by Eli Brown
“England’s navy could strangle them in a matter of weeks. It’s all China can do to keep them restricted to the Barbarian House. All of the Pendleton officials this side of the world live there in lavish quarters above the warehouses, fat and happy. After five years a young officer can return to England wealthy enough to buy a duchy. But I’m sure Ramsey told you that.”
I ignored the barb. “I’d thought you’d have attacked the Barbarian House by now.”
“It is a heavily guarded harbor. I could never get close enough.”
“Yet the Fox manages.”
“Braga tells us he dug an elaborate system of tunnels at the mouth of the Pearl River. Braga helped design them but says they braid together with natural caves, a labyrinth of pits and slick slopes. He says the rug map is the key to navigating them.”
“Can’t Braga be your guide in Macau?”
“The tunnels are for smuggling into Canton. The Fox’s lair in Macau is far enough from Canton to hide but close enough to sneak back in when he needs to. Braga claims to know nothing of it.”
“Are we really going all the way to Portuguese China?”
“Pish, Macau is right around the corner, a few hundred nautical miles.”
Here I reached for an itch only to find myself scratching the peg. “The frustrations of a phantasmal foot,” I said.
It may be rare, but Mabbot laughs like spring itself. She’s shown great tact about my peg. Moreover, much to my relief, she has not yet mentioned having visited my chamber three nights ago. If not for the twins’ witnessing it, I might believe I had dreamed the encounter. For all I know, Mabbot does not recall it. I certainly do. The event has played out regularly, in various permutations, in my fancies since.
Tuesday, October 26, Early Morning
Judging the passage of time as best I could by the moonlight sweeping across the narrow porthole, I made to exit my chamber at midnight.
Thus, agitated and mistrusting, I met Gimbal at the fore and followed him, without a word, down the starboard stairs into the bowels of the ship. On the way he said, “You’re late. Anyway, hurry on, we’ll be glad for a new face.”
“We? There are more?”
“Oh, yes. Half the boat, one time or another, has come to our meetings.”
Before I had time to weigh the wisdom of joining a full-blown mutiny, we arrived at the door of a damp hold used to store empty barrels and crates. When the door was opened and my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the lanterns, I saw a most salacious scene, one that might have leaped from Bosch’s canvas. Ten men or more lolled upon heaps of burlap in a concupiscent tangle. I saw then why so many of the crew winked obscenely when certain rope knots were mentioned: Wasn’t I seeing here the monkey fist, the slippery Spaniard, and the ten-fingered glove? Such a heap of blasphemy it was that I could scarce tell whose limbs were whose; rather, they seemed to be one beast, reeking of the body’s own sea-foam.
Someone shouted, “Need a seat, Spoons? There’s room on my lap!”
There is, no doubt, a proper and Christian response to such an offer, but I was so shocked that my only thought was to excuse myself as quickly as possible. “Ah yes, right! Do go on without me. I have a sudden case of the shits.” With that I turned and fled to my chamber and spent the rest of the evening watching the door.
If the sight of those actions aroused in me certain unwanted pressures, it is only because I have long been sequestered in this unholy environment with no friends but these. The kerchief is not lifted clean from the gutter.
Wednesday, October 27
Despite the watch and the unease that saturates this ship, the saboteur managed to strike again last night. This time the fire, fed by oil, considerably compromised the port holds of the lower deck, not far from my own chamber. These holds, being recently emptied, held little of value, but Mr. Apples says the starboard hull is sprung not far above the waterline. We now have no choice but to find timber on the Paracel Islands, which the crew is loath to do for fear that Laroche may trap us in the harbors there.
At noon, Mabbot tacked a piece of wood next to the purse already dangling from the mizzen. She read the inscription aloud: “Two full shares of our next haul! And for the saboteur, theater paint!” At this, a roar went up.
The folly of early Tuesday morning has taught me that one must not trust in hidden messages for communication. If I have hope of finding the saboteur, it will be through vigilance and keen perception. In this I am no better suited than anyone else. All persons have become suspects. He will be difficult to find, for the entire ship is after him, and if he has even the brains of a crumpet, the man will not make the mistake of announcing himself.
Everything has become so confused. I despise this saboteur despite his being perhaps my only true ally. I find myself fantasizing of bringing him to Mabbot for punishment. I am on a steep slope indeed. If I escape, it will be to peril, and unwritten pages, but they will be, at least, my pages. Better to die in the attempt (I tell myself again and again) than to live a hundred years as a captive or, worse, a pirate. I will have my life back, bereft as it may be.
As for my oath to bring Mabbot to justice at any cost, well, those words were written long ago, it seems. Boiled long enough, even garlic loses its bite, and I have been so thoroughly boiled. These scribbles indict not Mabbot so much as the entire filthy world.
19
THE CULINARY USES OF A CANNONBALL
In which trust is betrayed
Friday, October 29
Today we’ve set anchor off the shores of the western Paracel Islands, which are scattered crescents of sand and palms, like the crumbs left from God’s earth-making. The men shuttled across the shallows in the longboats to cut timber for Kitzu’s repairs. The atmosphere among the crew has grown quite sour, and twice Mr. Apples was obliged to stop quarrels himself, lest they spread into riots. The men pop and spit like fritters in oil.
To my benefit, they were all so distracted that they took no notice of me as I made my way around the ship making preparations for departure. It was clear I would have to swim, but that has always been a strength of mine, and, this time, the sea was warm and calm. Even with my attenuated figure, I was sure I could do it. I had spotted a series of fishing villages along the coast that, by my estimation, could be hiked or paddled to in half a day.
As this was unfamiliar land, full of natives and who knows what kind of savagery, I decided that, in addition to my usual bag of figs and water, I must bring with me a pistol, dry and with enough shot to defend myself or, if needs be, hunt small game in the eventuality that I am stranded longer than I’d like.
I had made my way to the gun room, where I knew a number of pistols to be in lockers. To be sure no one saw me, I ducked in quickly. After letting my eyes adjust to the dimness, I jumped with fright when I saw three figures, Feng, Bai, and Asher, huddled in a conspiratorial nature.
I had clearly walked into a secret meeting, and they were not pleased.
Bai leaped to his feet. “You were listening?”
“Listening? No. I heard nothing.”
He tapped my chest with his finger and said, “You heard nothing.” It was no longer a question.
I was then escorted back to my cell and locked in.
Friday, Later
An hour later I used my spoon key to free myself and make my way to the deck again. To give Bai the impression that I had been freed legitimately, I lingered awhile near Mr. Apples who, along with the bosun, was orchestrating the stowing of freshly hewn planks. I was not able to regain my previous freedom of movement. Everywhere I went, Bai, or the captain, or Mr. Apples seemed to be near. Even if I could get clear enough of them and leap into the water without provisions to take my chances unarmed, then surely the boats that were forever going to and from the shore with lumber would see my splashing. A cowardly part of me smiled inwardly—I would have to remain safely aboard the Rose. I circled the deck, cursing myself.
But ho, what have I seen?
I
have been so confounded by my craven relief at not having to swim to those dusky sands that, until I began this entry, I had not properly considered what I had witnessed in the weapon room. Was it not a clandestine meeting of saboteurs? No doubt the insidious twins have decided to sell Mabbot for the prize and take the Rose for themselves.
I must admit I am disappointed and frankly frightened, as I know I can never be in league with those two. Even Mr. Apples seems to like me more than they do. Further, if they succeed in any form of mutiny, I am sure I’ll be cast into the sea or set adrift or simply executed on my knees. This is a rebellion I can neither join nor survive.
Saturday, October 30
Today Mabbot sentenced eight sailors for “gambling, untimely inebriation, and maligning one another’s mothers.” In punishment the men were attached by the hip to lines and hung over the rail to chip the hull clean with chisels. If I had understood the gravity of the punishment, I would not have complicated it by requesting that Mabbot include in her sentence that the men return with whatever mussels they should find. The rest of the crew agreed it was a fair and fitting punishment, as the men had been witnessed drinking well before their watch was over. It might have been dealt with swiftly by Mr. Apples if their play had not escalated into a brawl. This, Mabbot would have to make an example of. She stated, “We do not fight among ourselves.”
The severity of the penalty was made clear to me only when the men were allowed, after several hours, to return to the deck, bleeding from hundreds of gashes. At first I thought they had attacked one another with their chisels, but their wounds, I came to understand, resulted from being buffeted against the razor-sharp barnacles of the hull. When one man fainted, Mabbot ordered the other seven to tend to him. He was revived only after much massage and attention. The eight sat wrapped in blankets and huddled together for warmth, while Mabbot addressed them: “We’re friends now, aren’t we?”
“Yes, Captain,” they groaned as one.
“And all of us well-bred?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Good, then. Get back to work.”
Such is the strange justice upon the ship. In any case, the sailors’ suffering won me a bucket of mussels for tomorrow’s meal.
Sunday, October 31
Curry intimidates me.
Ramsey had acquired the taste from his early trips to the tea plantations and tended to request it when his guests included young women; it is no secret that his lordship enjoyed a bachelor’s privilege. At such meals, Ramsey was inordinately garrulous, and his story of hunting a tiger never failed to elicit gasps from his audience. It was no different from any hunter’s tale; a man-eater had managed to circle around and leap upon our hero from behind. When the animal breathed its last, the guests would applaud and Ramsey would bow.
My own performance was never as satisfactory. The guests didn’t know how curry should taste, and so I wasn’t as concerned with their reaction as I was with Ramsey’s, who would let me know the morning after that the curry was “not quite the thing, I’m afraid.” Like the naturalists drawing fabulous creatures based on hearsay, I was trying to perfect a dish based on a tea merchant’s romanticized travels. Cumin and turmeric, chili and ginger, any one of these in the wrong proportion can ruin a dish, and with all of them fighting it out, I was lucky to do as well as I did. Looking back now, I wonder if my attempts weren’t corrupted by the boorish associations I had with the dish. It was rare to see the braggart and playboy side of Ramsey, but I particularly disliked it.
His tale never failed to end with the rather breathless description of the felled beast itself: “The pelt which had been dusted with a hundred Oriental spices in the fields, the tongue which had lapped at the bones of a hundred coolies, eyes which had seen ten thousand sunsets. At the last moment I hesitated, but the ghosts of his prey called to me, saying, ‘Avenge us!’ I took aim and fulfilled my duty.”
It’s no wonder I couldn’t get it right; I hadn’t really wanted to.
This morning I woke early to try again. There is no excuse not to; I never had spices half as fresh as those that Mabbot gave me, which sing even from their closed box.
A few of these were not ground, and I set to the task of rolling the cannonball over them. The missile serves for a pestle almost as well as it did for a rolling pin. If I ever work in a proper kitchen again, I may have to bring one along.
As if woken by the smell, Joshua arrived to help me, and soon we had freshly powdered cinnamon, mustard, and cloves to mix with the turmeric, cayenne, cumin, and ginger; curry is a multifarious potion.
As the cinnamon broke under the cannonball, it struck me that all I had to do was follow that one note, and it would show me where to go. We built it pinch by pinch and took turns sniffing at the pile, debating whether to sharpen it with a touch more mustard or anchor it with cumin. When we lost the cinnamon’s hum, we knew we had gone too far and had to turn back. This was no dead tiger. We were creating, we decided, a fabulous tree, and when we were done, we could smell cumin’s muddy roots, the callused bark of mustard, the pulsing sap of the turmeric, all the way up to the sunlit blossoms of cinnamon.
Such a rich dish demanded a bright counterpoint, and the papaya was just the thing. It was not quite ripe and so had the satisfactory crunch of a cucumber. The black seeds glistened like roe in its womb, and though Joshua didn’t like the smell of it, he was willing nevertheless to julienne the fruit and toss it with lime and a touch of honey. As the babirusa had been curing for such a short time, the flesh was very supple, and the thinnest slices, almost translucently pink, were reminiscent of a mild prosciutto. These streamers we tossed until they entwined sensually with the marinated papaya.
I must say that I’m delighted with the simple elegance of rice steamed with lemongrass.
Wishing to preserve the tenderness of the mussels, we saved the curry until just before serving. The powdered spices were roasted dry for a few minutes to release their perfume, then combined with a little lard and shredded coconut meat. Anchovies and miso provided a savory foundation for the sauce. We simmered the mussels in ginger beer, and just as they opened and released their brine, we combined all into a steaming archipelago.
To my dismay, Bai was lingering in Mabbot’s cabin when I arrived.
Unsettled, I presented the meal immediately: “Green papaya and babirusa salad, curried mussels over lemongrass rice, garnished with a bouquet of cilantro.”
“Good, then!” Mabbot said. “Damn ceremony, let’s eat.”
When Bai left to fetch hay for the rabbit, I leaned in to whisper, “Captain, I’ll say it straight: the twins are the saboteurs.”
Mabbot turned grave. “This is serious,” she said. “Do you have proof?”
“Indeed. I saw them with Asher having a secret meeting in the munitions room. Quite clandestine.”
Mabbot took my hand and, checking to see that we were still alone, said with gravity, “My God, but how can it be?”
“I know it must come as a shock—”
“It is indeed a shock that you don’t know what proof is.” She cracked a smile. “Such a simple word. Even a child knows the definition of ‘proof.’ Didn’t you hear my conditions? If you accuse without evidence, you lose an ear. I’ll excuse it this time only because you already lost your hoof.”
“But what proof would satisfy you? You ask too much!”
“I know that.”
“Then why?” I demanded.
“Now the crew is watching, waiting. They will police one another, and that will make the saboteur’s job difficult until I find out who it is. Meanwhile we won’t execute an innocent only to have the saboteur emboldened.”
“But I’ve just told you—”
Here I was interrupted by Bai, who came in with a bundle of dried alfalfa for the rabbit. He pretended not to hear, but I was sure he knew what I was up to. I will be lucky not to be slain in my sleep. When he strolled out again, Mabbot whispered, “How do you know I am not the saboteur?”
“What nonsense—”
“Is it? A saboteur brings them under my skirts. Not that they’re prone to mutiny. These are good men who love me as they can. But this last year has been a hard one. I have spent much of our winnings on my hunt. Incidents like this tend to draw out the discontent as the leech draws out the bad blood. Now, though, with a devil aboard, the men are neither bored, nor listless, nor rich, nor fat, which upon a pirate ship are hardly benign traits. Left too long, those qualities can lead to discontent and indeed sabotage!” She laughed so hard the tea splashed from her cup and the rabbit came to lap at it.
“Your stubbornness will get us both killed,” I hissed.
“I’m not only stubborn, Wedge,” she said, “I am also captain of this ship and all that happens upon it.”
A note: The pineapple-banana cider is good enough for a pirate ship. It would be excellent if I had a proper champagne yeast and not this tin of dough I carry around on me. Still, even though it is more sour than one would like, the fruit essence fills the nose and calls to mind the sun-dappled island beaches, which is enough to lighten the spirits.
Tuesday, November 2
We took another Pendleton ship today: Captain Wesley’s East Indiaman the Trinity, freshly provisioned and not two weeks into her journey home.
This time the engagement was bloody from the first, as the venerable trading vessel had few guns of her own but was escorted by two smaller gunships, each quick to turn and bristling with cannon.
These hardly deterred Mabbot. She dove right in, seeming to relish the challenge. Our men cheered when she ordered the battle flag raised, a black field with a white hourglass, signaling to our enemies that their time had come.
Our opening shot landed near enough to wet the sails of the first warship. When it gave chase, we fled; Mabbot herself took the wheel. Our pursuer covered the distance alarmingly. We skated a mile east, but in minutes the ship had halved our lead. This was what Mabbot wanted.