Coming of Age

by Lee Henschel

  I left and strung my hammock and tried for sleep. But sleep did not come. I swung on the roll as Eleanor rode the swells and listened to her creaks and groans, punctuated by the bells in the morning watch. Soon we would leave for Nagua . . . and Otra Nova.

  Not so long ago I had laid in my own bed shared with my brother Albert, and I was safe. Safe, if not at peace, for mum had died just two years before and still I cried most every night. Mum dying seemed only the night before, a mere tick in time. Now, as I swung in my hammock, I’d been at sea for several months. On HMS Eleanor. Serving the King. Serving my uncle. So much had happened. I’d only begun to fathom the sea. And just barely, for the sea is the living chimera, her moods ever reshaping, replacing days and weeks of tranquil deception with a sweep of chaos and ruin.

  I’d learned the names of many men, assigning them to the hard, weathered faces of the Eleanors. My stoic uncle, the distant and aloof Captain James Cedric. Mr. Lau, a man who saw in me something of himself. Ajax. Reggie. Tate. Gottlieb. The reeking Coutts. The brutal dandy, Pogue. The whisper of Sukiyma.

  Fifty years have passed since that night as I lay counting ship’s bells waiting for the Otra Nova mission to begin. And the thoughts I pen were the thoughts of a child. They lie on the surface. Mere reflections. If these words sound not like those of a child it’s because I’ve written them through the prism of time, ripened by experience.

  I was a precocious child. A curious child—instinctive and shrewd. Even so, I saw only what was happening around me. I possessed scant knowledge of the world, with events still devoid of meaning. As the Chinese say, even the longest journey begins with the first step, and I am most grateful for that. As a child I knew nothing of how long the journey would last, and my inexperience served me well, as warrant against my tender age.

  Part Two: Otra Nova

  Chapter Sixteen

  Two bells in the middle watch and the spar deck was most busy. Ajax ordered the launch into the water. The bowmen loaded first, followed by six rowers—two to a bench, port and starboard. Eight marines came next to fill between the rowers, then Kyle, Gottlieb, and me. I sat between them in the stern. Gottlieb brought his scimitar, Cara, still unsheathed, wrapped in burlap with only its bejeweled hilt showing. Kyle took notice, and made a remark.

  “That’s a ceremonial weapon, Gottlieb.”

  “It is, sir.”

  “Forged from quality steel no doubt, but an awkward piece for an operation of this nature. Why do you bring it?”

  “I intend to use it, sir, in ceremony.”

  Kyle narrowed his eyes, but said no more. And we sat and waited long, and then overlong, until Ajax boomed out.

  “Mr. Pogue!”

  An oarsman groaned. “God help us if he’s our coxswain.”

  As Kyle had predicted, even best plans tend to unravel. I trembled, thinking of Pogue’s gunny sack. Finally Ajax lost all forbearance and roared away.

  “Don’t you make me wait on you, Mr. Pogue!”

  A distant response, the clatter of hard-soled shoes on the spar deck and yellow suede pumps appearing on the tumblehome.

  “Right you are, then. Just making sure me ’at’s on good.”

  “You’re late, Midshipman. And your foolish hat makes you look as a fop, and makes you out of uniform.” Ajax knocked Pogue’s hat flying into the water, its white ostrich feather trailing after it as it floated away. “Now take your station and assume your duties.”

  We unhooked, and shoved off. The first four hundred strokes went well enough, until Pogue declared he saw only one lantern burning at Nagua, whereas there should have been two. Where was the second light?

  He referred to his compass, then shrugged. “No matter. Oy’m still on course, east-by-east. Now bloody well put your backs into it you idle slugs, or you’ll all go on report. And the cabin boy ‘ere, ’ee knows ‘oy’m just the one to do it.” He leaned down and spoke in my ear. “Ain’t that right, cabin boy?”

  Kyle turned to me then. “Tend to your duties, coxswain or I shall knock you alongside the head.”

  Me? I had no duties, and surely I was no coxswain, and was about to ask Kyle what he meant, but then realized he was actually addressing Pogue while looking at me. It was his floating eye playing tricks again. Most confusing, and I meant to say as much, but thought better of it. It wasn’t his fault his eye made willy-nilly.

  At five hundred strokes the rowers began to show fatigue. And after seven hundred our pace slackened considerable. That’s when Gottlieb noticed blood dripping from the rowers’ hands. All sailors have calluses on hands and feet both, hard as stone and layered callus over callus. It takes overmuch to split them open and make them bleed, such as rowing for an extended time.

  “Mr. Pogue, how many strokes do you expect these men to pull before resting them?”

  “All of them, sir.”

  “Mr. Hoyer began rationing their relief shortly after four strokes.”

  “Well ’oy ain’t ’oyer. And besides, ‘ooze countin’?”

  Without thinking I spoke up. “Seven hundred forty-one strokes, sir.”

  “You shut your mouth, boy.”

  “Give the men relief, Mr. Pogue, or it will be me who knocks you about before Lieutenant Kyle gets his chance.”

  “Right you are then. Ship oars. All!”

  Each rower brought his oar inboard and the launch lost way. The ebb tide caught us, and we drifted off course, the lone lantern at Nagua falling far off to starboard.

  “Bloody fool,” Kyle mumbled, “he’s bound to catch us up in that salt marsh.”

  “Not likely, sir.” Pogue referred to his compass once again. “Me bearing’s still east-by-east, just as instructed.”

  Kyle snatched the compass from Pogue. He took out his signaling mirror and reflected star light onto the compass face.

  “Just as I thought, you incompetent ass! You’ve neglected to release the needle lock. We’re more north than east and way off course.”

  Pogue reclaimed his compass and looked at it. “Oh! Right you are, sir. No matter. ’Oy’ll adjust.”

  He spat overboard, then ordered all oars back in the water. During their relief the rowers had wrapped their bloody hands in rags torn from their shirts. All were ready now, if not eager, to resume their duties. But not so able as before, they’d been thrown off their rhythm when Pogue gave them relief all at once. That was not customary, and sailors are creatures of habit. And their relief had been long in coming, and too short. They were in a weakened condition and to make landfall anywhere near Nagua was the best they could do at this point. Pogue spat once more and began calling cadence. The men pulled methodical if reluctant, rowing on silent, only the water slipping quiet along the strakes.

  After another thousand strokes the shore line took shape and we all smelled it simultaneous—the salt marsh and its miasma of fetid odors. Stagnant water, the stench of rotting vegetation and rotting fish. Kyle had been correct, we were way off course. Soon our oars caught in the dense cord grass. The bowmen went overboard to work us in. But the water was still over their heads and, like most sailors, they couldn’t swim, and started to go under. Their mates had to haul them back in. By then we’d run aground, hung up on a floating bog, and could go no farther. But the water was not so deep here. Kyle appraised the situation and made his decision.

  “Your ineptitude has run us afoul, Pogue, and has left little time to get into position at Otra Nova. So we’ll disembark here and work our way onto dry land, then force march around Nagua. ”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “You will extract yourself from this place as best you can and make for the beach on the other side of Nagua. That’s where we were supposed to land in the first place. Wait for us there. Do you understand, Midshipman?”

  “Aye, sir. Right you are.”

  One-by-one the marines went over the side, taking care to keep their muskets high and their powder charges dry. They were doing well of it, until one of them dropped into a sink hole and disapp
eared, still holding his Brown Bess, its bayonet stabbing up through the black water. His mates tried to bring him back to the surface, tugging by twos and threes on his musket, until an odious belch rose from the water, breaking on the surface with a most unsettling gurgle. The musket broke free. The men fell back, having nothing to show for their efforts but soaked charges.

  Gottlieb and I watched from the launch, staring at the black pool where the marine had gone under.

  “That were Knox,” a rower said low.

  “God rest his soul,” said another.

  “Aye. He owed me sips,” said one more.

  Kyle took command. “Tie a marker here and we’ll come back for him later, if we can. Let’s move out. Double quick. Stay together.”

  Gottlieb went into the water then and sank to his chin.

  I made to follow, but froze. “Gottlieb, I’m scared.”

  “Of course you are, young Harriet. If truth be told so we all are.”

  “It’s over my head and I can’t swim.”

  “You must rely on Sukiyama.”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Then I’ll carry you until you can walk ashore.”

  “But you might go under just like the marine and then I’ll become drowned.”

  “Well now ain’t this precious?” It was Pogue. “Afraid, is ’ee?”

  Gottlieb offered his hand. “Come along. I remind you that you’re the only one I can trust to manage the horses.”

  “Why don’t you let the little bugger stay ’ere with me? Oy’ll take care of ’im special.” Pogue pinched my backside.

  “No! I’ll go!”

  And I went.

  We fell in with the marines. Kyle placed us in the middle, just behind his corporal, Pillow, and Gottlieb made sure to follow in Corporal Pillow’s every foot step, so as not to fall into another sink hole.

  After an hour of wading and crawling through the salt marsh we gained higher ground, and the first village dog started barking. Kyle signaled everyone to go to ground, and we waited until the dog went quiet. Soon word came down the line for Pillow to come forward, and to bring Gottlieb and me with him.

  “Got your blood up, Corporal?”

  Pillow grinned, tapping the hilt of his knife.

  “Good. That dog nearly gave us away and it’s bound to start up again next time the squad moves. So I’m sending you on ahead.” “Yes, sir.”

  “But you must not set off that dog again. Backtrack to get clear of him. Go back slow and careful to that last clearing, then make a wide sweep around Nagua and head for the main gate at Otra Nova. Once in place you will dispatch any messenger the village might send to warn them. Gottlieb says the village is loyal to the estate, and would alert them to any unusual activity. You will take Gottlieb and the lad with you. They’ve been here before, and they know the layout. I’ll hold here for half an hour, then follow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pillow backtracked, then took us inland through a palm grove. After five hundred sixteen paces we turned east and soon came to a road.

  Gottlieb whispered. “This leads to Otra Nova. The main gate lies to the south, to our right.”

  “How far?”

  “A hundred yards. No more.”

  Pillow nodded, then crept forward to investigate on his own. He rejoined us shortly.

  “No sentry. The gates is closed, but they ain’t locked, and there’s good cover on both sides of it. You and the boy hide on one side and I’ll be on the other. Don’t talk none, and no shiftin’ about. If someone come along and tries to enter, you stay put. Don’t do nothin’.”

  “What will you do, sir?”

  “Wait ’n see, boy.”

  We didn’t wait long before a dog howled once more. Still faint, and this time quickly joined by others—likely the squad was moving. Shortly thereafter footsteps came racing up the road from the village. I sank deep into cover, watching as a grey form resolved in the dark, a lone figure of a man making steadfast for the main gate. When he reached out for the latch Pillow moved in behind, silent and quick. He drew his knife and in one sweep drove the blade clear through the throat from one side and slicing out the front to sever windpipe and voice box. Gouts of blood spilled on the road. Pillow held the figure upright as it quaked. Then the figure came most still. Pillow set the body down slow, lying it on the road quiet and reverential. He bent over it. I thought he meant to rob. Instead, he removed the man’s kerchief to wipe his blade. When he was finished, and his blade gleamed in the star light, he folded the kerchief neat before putting it back where he found it. He looked our way then, and we joined him standing over the body, looking down at its ashen face.

  “Ohhh!” I gasped. “Isn’t that . . .”

  “Speak up, boy! You know this one? Who is he?”

  Gottlieb spoke instead. “Galo Hojjat.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “My agent.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Corporal Pillow dragged the man into the brush and we went to cover again, waiting for Kyle to arrive with the squad of marines. When they appeared Pillow met them at the gate. Kyle listened, then called for Gottlieb, and I followed.

  “This man was your agent?”

  “Yes.”

  “An agent, perhaps, but apparently not yours. He was coming from the village, very likely to give warning.”

  “We must think that. And it is our good fortune he was intercepted.”

  “Fortune has nothing to do with it, sir. I gave an order and my corporal carried it out.” Kyle turned to Pillow. “Bury him.”

  “Do we have time for this?”

  “It will behoove us if this man’s body isn’t found right away. And I believe we’ve just bought some time, so we must pause for a moment to reconsider our plans.”

  “Agreed. And it may be that we can use this unforeseen event to our advantage.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Let us assume my agent told the two brothers everything he knew.”

  “Yes. I expect he did.”

  “But he knew very little. I told him only what he needed to know.”

  “Such as?”

  “That someone planned to steal Banji Hajir’s horses, that he must silence the dog and have the horses ready for tonight. And what would happen if he did not comply.”

  “Go on.”

  “I never said Banji Hajir is my cousin. I did not tell him about you or your marines, or how I would conduct this operation. So, you see, they do not know their enemy. Not its motives or its strength, only that someone plans to steal their horses tonight.”

  “Then you believe they will guard the stable tonight, and not be at the house?”

  “Yes. I suspect as much.”

  “Maybe. But to suspect it is not enough. So I suggest we draw them out.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Something simple. The main house, what’s it made of?”

  “Wood.”

  “Then I shall burn it. If the two brothers are inside they’ll come out and we’ll take them.”

  “But these two will not come out. They will fight. And die inside, if they must.”

  “So much the better. We’re low on powder. You must be, too.”

  “I only have one dry charge, the one in my pistol. What if the owners are with the horses, instead?”

  “In that case we’ve created a diversion with the fire. I’ll place my men along the road to shoot the owners from ambush if they come to investigate the fire. Either way, you’ll have the horses to yourself.”

  “When the village sees the glow of a huge fire coming from Otra Nova they will come.”

  “Of course. I doubt they’ll be armed though. My men can hold them with half charges only, to conserve powder. And they will not load shot.”

  “No shot?”

  “It’s unwise to fire live rounds into a mob if you can’t contain them in due course.”

  “You are right.”

 
“I’d prefer to leave half my men at the gate, but I need at least five with me to fire the house and set a workable ambush.”

  “I wish to take these two alive. That has been my plan all along.”

  “Musketry is an inaccurate endeavor . . . even with my marines. And at night, in a running fight? A killing shot would be lucky.”

  The road leading to the main house wound through the low hills for a quarter mile and just as we rounded the last curve the old watch dog started barking. Hesitant at first, but when it sensed our intent it redoubled full and loud. The marines took cover.

  “Hojjat failed to silence the thing. Now it is too late.”

  “At this point, Gottlieb, it doesn’t matter if that dog barks.”

  Someone called from the house. The dog went quiet, and a lantern lighted in the front room. The marines broke cover, some to surround the house, some running with Corporal Pillow to secure the road coming up from the stable.

  “I think that is the gardener who called out,” Gottlieb whispered. “He and the housekeeper live in there. We must give them a chance to come out.”

  Kyle nodded, then yelled toward the house in Spanish.

  “¡Ciudadanos! ¡Salga! ¡Ahora!”

  In a moment the front door creaked wide and an elderly couple inched out. Tiny creatures made smaller yet in their trembling horror. The marines rushed the old man and woman and escorted them to Kyle.

  I felt most bad for them. They were so frightened, so reduced in their misery.

  Kyle felt as much, I think, and bowed to them, addressing them in Spanish. They shrunk even more though, and wept bitter, collapsing into each other as he spoke. When he finished he turned to his men.

  “I’ve just told them the house is to be burned but they will remain unharmed as long as they don’t resist. Bind and gag them, but not rough. Take them away. Tie them to a tree where they’re certain to be found.”

  The marines complied, then charged the house. They wasted no time. I smelled lamp oil and heard it sloshing along the floors. They touched it off and soon flames shot from every window, lighting the night sky, unleashing shadows that leapt near alive and possessed as spirits. Sparks and cinders rose high and the house groaned in agony.