distinguishing marks

The petty officers group together in knots of three. Peglar with his book, Farr and Goddard with their paints; Hickey with his knife, Genge with his ropes, and Gibson with his woolwork to keep him busy. The design takes shape under his hands with every pass of the needle, the image of the Wanderer in full sail against a clear blue sky flotted with clouds. It can’t capture the sick heat, or the smell of disease, but it makes a fine picture. Their leisure-work is broken up by service and shift, with men rising and settling in as their duties oblige them – he doesn’t know which man Hickey huddles up with when he’s away and serving, or who it is that watches the penknife scratch and pull between Hickey’s fingers.

Mr. Hickey has a good hand with a knife, and he is shameless about begging a bit of wood or a packet of pins for his material. In the weeks since Christmas he has produced a needle-case carved in the shape of a fish, a matchsafe in whalebone, and a lady’s busk – scratched with a pair of hearts, a serpent, a man’s face, two crosses. Most men incorporate an anchor or a windrose or a spouting whale – women like that sort of thing – but the omission can be overlooked. Stars and hoops, INRI and 1846, palm trees and hourglasses. Whatever design Hickey’s newest work is scratched with, he has guarded it jealously for weeks now, with a cupped hand to shield the sawdust and a lazy way of tucking it away in his vest when Gibson passes by. It must be something obscene, for which he fears discovery – Eve in the garden, a bare-breasted mermaid on a rock, an unflattering caricature of John Bull. For every nice and edifying scene, there is another.

It comes as a great surprise when Hickey discards all his coyness – he rubs off a blond scattering of carved-away wood with his thumb and extends his work across the pitted table for inspection.

“How’s this, do you think?

Gibson casts a critical eye upon it. The carved box fits between his hands, dull and smooth in the light – a slide-box chipped with diamond-shapes, and in a roundel the image of a sailor waving his tarred hat in the air. The figure is rendered crookedly but in perfect detail, the jackstaff and the anchor and the gun. The man’s face bears a passing resemblance to Lieutenant Hodgson, with curly hair and the etched lines of rosy cheeks.

“Your sweetheart will like that,” Gibson says. “It’ll look well if you polish it up a bit.”

“Do you like it? It’s yours. It’s your wage for teaching me so well.”

Hickey pushes the box into his hands. Gibson can feel the nudging of his shoe under the benches, sliding between his own heels – Hickey is watching his face for approval, with a faint smile and shining teeth. Gibson draws an arm around his shoulders, and sets aside his needle.