Sinclair noticed one of the sailors—Jones—throw a glance at Jeffries, a glance that clearly said, “If we reach Christchurch…” It was a question that haunted Sinclair, too. Would they have come so far, in such haste, only to perish in a frozen sea?
The next words from Addison’s mouth were swallowed in a sudden gust of wind that set the sails billowing and the masts creaking, but which carried with it a strange sight indeed—a giant, soaring bird. An albatross. Sinclair had not yet seen one, though he knew from the lines of Coleridge’s marvelous poem that this must be one now. It hovered overhead, its underbelly white, its outspread wings—no less than ten or twelve feet wide in Sinclair’s estimation—tipped with black, its long beak a ruddy pink. Even in the tumultuous air, the bird maintained an attitude of utter serenity, dipping and turning around the masts, tacking on the invisible currents with no greater movement than a slight adjustment of its feet.
“A gony,” Jones said, using the seaman’s term, and Jeffries nodded appreciatively; the albatross was a bird of good omen and brought misfortune down only on those who tried to do it harm.
The ship hit a rising wave, its hull grating on chunks of broken ice, and Sinclair had to grab hold of a rope with both hands to keep his footing. The albatross swooped low, across the brig’s prow, then up again and onto a shuddering yardarm. There, it perched, its wings now furled, its claws clutching the slick wood. Sinclair marveled at the sight; how, he wondered, could the great bird survive, flying for countless miles over nothing but rolling seas and slabs of ice, under such a desolate sky?
“Captain, sir! Captain Addison!”
Sinclair turned his head, and saw Burton clambering up onto the deck from below, his frozen beard as stiff as a plank; right behind him came Farrow, cradling something beneath his black seal-skin jacket.
His legs spread wide for balance, Burton marched toward the wheel, without so much as a glance in Sinclair’s direction. “Something to report, sir!” he bellowed. “Of great concern!”
Sinclair had to crane his neck to see, as Burton and Farrow seemed intent on blocking his view. He saw the flash of something—glass?—and heard the men jabbering away, in low tones, over one another. Addison held up his hand, as if to calm them, then looked down at the prize they carried. Sinclair could see it, too, now, and to his dismay, saw that it was a wine bottle, marked MADEIRA.
The captain looked puzzled, then indignant, as if he were not a man to be trifled with. “See for yourself, Captain!” Burton urged, but Addison was still resistant. Farrow pulled a glove off with his teeth and used his bare fingers to pull the cork from the bottle. He held the open bottle under the captain’s nose. Spitting his glove onto the deck, he said, “Smell it! Better yet, Cap’n, touch it to your lips!”
Addison reluctantly lowered his face to the bottle, then recoiled, as if affronted by an especially foul odor. But it was only when Dr. Ludlow crawled up on deck, too, and silently nodded his agreement, that the captain, an expression of horror on his face, peered at Sinclair.
“Is it true?” he said, taking the dark bottle from Farrow’s hand.
“It’s true,” Sinclair said, “that you hold my wife’s medicine. Stolen, no doubt, from our cabin.”
“Medicine?” Burton blurted.
“Bloody hell it is!” Farrow threw in.
“Didn’t I tell you they was trouble?” Burton shouted to Jones and Jeffries, who understood nothing but looked ready to welcome any mayhem about to ensue.
“Found it under the bedclothes, I did!” Farrow cried, in an apparent bid to claim the lion’s share of the credit. “That’s no denying!”
“And ask ’im what happened to Bromley!” Burton went on, his beard shaking with fury. “Ask ’im how a man like that, an able-bodied seaman who twice rounded the Horn, fell overboard while keeping watch!”
Suddenly, everyone’s voices were raised and a half dozen other crewmen spilled from the hold, four of them carrying the trunk that Sinclair had just secured. They dropped it upside down on the ice-rimed deck, with the sound of spurs jangling against the bottles still inside. Before Sinclair could even reach for his sword, he felt his arms pinioned and a coil of rope slipped over his wrists, then knotted tight. His shoulders were pressed against the main mast, and while he shouted his protests, he saw Burton and Farrow charge back below.
“No!” he cried out. “Leave her be!”
But there was nothing he could do now; he couldn’t even move. Captain Addison shouted at one of the seamen to take the helm, then strode across the deck. Staring directly into Sinclair’s eyes, he said, “I’m not one to believe in curses, Lieutenant.” He kept his voice low, as if confiding a secret. “But with this,” he went on, brandishing the bottle, “you have pressed my hand beyond endurance.”
The sailors holding his arms tightened their grip.
“The men already hold you responsible for the death of Bromley, and I no longer doubt it myself.” Weighing the black bottle in his hand, he whispered, “I’ll have a mutiny on my hands if I don’t do it.”