by Lee Henschel
“Captain Oignon captured a British frigate last year. Hindostan. He preferred Hindostan’s armaments to ours so he transferred them all before sinking her.”
“Know you this, Nélaton. Hindostan was reported lost at sea. It was assumed she foundered in a storm and went down with all hands.”
“It was unfortunate for them, sir, to have met Captain Oignon.”
“Perhaps I will send you back to Marat, after all.”
Nélaton suspected the offer and furrowed his plucked brows.
“Return you to Marat and then sink her—same as you sank Hindostan and Defiant.”
“That was Captain Oignon, sir. God will judge him.”
“And judge him harshly, no doubt. It will go as badly for you as well, Nélaton. You have disregarded the rules of engagement. You were second in command on a ship of war that flew a false flag . . . or no flag at all. You sank defenseless vessels. You have conducted yourself dishonourably and for that you will be court marshaled. And know you this, Lieutenant Nélaton, I will testify at your trial and will argue for you to be hung.”
The captain motioned for Marley to take Nélaton away once more, then turned back to me.
“Do you have anything more, Harriet?”
All this time I’d been watching the prisoner and still could not be sure he was Qena.
“I can’t say one way or the other, sir.”
“Very well. Go you now.”
Dismasted, disarmed, and with no commander—Marat would dog us no longer. We got underway and at the noon sighting Mr. Lau estimated we were four hundred miles from Amunia.
We drove on. Qena sat bound hand and foot in the chain locker among Eleanor’s rats. He refused food and water. When questioned he remained silent. Marley threatened to smash him if he didn’t answer. And Marley was eager to make good his threat, not for any answers, but because he liked smashing men bound in chains.
My eye felt better and began to heal. It still hurt dreadful in the bright sun though, and I was grateful my duties still remained with Haditha and her foal. I sat by her under the shade of her stall and tried to rest—if not to sleep—for I’d learned the way of it since Otra Nova. Don’t stand if you can sit, don’t sit if you can lie down, don’t lie awake if you can sleep, eat when there’s food.
I watched Haditha’s foal. A male, and like all young things he wished to run and play. He jumped about in the waist, but the makeshift stable was small. It confined the little fellow, and with no place to run he became frustrated, taking it out on his mother when he bunted her over hard to start her milk. We must make landfall soon, I thought, or he’ll not be a natural horse. I went to find Mr. Lau and ask once again how long that might be. But he was preoccupied with the artifact and gave no answer. Instead, he drew me into his observations.
“There you are, lad. I’ve made great strides with this thing and now I need you to assist.”
“But Haditha, sir, she’s losing patience. And her foal is cooped up. And my eye, sir, even in the shade the sun hurts it.”
“Steady on, lad. I must know more of what Gottlieb told you. So come you now to my quarters. It’s none too bright there and you can rest your eye. I’ve not eaten today and doubt you have, either. I’ll send word for Lorca to provide us.”
As always Mr. Lau’s cabin overflowed, stacked to the beams with charts and ledgers and navigation. He lighted his lantern. True to his word it was none too bright, and my eye calmed. The ship’s cat, George, came to visit, then curled for a nap on the deck. Mr. Lau arranged one of the rubbings lifted from the artifact and together we hunched over his small desk.
“Gottlieb said the artifact in his trunk must be returned to the desert, sir.”
“Why be that?”
“I don’t know, sir. He never told before he became shot.”
“I’m not sure yet if we’ll return it, lad.”
“Why not, sir?”
“This artifact speaks of the past. But also the future . . . yet it provides no empirical evidence about when or why it might happen. Besides, it’s a devilish thing to know the future . . . be it good or bad.”
“Future of what, sir?”
“In this case . . . the Holy Land. This artifact predicts that someday the desert will undergo a grand shift. It predicts that for many years an unrelenting wind will smother the Holy Land with a dune three miles high. The dune will fill in the Red Sea. It will cover all with a single drift stretching from Damascus to Mocha.”
“Could that ever happen, sir?”
“Some claim there are sea shells in the Sinai . . . fossils from a distant past. So who’s to say what a distant future might hold. Even so . . .”
Just then George jumped up. He smelled food and went for the door. Someone knocked. I expected Lorca, but it was Cookie, holding a plate.
Mr. Lau stared at it. “What be that?”
“Filloas. Lorca cooked it.”
“Well, I won’t eat it.”
“I will! What’s in it?”
“Flour from ship’s stores, eggs from Mr. Lau’s hen, and milk from the new goat. And I just slaughtered the midshipmen’s shoat so Lorca stirred in pig’s blood, too.”
“Good God!”
Cookie shrugged, then reached in his apron for a scrap of foolscap. “Here, last night Lorca drew this for the boy.”
It was a pencil drawing of me standing with Opp at the fife rail. Simple and plain. The drawing made me pause. I’d not had much time to think about Opp . . . to think he was dead now, and how he was killed. One second alive and the next lying dead on the gun deck with his heart shot through. It brought back Reggie, and Tate. It could have been me who was dead now. I looked at the drawing once more, then tucked it away.
“Thank him, will you? It’s most generous.”
Cookie left. I ate the filloas. Mr. Lau massaged his wen, and went on with his explanation.
“Even so . . . I don’t know if we should return it to the desert.”
“Because it predicts bad, sir?”
“Not just that. And not because it’s irrational, either. It’s because—even if it’s possible—I simply don’t believe what the artifact predicts will follow after that dune expunges the Holy Land.”
“What follows after, sir?”
“Eden. From the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean the wind will sweep away all . . . to reveal a fertile plain that lies beneath. Vast and abundant. Verdant and welcoming.”
“It sounds most good, sir. When will that be?”
“I doubt it will ever be. But according to the artifact some larger piece is soon to be unearthed in Egypt . . . it will announce when this great event will happen.” He knit his brows. “Did Gottlieb mention as much? Did he speak of some larger portion of artifact yet to be discovered?”
“Sorry, sir. I forgot that part, but he did say so. And the thing in his sea trunk, sir, the artifact . . . that’s what broke away from the bigger piece. It’s most necessary to have both pieces together if you ever want to understand.”
Mr. Lau made to reply, but Hudson came for me.
“The Captain wants you in the great cabin.”
When I arrived, he ordered me to resume my duties as his cabin boy, and to begin instantly. I only wished to rest my eye, and to sleep in my own hammock. I knew better than to complain though, and recalled what Ajax said on my first day aboard Eleanor. “You will sleep in your own hammock. But not often, and not for long.”
That night Lieutenant Towerlight died. He bled out. Mr. Starling believed he might have saved Towerlight if he’d not resumed his duties on the gun deck. Wat took a stitch through his nose to make sure he was dead permanent, then sewed him in a hammock and set him alongside Opp — to await burial at sea. More Maccabees, more splashes.
Hudson didn’t like it overmuch that he must now share duties attending Haditha and her foal. He told me once he’d run from home to escape the stench and squalor of a farm. So he said. But I suspect his people might have looked the other way when he ran—one l
ess mouth to feed. I explained to him horses don’t stink—not like a sty or a milk house, and that horses have a good smell—they smell of trust. Hudson still had his doubts, and complained sullen of fleeing one stock pen just to end in another. I sat with Hudson on his first watch with Haditha—just to keep him company and smell of Haditha and her foal, who smelled not of trust, but of Haditha’s milk. At nautical twilight we covered the stall with sail canvas. A sea change was in the making. The wind blew moderate yet, but it had shifted and came north now, bringing heavy clouds and lightning still far to port. We watched the storm darken the sky, and Mr. Lau sent word for me to join him in his quarters. There would be no celestial navigation this night.
Even before I reached his cabin Eleanor started to roll and pitch in the coming storm. I thought of Haditha and her foal, and hoped Hudson would stand a proper watch for them.
Mr. Lau bid me enter and I stood in wait as he examined his log entry one last time. Satisfied, he shot his dentures, then turned to me.
“Tonight our navigation lesson will be curtailed. There is much cloud cover, so we shall not attempt any stellar observations. Instead we will determine our position through dead reckoning.”
“Aye, sir.”
“State our position and course as logged at noon line today.”
“Thirty-three degrees and four minutes north, sir, by twenty-three degrees and fifty-seven minutes east. Bearing east by south. About twenty-five miles off the coast of Africa.”
“And at that time where was closest point of land?”
“Tubruq, sir.”
“Correct. Now then, an hour ago the leadsman entered in his log that Eleanor has averaged eight knots in every hour since noon line today. We have tacked seven times in that period but have not altered course substantially. Given all that you know and all that I’ve given you, how far are we from Amunia now, and when shall we arrive there?”
“We’re approximately three hundred miles from Amunia, sir. We should make land fall there in about thirty hours.”
“Excellent, Harriet. You derived that calculation in less time than any of my midshipmen. Nearly as fast as me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now we must go on to your letters. So far you’ve used pencil and foolscap to make your letters. Those tools will suffice, most often. However, genuine literacy demands genuine quality . . . and for that you must write with a quill. And on vellum.”
“Vellum’s most expensive, sir.”
“It is. But foolscap is hard and rough. It wears down a quill, whereas vellum is smooth and durable. Of more importance, a quill marks a fine and clean line on vellum, and vellum lasts much longer.”
Eleanor quaked as she took the first sea broadside, but the trough was shallow and she rolled and pitched not overmuch. The storm came on steady though, and brought heavy rain pounding on the spar deck and gorging the water butts to gushing. But the lightning stayed distant, its thunder barely heard below decks. Mr. Lau listened to the storm as it passed over, no doubt hearing something unknowable to anyone but a sailing master. He nodded to no one, then opened a desk drawer, and within lay an assortment of quills.
“These quills are new, purchased from a stationer in Portsmouth. Take you one.”
I did.
“Strip away the barbs with your thumb and forefinger. Pull down . . . against the grain.”
When I finished he gave me a knife
“A quill knife. Use it to dress the quill. Mind you though, the blade very sharp. Place the quill firmly on my desk and cut the shaft a quarter inch above the tip. You must be sure of the angle. It must dissect the calamus at a forty-five degree angle.”
“Calamus, sir?”
“The spine running through the feather. It’s hollow and draws the ink with capillary action . . . like a paper tube for sucking up water. Take the quill now and cut it. Be sure of your angle. That is important.”
I paused, waiting for the next sea to lift Eleanor. On the quarterdeck I heard Lieutenant Lockhart call for top men to go aloft and for sheet men to stand by. I took the knife and cut the quill most careful while Mr. Lau spread a sheet of vellum flat on his desk, then settled an ink pot in its well.
“Dip the quill. Take heed now . . . just the tip.”
I dipped, watching the black ink rise in the shaft.
“May I write my name, sir?”
“No. Vellum is too dear for practice, and my supply is modest. I want you to observe, that’s all. But you may replenish the ink as I write.”
“What will you write, sir?”
“Captain Cedric requests and requires me to write out particular documents. Two of them. The first one is official . . . a report concerning information provided by Lieutenant Nélaton. The captain will enter that document into ship’s log. The second one is unofficial . . . not to be recorded. It is a confession.”
“Whose, sir?
“The man Corporal Pillow may have shot on Minorca—the man you think might be Qena.”
“I’m not so sure he is, sir. But whoever he is sir, he didn’t confess.”
“No, he has not . . . not yet.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The storm passed with only minor damage. The crossjack split, a backstay parted, a shattered block and a topman with a sprained wrist. Nothing to delay Eleanor as she drove on for Amunia. I spent half the night watching Mr. Lau, following his quill as he worked methodic . . . until he crossed and dotted his last letters and sanded his last sheet of vellum. It was past six bells in the middle watch when I finally returned to my nook outside the great cabin. I looked for my hammock, then remembered I’d given it up for Yadra’s burial shroud. It didn’t matter though . . . I was most tired, and lay down on the deck. The marine sentry stood guard not four feet away. He farted often and overloud . . . not caring if I heard it, or smelled it. The fug made for a fitful repose and I slept little. Lorca’s drawing swam in mind. I didn’t know why . . . only that I must see the drawing once more, or I would remain awake until first light. I got up and brought the sketch to the marine’s lantern. He said nothing, only shifted his quid and spit in his cuspidor. His lantern burned dim—barely enough light to study the drawing. Me and Opp standing at the fife rail. Most simple, and haunting. It made me think of Reggie, and of Tate. Poor Tate. Not even a first name. No more than a phantom in Coutts’s false register. And came now a thing I’d forgotten—a thing Gottlieb said of Tate just before he was shot at the Artesian Gate. The box!
I stirred, making forward on the gun deck beyond the galley through the officers’ mess and onto the gangway then down below the waterline, not stopping until I gained the orlop. I lighted a storm lantern and hung it from a carlin. Its dim light cast long shadows—shapes looming large and then shrinking away. There were no duty stations here. The deck was deserted. Not silent though. Eleanor was most restive, shifting and groaning, booming along on a big sea only three feet from my ear.
I’d not been on the orlop since overhearing Coutts and Pogue, and I was most thankful of that. Tate’s box was just where I’d last seen it . . . hidden behind the bales of oakum. I reached down for it. My hand trembled and I thought to leave the thing in peace, so as to respect Tate’s only possession. I stepped away, then saw a curious thing. The box was no longer secured by Tate’s hitch but by another knot I’d not seen before. I picked up the box and tipped it careful. Something shifted inside. The box felt a bit heavier than I recalled. I tucked the box under my arm and made smart for the gun deck, and Mr. Lau’s quarters.
Mr. Lau’s door stood open, his cabin dark within. I heard him snore. He slept light though, and woke with my fist knock.
“Who be that?”
“Harriet, sir.”
“Wait you.”
I heard him fumble for a flint. Soon lantern light filled the cabin and he bid me enter.
He sat unsteady on the edge of his cot, rubbing his rheumy eyes. He sighed. “What do you want, lad?”
“Sir, I’ve just found a thing y
ou must see.”
I polished his thick glasses for him. He put them on and I offered Tate’s tin box.
“What is this, lad?”
“A tin box, sir. It belonged to Tate, the stowaway. I found it on the orlop, sir. Just now. There’s something inside, sir.”
“You have no duties on the orlop. Why were you there?”
“I remembered what Gottlieb told me before he became shot. Something about Tate . . . but I forgot until now, and I went to find it. This knot, sir, I don’t think Tate knew how to make it. ”
Mr. Lau tapped on the lid. “That is an Arab knot used for weaving. Some sailors tie it for macramé, to pass the time. I’ve not seen any aboard Eleanor tie it though—they all carve scrimshaw. It was no sailor aboard Eleanor tied this. Bring the glim close and untie the thing.”
A slip of foolscap lay inside. Mr. Lau took it out. I brought the lantern closer . . . to reveal a note. Mr. Lau cleared his throat and read it out loud.
Young Harriet:
Surely the sailing master is reading this to you so I will speak of him first. I believe you can trust Mr. Lau. He sees you are a curious lad. He is generous and kind, and he wishes to develop your gift with numbers (as much for himself as for you, I suspect). But even Mr. Lau fails to realize the true nature of your gift. He is unaware of your powerful connection with the realm of imagination.
Mr Lau paused and squinted at me, massaging his wen. He made no comment, though, and after a moment he went on.
I saw the glimmer of that bond on the very first night I came aboard Eleanor. I saw something in you that no one else sees. Even you fail to see it, or are unclear about what it really is. That glimmer I saw in you began to resolve when you told me of the players at Newbury Fair. And then, when you spoke in your sleep while recovering from the horrible incident with Santa Isadora, that is when I came to understood.
You already know its name. Sukiyama. It is your imagination. It came to you before you could even talk. Know you this: for a child who does not yet have language the world of imagination is powerful and unrestrained. The mind is still unbridled and remains free to create a living reality that can flourish in a child’s private world. In a world where language does not yet inhibit the mind, and before anyone has told the child that such thought is not possible. So the imagination lives and thrives, and becomes a separate reality. But with the coming of age a child’s imagination is neglected, then forgotten, and then eventually fades away. When you grow older you may but vaguely recall the Sukiyama, and you will be tempted to consider it as mere childhood fantasy. Or something that is not real. But I assure you, young Harriet, the Sukiyama is real. And you must try to remember the Sukiyama as you know it now, for only then can it live on.