared and was sniffing at the air on the starboard side of the mainmast. Facing that way, Cavana had seen him sooner. Paris knew he would not speak again now and felt sorry for an occasion lost.
He turned away and moved to where Barton was standing. The mate gave him good-day and directed sharp looks towards Hughes and Cavana, whose head was now down over his work. ‘Rain before long,’ he said. ‘The men ashore will get a good wettin’.’
‘What are they gone for? I saw that there were casks for water, but they had cutting tools in the boat also.’
‘Aye, they are gone to cut stanchions to make a barricado.’ Seeing that Paris had not understood this, Barton gave his peering, strangely benevolent-seeming smile. There was nothing he liked better than the chance to deliver some felicitous phrasing. ‘The barricado,’ he said, ‘is a fence we makes with wood stakes clear across the foremost part of the quarterdeck. Now you may ask what is the use of that. But you have to bear in mind, Mr Paris, that when we have our full copplement of slaves aboard, it might amount to two hundred and more. They will be kept below at night but in fair weather, in the daytime, they will be allowed up for air and exercise – they has to be let up if you want ’em alive an’ kickin’. Captain Thurso usually makes ’em dance for a half hour or so in the mornin’ an’ that gener’ly answers the purpose pretty well. Now you think of all them black heads gettin’ together an’ talkin’ soft in their own lingo – we don’t know what they are sayin’ an’ we can’t stop ’em whisperin’ together. You may not think it to look at ’em, now that they are mallancholy and cast down, but they are treacly sly devils. If you could open up one of their skulls you’d find a plan of the ship printed in there. They knows all sorts of little things you wouldn’t suppose. They knows where keys is kept, they knows where the gun chest is, they knows where they can get hold of spikes to break their fetters. While we are in sight of land is the dangerous time.’ Barton made a theatrical gesture towards the shore. ‘There it is,’ he said. ‘Before their very eyes. They waits for the right moment, then they rushes the quarterdeck, an’ they are