I’m bowled over, enchanted - second reading since 1992. This is great story-telling, based on a lot of historical and nautical research. The protagonist-narrator Edward Talbot is a young aristocrat with not a few notions about himself who embarks on a sea journey from England to Australia, in order to absolve some years of administrative work there. His ambitions will then, he hopes, take him to Parliament, and eventually to cabinet. Despite his snobbery – which he gradually becomes conscious of – he is very likeable. The first book reminded me of Lord of the Flies, in that it describes the way another passenger on the ship, the Rev Robert Colley, is made an easy prey of some of the officers and eventually by crew members by the Captain’s dislike of clergy which seems to give licence to widespread abuse. He becomes more and more ostracised. Talbot does not quite grasp the extent of it, and it is only after Colley’s death that he learns of it, by means of Colley’s long letter to his sister. The juxtaposition of an external view of a person, and an internal one, is very clever. Colley’s death is of shame – after undergoing an equatorial ‘rite of passage’ by the crew which is mercifully stopped half-way, he manages to rouse his spirits to go and preach to the crew and emigrants. Some members of the crew make him drunk, and he seemingly performs a sexual act on a sailor (whom he’d praised in his journal as if a young god). His deep shame confines him to bed, and after weeks of refusing movement, food and drink, he dies. Talbot is much shaken once he reads the letter-journal, and blames himself partly, as also Cap Anderson. While he appears to get over his guilt, Colley’s journal and his inability to read the man better while alive, work strongly on him for the rest of the trilogy. All this is told in the form of a long letter and journal kept for his godfather and patron, Lord X.
The second book contains a marvel of a scene: the ship had been in the doldrums for a while, and when another sail is spotted, and widely believed to be French (this is 1814), Talbot along with other passengers offers himself to help fight if necessary. Two large bodies (in a thick mist) on a calm ocean will always be drawn together, so the law of physics, and the moment comes when the other ship is finally visible, heaving to. Talbot is half-injured but stands rigid, cutlass in hand, full of panic and bravery – but the ship, the Alcyon, is British! The relief is palpable. The other ship’s captain brings the news that Napoléon is on Elba and the war is over. On board the Alcyon is a young woman, Marion Chumley, the poor protégé of the Captain’s wife, whom Talbot falls in love with on first sight. The reader feels sympathy, but also impatience, and is relieved when a wind gathers and the two ships are separated. Talbot spends days if not weeks in a stupor, from injuries he had sustained earlier, and the dramatic events. When he becomes sensible again, he gets drawn into a motion by fellow passengers to attempt persuading the Captain to make landfall in South America. Through his by now good friend Summers, the 1st Lieutenant, Talbot learns of the very precarious position of the ship, and that they will be lucky if they will arrive in Australia alive. All this disproves Talbot’s fear, at the beginning of this book, that his new journal (not written for his godfather the lord) will be lacking in events.
The third book, unexpectedly, brings Edmund and Marion together again near the end, with a happy ever after when he finds out his godfather “left” him a rotten borough, ie he can return to England. We get glimpses into his settled middle age when he is familiar with the PM. However centre stage of this volume are the privations of the journey, Edmund’s deepening friendship with Charles Summers and Charles’s antagonism with the Captain and the new 2nd Lieut, Benét, and Edmund’s unexpected friendship with Prettiman and his new wife which give him some social insights he hopes to apply to his political career (ie represent a rotten borough only to dismantle that system). The most striking nautical marvels are the following: a) Benét’s reckless (and murderous as it turns out) insistence that the main mast can be secured by means of burning charcoal and fastening a metal girdle around the base of the mast. Later, when safely in Sydney Cove, the ship burns up. I would love to know where Golding got this idea from. Was it ever practiced? b) Edmund’s being made a midshipman by Charles, and their star-lit midnight watches on deck. c) the deliciously frightening race of the ship towards a large bank of ice, its drastic change of course which, together with a current, push it alongside the ice. As if in some sort of biblical retribution, chunks of ice fall and kill the purser who had already made his way to his private lifeboat. These scenes, above and below deck, are as compelling as the nautical encounter with the Alcyone in volume 2