The Line Between

Suddenly he says, «Water.» Clear as clear, no mistake about it. «Water," and he points over the side. Excited, bobbing on his toes, like a nipper at Brighton. Third time, " Water," and at least I were the first to bawl, «Man overboard!» there's that. In the midst of all the noise and garboil, with everyone tumbling on deck to heave to, and the captain yelling at everyone to lower a boat, with the bos'un crazy trying to lower two, 'acos he and Monkey Sucker was old mates … in the midst of it all, I saw Monkey Sucker in the sea. I saw him, understand? He weren't splashing around, waving and screaming for help, and he weren't treading water neither. No, he's trying

to swim, calm as can be — only he's trying to swim like a fish, laying himself flat in the water and wriggling his legs together, same as if he had a tail, understand? Only he didn't have no tail, and he sank like that, straight down, straight down. They kept that boat out all night, but they never did find him.

We reported the death to the customs people in Buenos Aires, and I sent word to Henry Lee back in Goa.The captain and the mates kept asking the crew about why Monkey Sucker had done it, scragged himself that way — were it the drink got him? Were it over some dockside bint? Did he owe triple interest on some loan to Silas Barker or Icepick Neddie Frey? Couldn't get no answer, not one, that made no sense to them, nor to me neither.

Heading home, every barrel gone, hold full of Argentine wheat for ballast, now it's me turn to chat up the crew, on night watch or in the mess. I go at it like a good 'un, but there's not a soul can tell me anything I don't know. I were first ashore before dawn at Velha Goa — funny to think of that fine Mandovi River all silted up today, whole place left to the snakes and the kites — and if I didn't run all the way to Henry Lee's house, may I never piss again. Man at the door to let me in, another man to take me hat and offer me a glass. I didn't take it.

I bellow for Henry Lee, and here he comes, rushing downstairs in his shirtsleeves, one shoe off and one on. «Ben, what is it? What's happened? Is it the ship?» Because he never could get used to having two ships of his own — always expected one or t'other to sink or burn, or be taken by the Barbary pirates. I didn't say nowt, just grabbed him by the arm and hauled him off into the room he calls the library. Shut the door, turn around, look into his frighted blue eyes. «It ain't the ship, Henry Lee," I tell him. «It's the hands.»

«The hands," he says. «I don't understand.»

«And it ain't the hands," I say, «it's the buyers. And it ain't the buyers.» I take a breath, wish God'd put a noggin of rum in me fist right now, but there ain't no God. «It's the wine.»

Henry Lee shakes his head. He reaches for a bottle on the sideboard, pours himself a drink. Salt wine, it is — I knock it out of his hand, so it splashes on his fancy rug, and now I'm whispering, because if I shout everything comes apart. «It's the wine, Henry Lee. You know it, and now I know.»

That about him knowing, that was a guess, and now I'm the one looking away, 'acos of I don't want to find out I'm right. And because it's hard to say the bloody words, either way. «The salt wine," I says. «It frigging well killed a man, this time out, and I'm betting it's done it before.»

«No," Henry Lee says. «No, Ben, that's not possible.» But I look straight back at him, and I know what he's fighting not to think.

«Maybe he didn't mean no harm, your Gorblimey," I go on. «Maybe he'd no notion

what his old precious gift would do to human beings. Maybe it depends on how much of it you drink, or how often.» So still in that fine house, I can hear his Julia Caterina turning in the bed upstairs, murmuring into her pillow. I say, «Old Monkey Sucker, he never could keep away from the cask in the hold, maybe that's why … why it happened. Maybe if you don't drink too much.»

«No," Henry Lee answers me, and his voice is real quiet too. «That wouldn't make sense, Ben. I drink salt wine every day. A lot of it.»

He's always got a flask of the creature somewhere about him, true enough, and you won't see him go too long without his drop. But there's no sign of any change, not in his face, nor in his skin, nor his teeth — and that last time Monkey Sucker said «water» I could see his teeth had got all sprawled outlike, couldn't hardly close his mouth. But Henry Lee just went on looking like Henry Lee, except a little bit grayer, a bit wearier, a bit more pulled–down, like, the way quitting the sea will do to you. No merrow borning there, not that I could see.

«Well, then," says I, «it's not the amount of wine. But it is the wine. Tell me that's not so, and I'll believe you, Henry Lee. I will.»