Coming of Age

by Lee Henschel

  “Mr. Pogue no longer has need of a sextant. He displays no aptitude for navigation so I’ve released him to Gleason. The bosun will attempt to instruct the fellow in boat handling and knock a knot on his head as well. Go you now.”

  Just then Eleanor topped a swell and all lookouts hailed the deck at once.

  “Land! I see land!”

  I followed Mr. Lau to the quarterdeck just as the deck officer, Lieutenant Goodwin, called out. “Where away?”

  “Off the port beam, sir, about fifteen miles.”

  “Very well.” Goodwin ordered the helm to bear south by southeast, then turned to Mr. Lau. “Minorca?”

  “Aye. No doubt the lookouts have sighted Mount Toro.”

  “I hope we bore away smart enough. Captain Cedric wishes to remain undetected.”

  “It’s unlikely anyone would see us at this distance. Besides, sighting a frigate cruising off Minorca these days would hardly be cause for alarm.”

  Goodwin nodded, then ordered me to go find Captain Cedric. The Otra Nova mission was about to get under way.

  Back in Portsmouth Admiral Christchurch had described Gottlieb as a passenger with undeclared diplomatic status, and his business in Otra Nova as clandestine. The admiral requested and required Captain Cedric to avoid all contact with ships or shore after Cadiz. In order to still remain unseen Eleanor would need to lay well off Nagua, hull down if not completely below the horizon. To make contact with his agent, Gottlieb and I would be rowed ashore under the cover of darkness. A risky business though, to row a boat on open water, and even more so at night. A boat might easily lose its way.

  Soon after the middle watch Eleanor wore ship, hauling her wind five miles off Nagua. The night went starry moonless. Gottlieb prepared us careful for the mission—dark clothing, faces and hands smudged with a stub of burnt cork and coal grease.

  “What is this for, Gottlieb?”

  “To become the night, young Harriet. Come now. We shall wait on deck.”

  Captain Cedric ordered the jolly boat into the water. Eleanor’s jolly was a bit larger than the gig and rowed by six men. It required a coxswain to command it, either a midshipmen or an officer. Our coxswain was Hoyer. He served in gunnery under Towerlight. I barely knew him.

  We unhooked from Eleanor. Hoyer checked his compass and we wore away, due east. At Nagua two lanterns burned. The one to starboard was large and bright. It served the public dock. Hoyer checked his compass then made for that light, bearing slightly to port where there was a sand beach. The second lantern was farther to port—the fish market. Just west of the fish market was the estuary of Bosc Creek. It was a salt bog, and to be avoided, as it was a most ruinous place to land a boat. It took an hour before Nagua took shape, its sparse waterfront rising dim in the night. A land breeze blew soft and the ebb tide ran as well.

  I whispered to Gottlieb, “They’ve pulled four hundred strokes already, sir.”

  “You are counting them, young Harriet?”

  “No, sir. I just know.”

  The crew wore down. Hoyer referred to his compass then ordered rest for sets of oars, one pair at a time, keeping four oars working at all times. We made our way slow. But steady on, for the Eleanors were willing lads, and with hearts of oak.

  Soon we closed on the beach and shipped oars. There was no surf so the bow men slipped quiet into the water, waist deep, and dragged our prow onto a narrow shelf. We disembarked and carried the jolly boat ashore and hid it in a stand of cypress. That final effort, heaving the jolly boat and concealing it, tapped the men’s reserve. Hoyer ordered all to rest while he took first watch.

  The night slept . . . all shadows and silence. Gottlieb and I slipped away, moving through the cypress most slow. After a hundred yards we reached the coastal road and paused, watching and listening for travelers. But it was very late and the road was abandoned. It belonged to the night. Just across lay Otra Nova, its hills and orchards deep in repose. The air was calm now, and cool, and it cast a spell. I shivered, sudden afraid, and expecting the whisper . . . the Sukiyama. Instead, an owl hooted, then took flight from a branch overhead, its white underwing flashing silent. It broke the spell. I turned to Gottlieb. He watched me studious then looked away. Then he moved us across the road, going to ground once more before making our way to the far end of Otra Nova, and the Artesian Gate.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The hunting dogs barked in the hills but at the Artesian Gate was all quiet. Gottlieb crept to an open window and whispered low. A mumbled reply, a muffled stirring and soon a lantern lighted dim and cast a shadow moving inside silent and swift. A small figure appeared in the open door. Gottlieb came to me, whispering that this was the agent, and for me to wait. He broke from our cover to join the agent. They spoke foreign and made foreign gestures. And the agent kept his distance, jumping whenever Gottlieb made the slightest move. I sensed the man’s fear. Fear of Gottlieb, or perhaps fear of what was to come. Gottlieb signaled me, and when I came to stand in the light the agent’s expression turned doubtful. He made to say something, but only shrugged, then bent to sketch a map in the sand. His hand trembled as he drew, and the lines came out scant and crooked, yet unmistakable. It was Otra Nova. Gottlieb considered it for a moment, then spoke. A question, I think, for the agent nodded and went into his cabin, returning shortly with a glass jar held at arm’s length. He brought it to the light. The jar contained dried roots and even in the dim light I recognized them. I’d seen them before. Some called it monkshood, or wolf’s bane. Other’s said it was the blue rocket. But by any name it was poison, and when reduced in a potion brought death near instant. They spoke for a while longer, going over more details until the hunting dogs stopped barking, which was likely to arouse suspicion if they remained quiet for long. The agent made signs that he must go stir them. But before leaving he cupped his hands and bowed most humble.

  We returned by a different route to the jolly boat. The crew was waiting quiet, well rested now and game for another long pull. We pushed off, and the ebb took us for a good distance, then let us go, and after a thousand strokes of hard pulling, Mr. Hoyer called for a rest while he directed his signal lantern toward open water. He opened its shutter once, and once more before Eleanor responded. The crew pulled half an hour more, until the frigate’s familiar shape loomed in the night.

  The sea went calm the following day, and we bore south by east, on a beam reach, sailing in what Mr. Lau described as phlegmatic air. We were cruising on station and made our way slow, and Eleanor carried her course sails only. Minorca lay just below the horizon, and would remain so for the entire day, waiting for nightfall, when our raid would commence in earnest.

  Evening came on slow. And when the watch changed Eleanor prepared a boat for lowering. The raid would go off soon. The raiding party consisted of a boat officer, a coxswain, eight oarsmen, the officer of marines, a squad of eight rifles, Gottlieb, and me. That made a complement of twenty-one, which required a launch, and a lieutenant to command it. But Eleanor was still short of lieutenants, and the ones she had were all on duty. So Gottlieb asked for Mr. Hoyer. He’d performed handsome the night before, never lost or unsure, and referring often to his compass to stay the course. But Mr. Hoyer was on the watch bill that night, and unavailable.

  In the great cabin Gottlieb and I prepared for the mission.

  “Your eyes . . . they are dark brown, almost black. And they shine, as all young eyes shine. It is good they do not brighten the night, for there is nothing we could do about that. But your hair . . . the sun has bleached it so that it also shines in the night. And it has grown since Portsmouth. Almost long enough for a queue.”

  “Aye, sir. I want a long queue . . . like Ajax.”

  “I am sure you will have it. But for now we must cut your hair short, and add coal grease to keep it from shining.”

  He found scissors and began cutting away while he spoke. “And, although the Mediterranean has turned your skin deep copper, it still reflects starlight light off your br
ow.”

  He finished cutting my hair and added the coal grease, then went on to my brows, looking me in the eye as he worked.

  “The scar over your right eye. It is deep. I have meant to ask before, how did you get it?”

  “My oldest brother, sir. He threw a shoe at me.”

  “A shoe did that?”

  “A horseshoe, sir.”

  “A horseshoe! How long ago was that?”

  “Three years, sir. On April third.”

  “You remember the exact date?”

  “It was my birthday, sir. I was nine.”

  “So you have had another birthday recently.”

  “Aye, sir. Just before coming onboard Eleanor.”

  “Why would your brother throw a horseshoe at you on your birthday?”

  “He was upset, sir. Everyone was paying special attention to me, and not him. He said he didn’t mean to hit me though, just come close, to get the attention for himself.”

  “It must have hurt.

  “It knocked me cold, sir. Then when I came to it hurt most awful. But I didn’t cry.”

  “No? I certainly would have.”

  “Well, I did cry a bit, sir. But not overmuch.”

  “Is it still painful?”

  “Only when I press on it, sir.”

  “Then I shall press lightly while I work on your brow.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Last night, when we went ashore, you said you were not counting strokes, yet you knew how many strokes the rowers had pulled.”

  “That’s right, sir. I didn’t need to count them. I just knew.”

  “How did you know without counting?”

  “The numbers, sir, they just tumble out.”

  He rubbed burnt cork on my forehead.

  “What do you mean tumble out?”

  “I only told mum about the tumbling out, sir. And I started telling it to Reggie, but then he . . .”

  “Yes, I know. It is difficult for you to speak of Reggie. Still, I would like to know what you mean by ‘tumble out.’”

  “Me mum taught me numbers, sir. For when I helped at the spinning. Counting the skeins and such. And for when I helped at her loom.”

  “Go on.”

  “Mum saw I had a way with numbers. And she wondered how I might have them so young. I was just seven then, sir. That’s when I first told her about the tumbling out. And about . . . them.”

  “Them?”

  “The acrobats, sir.”

  “Acrobats?”

  “Aye, sir. At Newbury Fair.”

  “Let me see your hands now. Hands shine in the night. They are readily identified as hands . . . and give you away. But a layer of burnt cork disguises their shape.”

  I held out my hands and as he worked on them he asked about the acrobats.

  “There was a troop of them that came to Newbury Fair, sir, to play on the greensward. They only came one year, though, and they camped next to mum’s booth. She had her booth there to sell her goods, and I’d help her spin. She knew I liked the acrobats and let me go watch them practice.”

  “What kind of acrobats, young Harriet?”

  “Jugglers and mimes, sir. They played skits made special on the spot. What I liked best was when they all went leaping about, all twisting and bending and then coming to a stop all at once, and each in the shape of a numeral, sir, and all in a perfect row. They never played it, though. They only had six times to pass the hat and weren’t so sure acrobats playing and pretending at numbers would bring any money.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The crowd, sir. Most of them didn’t have their numbers. They’d not like acrobats playing numerals overmuch and just heckle some and then give no money when the hat was passed.”

  Gottlieb finished working on my hands and went to his cabinet to pull out a dark hooded robe.

  “But you liked it though?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it was the troop. They were a family. Each one played a numeral, like a family of numbers. And they all became the number they played, like each number was a real person. So it seemed. Or maybe I only hoped as much.”

  “Why would you hope that?”

  “I can’t think why I hoped that. I just seemed a natural thing, for them to become their numerals.”

  “And you say they rehearsed as a family?”

  “Aye, sir. Their father, he was the fat one. And most round. And he always played Zero and wore white and his only trick was to open his mouth wide-round like he was saying ‘Oh.’ And the others were skinny and all limber and they dressed motley, with their patch work diamond shaped and red and green, and blue.”

  “What numbers did they play?”

  “All of them, sir. First there was One. He was smallest. Just a little boy, and he played One very well, standing stiff and still. Over shy and most humble. And Two, she was One’s sister. And her hand, the left I think, there was something wrong of it. It was all curled under like a bird’s claw, and she couldn’t do her cartwheels so good. I liked her. She was friendly. Once I shared lunch with her—a slice of mutton and a pot of mint jam. Her name was Cana. When they made their practice she always made the shape of Two. And always wished to be near One, to protect him from Three.”

  “Protect him?”

  “Aye, sir. From Three. He was their cousin, I think. He had a grudge and was always bullyragging One whenever he came near. But Four, he was Three’s brother, and a bit of a threat to Three, being larger and all. A good fellow none-the-less, always chasing off Three if he came too near One. And Five, he was the malcontent, and wanted nothing to do with the others. He mostly stood off by himself. And Six, he was Five’s brother, and most petulant. He was envious of Seven and wanted only to be near Seven, for a bit of Seven to rub off on him. But Seven just ignored Six, which made Six hopping mad. Seven was the mysterious one, an aunt, I think, and she kept a secret with Five. She shared secret looks with Five.”

  “What was their secret?”

  “I think it had something to do with Eight. Eight was the brother of One and Two. And Five and Seven didn’t much like Eight. Five didn’t like him because he didn’t like anything, most of all himself. And Seven didn’t like Eight because she was of lesser magnitude. I suppose Eight made her feel inferior.”

  “This is all very strange, don’t you think?”

  “Aye, sir, I do think. I knew numerals weren’t really that way—or only that way for me. So mostly I keep it to myself.”

  “You thought of this all on your own?”

  “No, sir. It was the acrobats who made me think it, sir. I mean the way they rehearsed on the greensward.”

  “I see. Well, not really. But go on. What of Eight?”

  “Well, Eight was near perfect, if a number can be perfect. And most gracious about it. A most caring individual.”

  “Is that possible, young Harriet, for a number to be gracious? Or a caring individual?”

  “Aye, sir. Except Nine.”

  “Yes, of course. I should have known. What about Nine, then.”

  “Nine was the eldest, sir. Another aunt, I think, but older. Goddess above all others. And unapproachable . . . except through Eight, who seemed to have an understanding with Nine.”

  “All these relationships, young Harriet . . . like a secret, private world. What do you think these acrobats were trying to do?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I just loved to watch them because . . . because the rows of numerals seemed to make sense. Like the answer to a question.”

  “What question?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It was always just the answer, but never the question.”

  “An answer with no question. How unusual.”

  “Not really, sir. It seems there’s always answers that don’t have questions.”

  “Yes. Perhaps you are right.” He handed me the robe and a short rope to cinch it. “This cloak is split up the middle, better to ride a h
orse. Try it on.”

  I did.

  “Good. I feared it would be too long. But I see it is not. Keep it on. We shall leave shortly, I hope.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “So tell me. These acrobats, it seems they taught you your numbers, after a fashion. Did they teach you sums as well?”

  “No, sir. Just relationships. It was mum who taught me sums, to keep track of warp and weft. But then, I don’t know when or just how, but at some point when I did sums, well the numbers, sir, I’d see them play in my head, and all fall in place and then stop, and then I’d know that was the answer. And now numbers tumble out free as they please, like the acrobats on the greensward.”

  “A mysterious gift. No wonder Mr. Lau takes an interest in your advancement.” He stepped back and surveyed me. “There, you begin to blend with the night.”

  “Aye, sir. Better than last night?”

  “Yes. And last night, young Harriet, while we waited in the cypress, you were not thinking of numbers. Not then.”

  “No, sir, not then.”

  “Still, I sensed something. A certain presence. Was it the Sukiyama?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You said once the Sukiyama warned you of danger. Did you sense danger?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It was night and I’d not done that sort of thing ever before. I’m not sure there was a danger, sir, but certain I was afraid.”

  “A natural reaction. Most would know fear at that moment.”

  “Aye, sir. And that fellow we met? ”

  “The agent.”

  “Aye, sir. He looked afraid, too.”

  “He was.”

  “Of what, sir.”

  “Of the owners of Otra Nova. They are unpredictable. He fears me, as well.”

  “Because you are unpredictable, too, sir?”

  “No . . . he fears me because I am predictable.”

  “Do you mean to sell his wife and child, sir?”

  “Only if he fails me.”

  We sat in silence for a moment longer.

  “We are done here. I will pray now. Go.”