Coming of Age

by Lee Henschel

  My Quest:

  I search for all time and find the artifact in Londinium, a shard broken from a stela taken long ago in Rhacotis—Alexandria—then discarded by the Third Legion of Augusta as they raped and pillaged. The soldiers burned the great library, but they could not burn the stela, so they broke one piece away, the very key. A soldier claimed that piece as his souvenir of war. He survived his servitude and, like many veterans, retired to Londinium, along with his souvenir. Now I have found it! And what better way to return the piece to its rightful home? Returned on a British ship deployed to enlist my cousin’s help. Mr. Lau will translate this small piece broken from the original, but he will not be able to interpret any meaning. Even though the message is ancient, the world is not yet ready.

  Nor is Egypt. It is a common misconception that Egyptians are a desert people. They are not. They are children of the Nile. Now Bonaparte covets the Nile. The French wish to grow sugar cane along the Nile and hope to create a sister republic. But Egyptians are a pharaonic people. They wish to be ruled by the best among themselves—by their own pharaoh, not by Bonaparte. If I can help the Mamluks defeat Bonaparte by supporting Hajir, then so be it.

  Young Harriet, while I cared for you, you spoke in your sleep of Tate and his only possession—his tin box hidden in the orlop. But I knew that if I left this note for you in the great cabin others might find it first and never tell you. So I placed my final request in Tate’s box—knowing only you would come for it. Now you have read it and I am dead, and cannot complete my quest. I would ask this of you because you have served me best. This piece of broken stela belongs to the Great Erg. Please return it, and the desert will preserve the message until the moment is at hand.

  Serve your uncle. Protect him.

  Ra

  Mr. Lau set the note down.

  “Does he mean the moment when the desert covers the Holy Land, sir? Like what you translated in the rubbings?”

  “That is likely. But tell me, if you will, what is this . . . Sukiyama?”

  “I don’t think I can explain, sir. It’s seems a voice. A whisper that tells something most important. Is that . . . enlightenment, sir?”

  “I doubt that very much. Enlightenment is reason. It is method and experimentation that can be repeated by others. But if Gottlieb is correct, then it seems your Sukiyama exists only in your imagination. A thing not to be be verified.”

  “I don’t think Gottlieb is correct, sir.”

  “And why do you think that?”

  “Because Reggie . . . he knew it too, sir. I mean the Sukiyama. And Reggie thought Tate might have known it, too.”

  “Oh. Well . . . right, then. That sheds a different light on this . . . this Sukiyama. I will have to reconsider. Ah! My arthritic complains. Rub my left shoulder, if you will. Warm it.”

  “Aye, sir.” Mr. Lau’s shoulder felt most cool, thin and boney . . . and I worried it might break if I rubbed overmuch. “Sir? Why did Gottlieb say to protect my uncle?”

  “I wonder about that as well. I also wonder why he signed his name Ra . . . when he is not Ra.”

  “Who is Ra, sir?”

  “An ancient Egyptian, I think. Very little is known of ancient Egypt. Their architecture and statuary speak for themselves, but their glyphs remain cloaked in mystery. There is some speculation, however, that Ra is the Egyptian solar deity—a sun god.”

  “Then Gottlieb’s note must not be for me, sir, if a sun god wrote it.”

  Mr. Lau chuckled. “Gottlieb is no sun god, lad. And I have no doubt it was Gottlieb who wrote this note. See how every ‘t’ is crossed at a severe slant? And no ‘i’ is ever dotted. I’ve seen Gottlieb’s cursive before, and this is it. And who do you suppose tied that Arab knot around Tate’s box? There . . . that’s enough massage. I thank you.”

  “You are welcome, sir.”

  “Now then . . . perhaps Gottlieb only thinks he is Ra.”

  “I still don’t know what his note means, sir.”

  “I don’t know, either. The note is irrational . . . not at all based on empirical evidence. Yet I admit his last request might be logical enough—one last detail to be performed by his faithful servant.”

  “Then will you go along with me, sir, and return the artifact to the desert?”

  “Gottlieb’s note has convinced me—against my better judgment, I might add—that the artifact must be returned. But no, I will not go with you. I must honour my vow never to leave the ship until it pays off.”

  “The drink, sir?”

  “Aye, the drink. The beliefs in this region do not permit strong spirit, but no doubt there’s a bottle or two somewhere, and if I’m ashore I am bound to go in search of it and drink it all down before I stop.”

  “But the desert, sir . . . it’s overlarge. I don’t wish to go there alone.”

  “Not alone. Indeed not. But I have someone in mind.”

  Of a sudden a muffled cry hailed the deck. “Deck there! Two lights off the starboard bow.”

  “That will be Amunia. Come, lad. We must inform the captain of your discovery.”

  Eleanor dropped anchor off Cleopatra Rock. Captain Cedric stood firm on the quarterdeck, glassing the coast line. He finished his search and turned to Mr. Lau.

  “To be sure Gottlieb was a secretive man with unclear motives but I have no reason to think this stela, this artifact as you call it, has anything to do with our mission. It’s of far greater importance to locate Hajir.”

  “Aye, sir. But Gottlieb was Hajir’s cousin. It may be best to consider his request and return this thing to the desert as an act of good faith.”

  “It might, or might not. Either way I can’t spare the men to go on some trek through the desert. Besides, my men are sailors. They may lose their way in the desert.”

  “Might this task be best suited for a local, sir?”

  The captain cocked his head curious. “The Indochine?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Say his name again.”

  “Thiét, sir. Phan Thiét.” Mr. Lau handed the captain a slip of foolscap. “This is his chop. Something like it will hang from a shingle above his door in Amunia.”

  “Very well.” The captain turned to me. “Fetch Mr. Hoyer.”

  The midshipman arrived shortly and the captain gave him the chop. “This is a chop, Mr. Hoyer, a visiting card of sorts. You will take it ashore and locate the shop doing business under its likeness. The place will be owned by a trader, a fellow name Phan Thiét. It’s believed he speaks English. If he does then you will offer him a sovereign. Mr. Coutts will provide it. Tell the man there is more to be had if he comes onboard to hear my proposal. Proceed.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Now then, Mr. Lau, I’ve read the documents you’ve prepared and I shall enter Nélaton’s testimony into ship’s log.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “As for the prisoner’s confession, we already know some of it. But there’s always more. Perhaps we can persuade him to tell us more, and now’s the time to find out.”

  The captain turned to me. “Find Marley. Have him bring the prisoner to my quarters.”

  Marley delivered Qena—blindfolded, his right arm bound tight to his side and his left arm still in a sling. The captain nodded to a chair standing in the middle of the great cabin. Marley sat Qena down hard and tied him to the chair most firm.

  “Bring the cask.”

  When Marley brought it the captain began.

  “You are Qena.”

  No response.

  “You and your brother Kafir are the owners of Otra Nova and you are a spy for Oignon. Through your network you discovered information concerning our mission and passed it to Oignon. While fleeing Otra Nova you killed Gottlieb, then joined Oignan in Puerto Luz. You joined Oignon in his pursuit of Eleanor. All this we know.” The captain stepped forward, brought his mouth to Qene’s ear and spoke soft. “Now we will have the names of your contacts on Minorca. Tell us, and you will die quickly and without pain. If you rem
ain silent we will turn you over to Banji Hajir and let him determine how you die. The choice is yours.” The captain stepped back. “We will leave you now to discuss your fate with your brother.”

  The captain nodded. Marley pried open the cask, removed Kafir’s head and placed it in Qena’s lap meticulous. Kafir’s eyes stared blind at Qena.

  Three bells in the forenoon watch.

  “It’s been an hour, sir. How long will you give him?”

  The captain glassed the waterfront at Amunia, no more than a boardwalk, one short wharf and a jetty.

  “That looks like Mr. Hoyer returning with a passenger wearing one of those pointed hats—the Indochine most likely. We shall give Qena a bit longer. First we’ll hear what the Phan Thiét has to say.”

  Phan Thiét stood fragile thin and rather long. I don’t know how old he was, but his skin was buff brown and looked wrinkled the texture of vellum. His head was shaved mushroom bald and thin brows arched high over black, slanting eyes. He spoke fair English and claimed to speak local as well, and was willing to hire on as interpreter—sovereigns only, no Gibraltar reals. After the proper amount of haggling the deal was sealed by a bow from Thiét and a hand offered by the captain. Silver coins crossed Phan Thiét’s tiny hand, and the captain gave his first order. Find Hajir.

  “Man here in Amunia. He leave soon. Maybe in morning.”

  “Then take my first officer and find him.” The captain gave Rainey a heavy purse. “One hundred sovereigns, Lieutenant. When you find Hajir offer them as a gift, a token of good will. Invite him to come aboard and speak to us.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The captain turned to me. “Fetch Mr. Gleason.”

  “Gleason, make preparations to sway the horse and foal overboard, stall and all. After Lieutenant Rainey finds Hajir he will arrange for a xebec to come alongside and we’ll discharge our cargo.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Now, Mr. Lau, let us go hear what our prisoner has to say.”

  I walked behind the captain, and as we approached the great cabin I heard it. “Sukiyama!” Once only, but certain and direct.

  “Uncle! Don’t go in there! It’s the . . .”

  He ignored my warning, nodding for the marine sentry to stand aside. He swung open the door and there sat Qena unmoving, slumped in the chair with the severed head still in his lap. Marley stepped though and doused him with water. But Qena did not stir, so Marley stood before him and bent down. Qena sprung from his chair—hands and feet unbound! The head thumped on the deck and in one bound Qena grabbed Marley’s dragon. The captain charged him but Qena fired point blank into his stomach then dove headlong through the stern window. The sentry rushed in and fired his musket out the window. But at nothing. Qena was gone.

  Marley stood frozen, staring incredulous at his dragon still smoking on the deck. Mr. Lau ran to the captain and knelt over him. Mr. Lau moaned and turned away, ordering the sentry to call for Mr. Starling. I joined Mr. Lau. He stuffed a kerchief into my uncle’s gaping wound and it soaked with blood instanter. My uncle was wounded mortal and he knew it. He brought my face close and whispered.

  “Owen. I . . . I tried.”

  Mr. Starling came. He pulled me away to tend the captain. But my uncle was already dead.

  Mr. Lau knew Captain Cedric would wish for cremation at sea, and as soon as possible. So that very afternoon we prepared my uncle in his ceremonial uniform, then placed him atop a funeral pyre, built in his gig resting on the quarterdeck. After the Eleanors passed by to pay their last respects we lowered the gig into the water. We manned the cutter—Mr. Lau, Mr. Starling, Mr. Botherall, Ajax, me. We towed my uncle’s gig a thousand yards beyond Cleopatra Rock—nine hundred forty-one strokes, Eleanor’s number. Mr. Lau held the service. Over brief, as my uncle would have it, with the sailing master reading just one verse from my uncle’s Bible—Obadiah.

  Gaze not upon the days of your brother,

  or the day of his disaster.

  Mr. Lau closed the book slow and added his own prayer.

  Bow down your heaven, oh Lord, and come You down,

  Touch the seas, and they shall smoke.

  He nodded for Ajax to light a torch. Ajax struck his flint and the spark jumped lively, starting the torch instanter. With a raised brow Mr. Lau asked wordless if I wanted to touch off the pyre.

  I shook my head no, then turned to Mr. Starling. “Will you take off my dressing, sir? And the patch? I want to see with both eyes as best I might.”

  As Mr. Starling removed my dressing the sun pierced my damaged eye stabbing painful bright. My uncle’s gig rode the waves blurred teary.

  “Do you see, Harriet?”

  “Well enough.”

  Mr. Lau nodded to Ajax and the coxswain set the gig on fire. We backstroked, watching the flames leap high, offering white smoke to a vault of blue sky. The fire burned fierce and consumed the gig most hungry until uncle’s ashes joined the sea. For a moment more we sat in the cutter, silent and solemn, then dipped oars and rowed back to Eleanor.

  Rainey had missed the ceremony. He’d gone ashore with Phan Thiét and had not been on board when the captain was killed. But upon our return he greeted us at the main chains. He was captain now and in command of Eleanor. He took charge immediate.

  “I wish there was more time to pay our proper respects to Captain Cedric but I have just now unsealed his orders. We are to make for Aboukir Bay as soon as possible and await Admiral Nelson, if he’s not already there. We must stow our lamentations for another time. We will get under way on the morning tide. Mr. Lau?”

  “Aye, sir?”

  “Goodwin is first officer now. You will assist him as best you can.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I’ve sent the marines on shore to search for the prisoner and have a boat looking for him in the water. So far there’s nothing.”

  “Perhaps he drowned, sir.”

  “Let us hope so. As to Hajir, we are in luck. Thiét found him just as his tribe was leaving for the desert. He has accepted our offer and is willing to act as our agent. He expressed great anger when told of Gottlieb’s death.”

  “He will come onboard then?”

  “He will not. Thiét says Hajir fears the sea and will not go upon it. We shall go ashore to meet him.”

  “When, sir?

  “This evening. We will make arrangements for him to pass information on to Thiét. Although his stallion was killed Hajir looked well pleased with our efforts. At least he has Haditha, and her foal. I have arranged for a xebec to come alongside shortly and sway the horse and her foal. This evening we will present them to Hajir, along with the scimitar and that gruesome cask. Thiét says Hajir is eager to display its contents on a stake for all to see.”

  “If I may, sir, I suggest we return Gottlieb’s artifact to the desert.”

  “Why should we do that, Mr. Lau?”

  “To demonstrate good faith, sir. Gottlieb believed strongly that the piece be preserved for another time. He believed the artifact was part of a prophecy yet to be discovered.”

  “I thought you were a man of reason, Mr. Lau, and would not entertain such fatuous notions. And I believe Captain Cedric was correct—we have no time to send out a detail that might end up lost in the desert. And not enough men to spare, either.”

  “Phan Thiét is now in our hire, sir. Might not he accompany Harriet into the desert? We can spare the boy for a time—and they’d not need to go far I don’t think. The desert runs direct to the sea here at Amunia. ”

  Rainey turned to Thiét. “You know this place and these people. Would it improve our chances with Hajir if we returned this thing to the desert?”

  “Thing from desert. Belong in desert.”

  “Then will you agree to take the boy out there and leave the thing?”

  Thiét bowed.

  “Very well. Make preparations.”

  I went to Haditha and her foal nursing restless as his mother stood patient in the stall. I saw my reflection d
own deep in her wide eyes. I stroked her beautiful face, thinking my words to her, not speaking them. Haditha. I love you, girl. You’re a very good horse. It’s my honour to have met you, to be the one who took care of you, and help you with your foal. Would you mind overmuch if I name him Woolly? She stood silent, blinking once. Did she nod? Well then . . . you’ll be getting off this wretched thing today. Do you love the desert? She sniffed at my pocket for her apple. I gave it to her and she took it off my palm most polite. Not like the first apple she’d snatched away back on Minorca. That seemed long ago, or only last night. Haditha, my good friend, I’ve come to say good-bye. Will you have your apple in the desert? I hope . . . Mr. Botherall rushed by on his way to address Captain Rainey.

  “Beg pardon, sir. The French officer says he forgot to mention something, sir.”

  “It can wait.”

  “He says it’s important, sir.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “He won’t tell me, sir. He insists on speaking to you directly. He says Admiralty House will be very interested.”

  “Admiralty House, did you say?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Have Marley fetch him. This had better be good, Mr. Botherall.”

  Marley delivered Nélaton. The man wore a smug grin. Most curious, that, as he was a prisoner—one my uncle had vowed to see executed.

  “Let’s hear it, Nélaton. What did you forget to mention?”