by Lee Henschel
“No, sir.”
“Try it. Lorca has just prepared some.”
“Lorca?”
“He is the cook taken off Santa Isadora. Captain Cedric has offered me his services. It seems Lorca brought Captain Ramosa’s coffee supply with him.”
“Will it make me feel like Mr. Starling’s medicine?”
“No. It is meant to inspire.”
He set a tiny cup in front of me. The coffee was a black paste and tasted most awful. But I didn’t want to offend Gottlieb so I drank it.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been attending you, sir.”
“These last days have been difficult for you, young Harriet. Sit a moment. After that I will permit you to attend.”
“Aye, sir.”
We sat in the great cabin, listening to Eleanor’s work parties boast cheerful loud about Santa Isadora and how much prize money they would receive and how they would spend it, mostly drinking and whoring about. I looked at Gottlieb, waiting for his reaction. He shook his head in disfavor—he was most devout, praying at all times it seemed.
The compass in the great cabin showed Eleanor bearing south by southwest. The wind blew moderate, thrumming lively on the rigging and we felt her plunging earnest on a broad reach, flexing her timbers. In the waist Starky worked steady with his mallet, brace and bit. I looked out the stern gallery windows. The sky was deep cobalt, cloudless and vast. The air smelled of salt. It stung in my nose. The sea ran small and bottle green, with gulls diving for the fry rising in our wake. We were not far from land, yet I saw nothing but water. Direct above, I listened to the quick patter of Mr. Lau’s measured pace on the quarterdeck. The deck officer barked a command and was answered by the distant hail of a topman. Below us the tiller responded, its hawser straining and its lever groaning as it pivoted on the rudder stock. Eleanor heeled a bit more, revealing Santa Isadora, two hundred yards to leeward and framed now in the gallery windows. The brig was under full sail, her light blue main course and red Templar’s Cross filling handsome. A fine prize.
As I sat watching the brig my leg started to twitch. I sensed Gottlieb watching me and I turned to meet his eyes.
“Young Harriet, I think the coffee makes you jump.”
“Is that what happens, sir . . . when you drink it?”
“Sometimes. But it is nothing to worry about. It will go away.”
He removed the empty cup.
“I feared you had been killed when Captain Cedric engaged Santa Isadora. I meant to come find you . . . but I stayed here in the cabin, angry that we were engaging in battle when we should have been on our way to Amunia. We must be there before my cousin leads his tribe back into the erg—the desert, as you would say. If I do not find him in Amunia I may not find him again for a long time. But now I am more settled, and understand we are in the fog of war and, as your first officer might put it, must strike when the iron is hot. Still, I regret that I did not try to find you. You are a good servant. You are more than a servant.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“You possess a quality that others fail to recognize.”
“You mean knowing about horses, sir?”
“That is important to me as well, young Harriet, and it is one reason I have chosen you to go on this mission. But that lies only on the surface. Through the years I have seen those who are touched in the same way you are . . . always young . . . touched by an essence beyond mere physical human experience. I suspected as much that first night I came onboard, and over those first few days I observed you closely to make sure. And it is truly why I have chosen you to go with me to Otra Nova.”
“You mean like with numbers, sir? Mr. Lau says I have a way with numbers.”
“No . . . although at some point I wish to know about your ‘way with numbers.’ But what I see in you has nothing to do with numbers.”
“Sir?”
He leaned forward, peering deep. “Tell me, young Harriet. What is the Sukiyama?”
I hesitated, not knowing what to tell.
“A jinni, sir?”
“What could you know of a jinni, young Harriet?”
“That’s what you said St. Elmo’s fire was, fire spitting from the mouth of a jinni.”
“Yes. But the Sukiyama is no jinni.”
“Then you’ve heard the whispering, sir?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
He leaned back. “You spoke the name in you sleep . . . as if the Sukiyama was something real, not just in a dream.”
“Aye, sir. Real enough.”
“You spoke three other names. The first was Tate. Who is he?
“A boy, sir. A stowaway. I think he was killed.”
“Killed by Pogue and Coutts.”
“How . . .”
Gottlieb held up a hand. “Those were the other names you mentioned. I know of them. They watch you from a distance. Those two share a secret—a dark one. And I see in your eyes that you fear them.”
He went to the escritoire and opened a drawer, removing a small box. He gave it to me. “Open it.”
Inside was a knife sheathed in leather. I took it out and drew breath quick, staring at a curved, four inch blade and a bone handle.
“It’s most excellent, sir. I’ve not seen a knife like this. Ever.”
“It is a khanjar, young Harriet. Much like a dagger. This one is small . . . to fit your hand.”
“But I will never afford to buy it.”
“I meant to give it to you before, as a tool. Now it serves for your protection. Can you handle a knife?”
“A farrier’s knife, sir. But a farrier’s knife isn’t so sharp as this, and not sharp on both edges.”
“Some advice. Wear the knife at all times but keep it concealed under your tunic. Do not let anyone know that you have it. ”
I examined the khanjar, testing its blade on my thumb. But my hand shook and I cut my finger deep enough to draw blood. “Ow!”
“The coffee is too strong for you. I am sorry. It is a restorative meant for adults, although adults seem to handle coffee’s affects in unexpected ways.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Coffee is a new experience for Europe. Much of the continent seems to have been incited by it. As a result many Europeans have undergone a strange sort of enlightenment. Some would even suggest that coffee was a key ingredient of the French Revolution.”
“I should not wish to be like the French, sir.” I sucked the blood until the cut stopped bleeding. “Gottlieb?”
“Yes?”
“Is it true what they say about the desert? I mean about the people who live in it?”
“What do they say?”
“That in the desert when you take out your knife you have to draw blood before you put it back. Is that true?”
He laughed. “It is not true. If one went about his business drawing blood every time he drew his knife, well . . . that would not be good for business.”
“I see.”
“But true, as well. Before I departed London I drew Cara from his scabbard and he will remain unsheathed until he tastes blood. And now, since you have drawn your own blood, you may sheath your khanjar in honour.” He laughed softly, “So you may become fierce, like the erg and its people.”
I put the knife back in its sheaf and stuffed it in my pocket. “Thank you, Gottlieb. That’s most generous of you.”
“You are welcome.”
“Gottlieb?”
“Yes?”
“Captain Cedric says you’re muslin.”
“You mean Muslim, young Harriet.”
“Oh, Muslim. Is that like being a Catholic?”
For the first time ever he frowned.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, sir.”
“Being a Muslim is in no way like being a Catholic. But I am not a Muslim—before all, and after everything—I am of the Nile.”
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a long spell, then opened them.
; “Now we must speak of the Otra Nova mission”
“Aye, sir.”
“As I have told Captain Cedric my cousin’s horses are on Minorca, at a finca called Otra Nova. I have an agent placed there who works in the olive orchard. He lives in a hut far removed from the house, near an artesian well. Everyone calls that well the Artesian Gate for there is a gate there leading the back way out of Otra Nova and into the hills.”
Someone knocked.
“Yes?
The door opened and Opp stepped in. He gawked silent. It was most obvious he’d not been in the great cabin before.
“Do you have something to say, young man?”
“Beg pardon, sir. It’s Mr. Starky, he wishes you to inspect his work, sir.”
“Very well. Come, young Harriet.”
“Gottlieb?”
“Yes?”
“Cara, you said it must taste blood.”
“Yes.”
“Whose blood, sir?”
“Enough. Come now, let us see how Mr. Starky is doing.”
The stalls were built with two gates each, front and back, so a horse might be led in head first, and then be led out head first, as well. And the layout was built around the mainmast on the spar deck under a spread of canvas stretched to provide shade, like a small courtyard stable built around a shade tree with room enough to work the horses, and to stow tack, water, hay and oats.
Gottlieb frowned. “Why is the second stall not as I requested?”
“It’s built as a hoist, sir, free standing, and reinforced with a floor pallet and higher sides and a set of blocks to lift the whole thing, horse and all, in and out of the ship direct like. That way the poor beasts don’t have to walk aboard, or be swayed in a harness. And we can shroud the stall, sir, so they don’t see nothin’ when the hoist lifts ’em. And Wat, the sailmaker, he sent up a bit of storm canvas, sir, to provide the shade. I sloped it so rain will run off into collection barrels. I thought it were an improvement, sir, but if you wish I can rebuild it.”
Gottlieb smiled. “No, Mr. Starky. You have done quite well.”
“Then I think I’m done here, sir.”
After three days on the same heading we weathered Cabo Sagres and stood into the Gulf of Cadiz. Sunday morning. Captain Cedric read from the Second Book of Maccabees. Warring and killing and all that. He cut it merciful short though, as he knew the Eleanors were eager to begin their half-holiday. During the noon ration of grog the men settled up their sips, the trading of a sip of Sunday grog to a shipmate for some favor or task he did during the week. The ship’s piper played at the fife rail. But he’d lost his best fife so he played his ocarina. It looked like a sweet potato, and probably sounded like one too, if a sweet potato could squeal. He played it lively well though, and the men took turns dancing a hornpipe. Starky built an oval frame, the proper size to fit a man’s face, and the men played make-a-face. Each man paid to play, tossing a fresh plug of tobacco into a pot resting on the gun deck, then held up the frame to make a face. Surprise was a good one to make, so was cross-eyes, or love struck and broken heart. And Mr. Lau shooting his dentures—that was always a favorite. But no matter what, the ugliest face usually took the prize, and he was expected to share the pot since being ugly didn’t take over much for a tar.
We’d be transferring our mail when we made the Cadiz Squadron, to be added to outgoing mail on the next ship headed home, so a few men waited patient while the officers wrote letters home for them. On the spar deck men played dominoes. Many just lounged and nodded for the day was balmy warm, and lingering airs invited the afternoon to pass slow.
I think Gottlieb enjoyed being around the men and walking on the spar deck but he came anxious when the lookout called down. He’d spotted a square rigged ship to leeward.
“Is it the Cadiz squadron, young Harriet?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“I must find out. After Cadiz my mission will take priority. Take me to the quarterdeck.”
“Aye, sir.”
Pogue stood at the flag locker on signal duty. He turned to look me over and I stopped short. This was the first we’d crossed since Articles of War and I shivered when he looked my way, his eyes staring grey cold and lacking all expression. I would have felt more at ease if his thick lips were curled in a sneer, but his look said all the more by saying nothing at all. Just as he turned away, he winked.
“Tend to your duties, Mr. Pogue,” Mr. Lau said.
“Aye, sir.” Pogue glassed the distant ship. “She makes one-five-three, sir.”
“Very well. Make two-one-five. Hudson, fetch the captain.”
We waited as Pogue made his flag hoist and glassed the ship for a response.
“She’s hoisting now, sir. She’s the. . . Bad . . . Breath.”
“Rubbish, Mr. Pogue.”
“Sorry, sir.” He raised his glass once more. “Now she makes . . . all camels . . . converge on . . . Naples . . . at once.”
“You must use last month’s code manifest when communicating with the Cadiz blockade, man. You’ve been told they will still be using it.”
“Oh. Right you are, sir.”
Captain Cedric arrived hasty, still arranging his waistcoat and buckler.
“What ship, Mr. Pogue?”
But it was Mr. Lau who replied. “Mr. Pogue is still trying to determine that, sir. But I think she’s Iona, or rather a French gun sloop once named Cordelier . . . until we captured her trying to run the blockade at Toulon.”
Pogue finally spoke up. “She’s Iona, sir. Twenty gun sloop. And she flies the Cadiz Squadron pennant.”
“She’ll be an outlier then. Mr. Pogue, make to Iona. Brig in my lee Spanish capture Santa Isadora. Seventeen prisoners onboard. Hoist the mail flag as well.”
“Aye, sir.”
He made his flag hoists and we waited.
“She makes . . . prisoners to Royal Anne . . . downwind . . . capture to Hydra . . . downwind.”
“Very well. Hoist your repeater. Then to Isadora. Close on me. I will hail you. He turned to Hudson. “Fetch Lieutenant Rainey.”
Rainey came immediate.
Captain Cedric pointed at Santa Isadora.
“I’m concerned the squadron might not understand that Isadora’s a capture. She poses no threat, but they may fire on her for target practice. I want to take as many precautions as I can.”
“Aye, sir.”
“So with your loudest voice kindly remind Lieutenant Goodwin to keep his ensign flying at Isadora’s highest staff.”
“Aye, sir. That should do it. Unless someone thinks Isadora’s flying false colours.”
“Correct. That’s why I want you to also instruct Mr. Botherall to take his trumpet aloft to Isadora’s foretop. Tell him to play Rule Brittania . . . loud as he can, mind you . . . and to play until ordered to stop. No one would dare fire on that, I don’t think.”
“Oh! That’s capital, sir.”
“Let us hope so.”
Kyle joined them on quarterdeck. He addressed the captain while his weak eye cast a glance to the sea. “The prisoners are ready for transport, sir.”
“Very well. Now let’s go find Royal Anne and be rid of them.”
Chapter Eleven
Royal Anne had once been a hundred gun first-rate launched in 1741 at Portsmouth Dockyard. In 1757 she was sold to the East India Company, known as John Company, and rebuilt for escort duty to protect the merchant convoys coming out of Bombay. In 1789 she was leased back to the Royal Navy and rebuilt once more. She served now a sea barracks for the three hundred marines assigned to the Cadiz Squadron. She also served as the squadron’s brig. And except for the six pounders on her quarterdeck all her ordnance had been removed to accommodate marines and prisoners.
Like all first-rates, Royal Anne was a poor sailor, and incapable of sailing close to the wind. Even so, she might have held her station, except she was manned by John Company officers and men, and no one onboard paid over much attention to the endless flag hoists,
most of them not meant for her, anyway. And when she did notice she was slow to react. As a result she was nearly always to be found off station. Even with Iona’s help it took us half a day to locate her, plodding along under reduced sail a good five miles windward from the line and nearly out of flag hoist range. We ordered Santa Isadora to stand well off, and Eleanor approached Royal Anne to hail her. The wind had nearly boxed the compass by then and now blew a fresh breeze. We had to stand off and make a flag hoist instead . . . Eleanor for Royal Anne. Send transfer barge . . . seventeen prisoners. Royal Anne’s barge was wide beamed and forty feet long, too large and cumbersome to stow on her spar deck, so she towed the thing. It reminded me of an old cow elephant with her calf holding her tail. As expected, Royal Anne failed to respond, so we fired our signal gun. Still no response.
The deck officer, Towerlight, grumbled under his breath. “Fools!”
“They’re not Royal Navy, sir,” Mr. Lau replied, “and not likely to be in a hurry.”
“We’ve waited nearly an hour. What’s taking them?”
“Well, someone needed to notice our hoist to begin with. And they don’t know us, sir. They may fear we’re flying false colours. Likely someone had to find the key to the flag locker, and only then could they send up an acknowledgment. They may have misplaced their code book as well, and are trying to find it. They must decipher our flag hoist, consider what to do about it, if anything, and when they decide they must pull the proper flags and begin to make their hoist. Ahh! I believe they’re doing that just now, sir.”
Both Towerlight and Mr. Lau glassed Royal Anne.
“They respond, sir. They say for us to close.”
“Close? All that time for a one-flag hoist?” The lieutenant sighed. “God help us.”
We worked down to her again, slowly closing the gap, and as I dumped Gottlieb’s chamber pot overboard I got my first long look at Royal Anne. She was prodigious big, her bows blunt and square, her black hull looming high as a cliff, her tumblehome bulging near to burst. She looked sorely in need of a refit. Her yellow gun stripes ran streaked with rust. She had no guns to run out and she looked toothless as an old woman. Her bowsprit was surely the length of Eleanor’s foremast. Her mainmast stepped near three hundred feet high and weathered bare, sails over patched and grey as the Atlantic. I felt sorry for her. Once she’d been a new thing, and fitted out smart like Eleanor. Trim and neat, though never so sleek as a frigate, or so fast. But she’d flown her standard high, owned her dignity and her pride, long spent now, and not to be regained.