Sara Sheridan - Secret of the Sands

Captain Haines, with his moral standard hoisted ever high, was scandalised, of course. Wellsted, however, was brought up in Marylebone with his grandfather, Thomas, at the helm. Thomas clawed his way up from a cottage with a dirt floor. He’d worked hard and taken every opportunity that God had given him, and some that were sent by the devil too. A truculent, unforgiving old man, his life’s purpose is to see to it that at least one of his grandchildren rises in society. He pushed his son into the upholstery business and then begged, borrowed and stole to make sure that his workshops were stocked with fabrics so fine that both staunch traditionalists and the avant-garde of the ton sent their business to the Wellsteds and paid, more or less, whatever Old Thomas chose to charge.

‘Where do you find these wonderful silks?’ the ladies breathe. ‘I have never seen any fabric so perfect in my whole life.’

The wily old man says nothing – but it is not a complete coincidence that James’ younger brother, Edward, is apprenticed to the customs service the same year that James joined the Bombay Marine.

When the Indian naval commission came up, Thomas spent almost the entire family savings on securing the position for James.

‘He’s bright. He’ll go far. He’s our best chance,’ Thomas insisted.

James’ parents were slack jawed. It was a fortune, but they complied. Iron of purpose, Thomas dominated the Wellsted household for years, marshalling the entire family behind his purpose: to rise. To this end he made sure that his grandchildren understood the poverty around them on the streets – the constant threat of sliding backwards, of having nothing at all. He’d show them the hoi polloi as if to say, ‘This is what’s possible’, you can belong in the salons of gentlemen customers, all fine damasks and mahogany finishes, with the fire stoked and the servants scrubbed, well fed and respectful, but you can fall too and fall far. As a result, James has seen ragged gin whores aplenty and a regular freak show of pestilence. In London decay simmers constantly, breaking through the surface if only your eyes are peeled. The whole, crowded city is built on a barely contained plateau of shit – open sewers in the streets. Never far away, the Thames is a stinking, rancid, stagnant strip of thick slime, running through the centre of the city. Nothing can live in it.

In such surroundings, people are cruel and even in the gentrified streets of Marylebone, women, children and animals are beaten till they cower by their husbands, fathers and masters. Worse, James’ grandmother died in the front room of number thirteen, of the pox. Blood gushed from her ears and her sphincter lay open permanently for two days as vitality (if you could call it that) seeped from every orifice. In the end, exhausted and ravaged, she begged to die. The boy was a mere eight or nine and, his eyes already open to the world, about to leave for his dearly bought commission.

‘Well now, James Raymond,’ his grandfather said, standing dry-eyed over his wife’s dead body. ‘The old lady will not live now to see you make the Wellsted fortune. We can go no higher, your father and I. It’s the education, you see. Whereas you, with all your letters, well, you can take us up. By hook or by crook, Jamie boy, whatever you have to do to win the prizes, for there will be prizes and no mistake. Make us proud.’

An ant crawls over the old woman’s milky eye. She has been dead less than an hour.

‘Swear you’ll bring it home, James.’ The old man grips the youngster’s wrist and slams the child’s hand down on the corpse’s stiffening breast. ‘Swear to me on your grandma’s dead body that you’ll shine. You’ll make a gentleman no matter what. Steal it, plunder it, swindle it or earn it fair. It doesn’t matter to me. Swear on her broken body or go to hell yourself.’

The harshness of Arabia does not shock James Wellsted one bit. He has few scruples about writing his memoirs. He has credited those he believes require credit – Chapman gave Wellsted use of his diaries before he died and he offered help when he was writing about geological specimens. Another officer advised on the Greek translation the lieutenant used. Wellsted will be damned if he’ll kiss Haines’ arse. He knows that the captain is not generally liked, and his objections to what Wellsted has done are questionable. He’d simply have liked to get his account in first. Well, damn the old man – it’s first past the post, the British way and the captain will simply have to lump it.

Against the sound of the lapping waves, Wellsted does not hear Haines approaching in the darkness.

‘I could have you up on charges, Lieutenant, for refusing the captain’s orders. Dinner in my cabin, I said.’

‘I didn’t realise it was an order, sir. I thought it more an invitation.’

Haines makes a derisory grunt. His breath is sour. Wellsted can smell it keenly on the thick, evening air.

‘I’m so hurt,’ the captain mumbles, ‘that so many good men, who have now given their lives for the service … that you are stealing their credit. It is wickedness, Wellsted, not the act of a gentleman.’

‘I found what I found in Socotra,’ Wellsted replies evenly. ‘I simply noted down what I had done. I have named the others.’

Haines snaps. ‘You were my assistant. An assistant, that is all.’

Wellsted does not rise to the bait. They have had this argument before and Wellsted can put his hand on his heart and say that the majority of what he claimed in his memoir is his own work. He’ll find his way, by hook or by crook and it will be a better memorial of the men who’ve died than Haines’ interminable snivelling.

The captain, still outraged, waits a few moments but Wellsted only stares silently towards the inky outline of the shore.

‘You were right not to come to my cabin tonight, I suppose,’ Haines continues in a vicious tone. ‘It is a good idea for you to eat alone. It will give you time to think – to consider. Shall we say for the rest of the tour, Lieutenant Wellsted?’

James knows the man is insulting him. For any officer to be banned from the captain’s table is a dreadful blow. Certainly, the gossip of such disciplinary action will animate the crew for days and when they make port it will be wondered at all over the service. Captain Haines has the outer appearance of bluff liberality, but those who work with him know well enough that he is dogged in his thinking and takes a dislike often to individual members of the crew with little reason. For James, banishment from Haines’ cabin is little skin off his nose, in the long run. The worst the captain can do is work him hard and neglect him a little and he’s survived worse than that. Also, as things stand on board, Wellsted is the only senior officer, which puts Haines over a barrel. The midshipmen are green as gooseberries in a lush, English summer and the captain needs the lieutenant to continue the survey. If Haines hoped that Wellsted would baulk at social disgrace, he is disappointed.

‘As you wish, sir. I shall dine alone.’

The captain brushes his palms together as if he is cleaning them. ‘Well then, carry on, Wellsted. Keep the watch, will you?’

For hours there is nothing on the sound but the endless, penetrating blackness relieved by the low, whirling brightness of the stars. If you stare at them long enough they send your head spinning. The temperature has plummeted so that the night is merely pleasantly warm after the searing intensity of the day’s sunshine and Wellsted keeps watch comfortably without his jacket. By the light of a candle that is magnified only slightly by a brass ship’s lamp, he writes home to Molyneux Street. Neither his father nor his grandfather can read but he knows his younger siblings, infants when he left, will have learnt, as he did in his time, and will relay the household correspondence to the older generations. ‘Once a person can read,’ Old Thomas said so solemnly that he could have been quoting from the Bible, ‘a person can be employed to hold office, a person can marry above his station, a person can execute wills .’ All the young Wellsteds are literate, even the girls. James’ letters home are relayed, like most Arabian traffic, via Bombay and take weeks to arrive. Still, he writes regularly, never hoping for a single word coming in the other direction, for it is not the Wellsted way.