Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [164]
He encountered the small, beleaguered eyes, saw in them the usual fury at being questioned. It was clear that Thurso was in the grip of some feeling stronger than the irritation caused by the sight of the monkey. ‘I returned to find that we have got a case of the bloody flux aboard,’ he said. ‘I returned to find that, sir.’
‘I did not know of it.’ Paris had sensed some accusation in the captain’s words. ‘I have been confined to my cabin these last few days.’
‘He is only twelve or so,’ Thurso said, ‘so it is not as bad as it might be, but it is still a loss of forty bars. That is not the worst of it, however. We will be obliged now to leave the coast early. I could have taken a dozen more that now I cannot wait for. We must get out to sea and trust we can be blown clean of it.’
‘He is dead then?’
‘Dead? He is shitting blood. He may die or he may recover, it makes no difference, he must be got off the ship.’
‘Got off the ship? You mean simply set down ashore?’ Thurso’s monstrous simplicity, as always, had taken him completely by surprise. ‘But he could be treated,’ he said hastily. For a moment, absurdly, he was under the impression that Thurso had overlooked this possibility. ‘I can make up a panegoric,’ he went on eagerly. ‘Tincture of opium has often been found efficacious in cases of severe diarrhoea, with a preparation of fennel that I know of; fennel is an excellent –’
‘Good God,’ Thurso broke in with a sudden violence of fury that made Paris flinch. ‘Must I waste my breath arguing with a damned landsman who knows nothing but country remedies? I am talking about bloody flux. If it gets a hold on us here, we can lose half our cargo. Do you know what that means in money? Am I to wait on the chance that you will cure him with your damned brews? And if you fail? No, sir, not another word.’ Thurso paused, visibly struggling with his passion. All his detestation of the surgeon came out in this moment. He advanced his face, darkly congested with rage, and said in his hoarse monotone, ‘I command on this ship. I will have you muzzled like a dog and sent to kennel below if you argue another syllable with me.’
Paris was silent, looking down before him at the deck. Brought to this pass, Thurso would do as he threatened. Owing perhaps to the weakness consequent upon his fever he could feel no saving fury now as he had on previous occasions, only an immense weariness and discouragement. It was not the other’s brutality that was too strong for him, but his logic. There was no answering it. It was why they were all there. ‘I do not argue further,’ he said. ‘May I have your permission to go ashore with the boy and take the linguister?’
‘You need no linguister with you to leave the boy on the beach,’ Thurso said. However, after a moment’s pause, he gave his consent in an indifferent mutter. The punt was lowered, the shivering boy fetched up and soon Paris found himself making for shore with Jimmy beside him in the stern and four men to row them.
He had no plan of action; he did not believe there was any action to take. His request had been involuntary almost, an impulse to hurt himself, to share in what was being done to the boy. But it occurred to him now that they might find some help ashore for him or some shelter at least. ‘Ask him where he comes from,’ he said to the linguister. ‘Perhaps he comes from this part of the coast.’
‘He not belong here,’ Jimmy said. ‘Dis boy Vai people, I think so.’
He spoke a few words to the boy, who turned deep-set eyes on him, straining and imperfectly focused, as if he were staring through a screen of mist or flame. After a moment he replied in a soft mumble, raising a thin hand in a vague pointing motion.
‘He say he comes from over dere.’ Jimmy repeated the vague gesture. He smiled with pity and scorn. ‘Dis boy don’t know where he is,’ he said. ‘So he can’t say where he come from. He points anywhere comes into mind. Point up at sky, all same-same ting.’
‘I don’t believe you understand a word of what he