The Abduction of Smith and Smith

by Rashad Harrison

  We took a moment to rest there. My guide, Manuel, began to speak. “What you will see at the top of those steps, no average man has seen. It is a sight mostly reserved for people like me: the limbless, or what your people may consider deformed or grotesque. I ask that you maintain your civility when we reach the village.”

  I agreed.

  Many steps. We climbed so many steps: a thousand in all. At the top, a vision emerged. One that quickly shifted from fantasy to nightmare. “My home,” said Manuel with a deep look of satisfaction.

  And then, as if listening, they emerged. Fifty people, from children to the elderly, came out of their shacks. The sight of them dummied my senses. I could not stand to look at them nor look away. Every one of them was horribly deformed or limbless: missing legs, arms and complete sections of the jaw. It was as if God had paused during their physical design. I felt my stomach turn even though my head could not . . .

  —most likely by its owner before him, but the pages that followed were truer to form:

  —Capt. gave my cabin to the fop, Singleton. Paid cook to piss in his food.

  —Capt. took us round the Horn. Met with angry storms. Lost six men overboard.

  —Capt. took us up the S. America coast rather than tack out west. Wanted to save time. Very concerned with time. Met with fierce South-westerlies.

  —Crimped two crew.

  —Men sick with dysentery. Shit and vomit higher than waterline.

  —Lost another man to sickness.

  —Crimped another man to replace the dead. Ten in all.

  From there, the pages were blank. Jupiter placed the journal back in the sack—he had overlooked something. A wood figure, carved crudely, but he could see that it was a dolphin. Small enough to keep in a pocket, it was something a boy would keep for good luck, a hidden totem to conjure up courage and wonder. He ran his fingers over the dolphin’s ridged body, and squeezed it in his palm.

  • • •

  Jupiter struggled to maintain his balance down the narrow stairs that led into the Intono’s holding cell. The air was foul and damp. He felt as if it clung to him. He spotted a seething barrel of wastewater as the source of the smell; a rat broke the liquid’s surface, sprang off the barrel’s rim, and disappeared into the darkness. Jupiter flinched. Unmoved by the events and his surroundings, Archer sat monastically on a small bench. He looked frail and ill—his time away from opiates was revealing its toll.

  Jupiter approached the cell and revealed Burns’s biscuit and salt beef. “You should eat,” he said.

  “Keep it. Don’t want your charity.” Weak and distant, his voice seemed whispered from an abyss.

  “It’s not charity. Burns was stealing it. I found it in his sack.” Jupiter held some of the food through the cell bars.

  Archer hesitated, and then took the food—the cell was so small that he did not have to rise to grab it. He chewed the beef slowly, getting used to the taste of salted leather, trying to ignore the smell of shit and piss.

  The lamp offered dim light. Jupiter looked around for that errant rat. “God, I hate being on a ship.”

  Archer laughed behind the tough meat. “And you were always so fascinated by Father’s ship in a bottle.”

  No smile from Jupiter; he remembered the beating for touching what did not belong to him. “I remember that. It was a replica of the Circe, the British ship that brought the first Smiths to America.”

  “And we’ve been cursed ever since.”

  Jupiter nodded, then wondered if Archer had meant to include him among the cursed.

  “I don’t know about curses,” Jupiter said, “but I can free you from the spell of opium if you’re interested.”

  Archer grabbed the cell bars and pulled himself up. His eyes were wild and electric. “You, free me?” He pushed his hand through the bars, grasping for Jupiter as his forearm refused to slip through.

  Jupiter moved closer to the cell, just barely out of Archer’s reach. He wanted to tell Archer that the Colonel had lost his mind, and that the man had died long ago and had forgotten to take his body along with him, and that killing a man in such a situation is, truly, to free him. He wanted to say these things, but years after the incident he had not applied the same rationale to the harbors and saloons of San Francisco. He told the men he crimped that their situation was a better alternative to death. There was no case to be made for his innocence.

  Archer’s fingers searched, the tendons rose and twitched. Jupiter leaned in and Archer grabbed his throat. He felt the fingernails burrow into his skin, and the pressure build in his skull as his breath was cut off. He thought about the Colonel.

  Archer’s grip weakened, his arm purpling where the bars had interrupted the flow of his blood. Jupiter shook off Archer’s hand and the foul air eased back into him. Archer winced as his nerves awakened and he eased his arm back through the bars. He leaned into the cell wall and pressed his head against it. “Tell me what happened.”

  Jupiter rubbed his throat. “He was sick. . . . His mind was gone long before I got there.”

  “Why’d you come back? To gloat?”

  “No. I came back for Sonya.” He answered quickly, but he was confused by the question. Was it to gloat? Did he really come back for her and not because the plantation was the only home he knew? “He was babbling nonsense, covered in sores; he hadn’t bathed in God knows how long.”

  Archer looked up. “Clara wasn’t taking care of him?”

  “Said she was too scared of him. Saddened by him. He was haunting those secret passageways of his like some ghost. He didn’t even recognize me at first . . .”

  Archer let go of the bars and sat on the stool. “You said he ­babbled?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Incoherent mostly. None of it made much sense.”

  Archer stroked his chin. “Did he mention me?”

  Jupiter paused long enough to hear that rat scurry about.

  Archer looked at him. “Don’t bother lying to me.”

  “No, Archer, he didn’t mention you.”

  “So go on . . . how did you do it?”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “Don’t do what? I am his son. You don’t think I deserve to know how my father was killed?”

  Long pause. “Strangled him.”

  Archer nodded. “You wanted to get your hands on him . . . feel his life slip away.”

  “It was a canteen strap.”

  “Did he fight much? Did he beg you not to?”

  “No. He didn’t fight at all. He was so compliant that I couldn’t stand to look at him. I kept my eyes closed through most of it.”

  “You come back from the war—atrocities everywhere—and you couldn’t face the burden? Tell me, Jupiter, am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

  “You can feel however you want, as can I.”

  “Go on with the story.”

  “You’ve heard the story.”

  “No, there is always more.”

  “I came back to the plantation to look for my wife, only to find our father lost to madness.”

  “Our father,” whispered Archer. “Let me tell you my side of the event. After getting shot in the chest, and in the back, and not being able to feel my legs—or much of anything except pain—for a month, I needed the laudanum to get me through the painful transition of feeling again. Even that couldn’t stop the nightmares—it enhanced them. It eased the pain but did nothing to erase the sight of the man next to you spilling his brains all over your uniform. Or the sight of amputated limbs piled high under a tree. A sea of wooden boxes . . . it’s still there; you know us Smiths have a hard time forgetting. After all that, after losing the war, I return home only to find my father’s corpse, rotting, unmoved for days. Then I discover that he was murdered by someone he’d fed and c
lothed and cared for. Wasn’t winning the war enough? You’d gotten your damned freedom. Did you come back to gloat, rub it in his face?”

  “I don’t need you to explain the hell of war. I told you why I came back, Archer.”

  “That’s not all of it. Don’t play the goddamned saint with me. Our father—” Archer spat in the shadows. “You knew him like I knew him. You would have killed him anyway. Maybe I would have too. My mother lost her mind and took her own life, watching the things he did with your mother. You know the type of man he was. Even if what you say is true, his being feeble-minded just made it easier.”

  Jupiter hoped that was not true. There is no kindness in letting a man die without dignity. People have shown wounded animals more mercy.

  “I can see your mind working, Jupiter. You’ve had a lot of time to work on your story, but I won’t let you portray yourself as a hero. I shouldn’t have tried to kill you. That was a mistake. From this moment forth, I shall forever remind you of who you really are.”

  Jupiter lunged at the bars, rattling Archer’s cage. “I don’t need you to tell me who I am!”

  A shaft of light came down the stairwell. “Hey, what’s this?” Clark waddled down the steps. “You shouldn’t be down here.”

  Jupiter raised a hand to shield his eyes. “We’re just having a conversation, that’s all.”

  “I don’t care if you’re giving him a wank. Up to the deck with you. Captain’s cried ‘all hands.’” Jupiter lingered, looking at Archer. “Now,” said Clark.

  • • •

  Jupiter went back on deck. The door closed and the place went dark again. Opening the door had let the sea breeze in, mellowing the putrid air. Now, with the door closed, he was reminded of how foul it was. The rat scurried back into Archer’s cell, sniffed around the waste bucket, then detoured under his bench where some crumbs had fallen. He let the rat finish his meal before bringing down his foot and crushing its skull.

  24

  Aided by the moon shining through the deck lights, Barrett sat at his desk, writing in his journal. A traditional log was not needed for this type of journey. He wrote the word Cuba, lifting his pen from the page as the ship rolled and the desk moved with it. He felt the rope that anchored the desk to the floor grow taut, and continued his writing. They would be expecting him. He was already behind schedule. Storms and sickness had delayed him.

  It was important that the cargo be delivered. No room for error; he would never get another opportunity to redeem himself and make good on his word. He had run out of chances.

  There was a knock at his door.

  “Yes?”

  Singleton entered. “A word, Barrett?”

  He did not even bother addressing Barrett as captain on his own ship. Barrett hated the look of Singleton, with his beady eyes and doughy face. He had the look of a country doctor but possessed no such skills. Barrett nodded at the seat across from him.

  “I’m worried about the progress we are making,” Singleton said as he sat. “I wonder if you could push these men harder.”

  The ship rolled again. The desk rope went from slack to taut.

  “Are you telling me how to run my ship?” asked Barrett.

  Singleton smirked. “I am telling you what I need from this ship—you and your men.”

  “These men are not my men, they are my crew. Half these men have never set foot on a ship before. My men—men I trusted—died of dysentery. I am well aware of our progress. I am doing what I can to make proper sailors of them.”

  “I understand that you feel you are doing what you can, but I’m telling you that results need to come at a faster clip.”

  “Well I guess that answers my question—you are running my ship now. These men are your doing, not mine. You didn’t want to hire a proper crew; the lot of them were shanghaied. A thief can’t complain if there are cracks in the china.”

  “And I’m sure you are quite familiar with accepting stolen goods—in whatever state they come,” said Singleton.

  Barrett smiled. “These are strong accusations, Singleton. I am insulted.”

  “Oh come off it, Barrett. I know you don’t want me on this ship—and no one wants to be off this coffin more than me. But I wouldn’t have to watch over you like a governess if it were not for your past incompetence.”

  “Something tells me you don’t mind playing the governess. In fact, it suits you. Why do you insist upon prancing around this ship perfumed?”

  “Have you smelled this ship? These men? I won’t let this ship uncivilize me.”

  “A ship doesn’t change you, Singleton. It only reveals who you truly are.”

  The desk slid and Singleton slammed it into place. The journal fell to the floor.

  “These guns must make it to China,” said Barrett. “And they will.”

  “You said that on your previous attempt.”

  “True, but we were attacked by pirates. You can’t control their moods; they tend to be a bit mercurial. I’ve made this run for your employer before, and with considerable success.”

  “Which is why you have been given another opportunity. But pirates or no, my employer doesn’t accept capriciousness as an excuse.”

  “I understand, and once we reach Shanghai there will be no more causes for concern. Maybe then I can tell him how much I appreciate the second chance.”

  “He doesn’t give second chances, Barrett, only last chances. I don’t care what you do to these men, break them or uplift them, just get us there faster.”

  Barrett nodded at Singleton as he left. He retrieved his journal and turned to a blank page. In his best script he wrote Singleton’s name. He waited for the ink to dry and then drew a line through it.

  25

  Heavy rain came before the strong winds. They were caught by surprise. No one had heeded the seemingly innocuous warning of whistling wind. No one had watched the water for telltale disturbances. No one had searched the horizon for a witchy cloud. Once the worst of it hit, there was not a man on board who did not have rope or canvas in his hands. Barrett ordered that the sails not be shortened. He did not want to lose time. This was met with disapproval by the men, but they did as ordered.

  The wind forced the Intono to her side; water pushed through the lower deck. The sea seemed to grab her by the stern, almost pulling her under. One of the topmasts broke, buckling the main yard. She caught less wind. This eased her up a bit and they were able to ride out the duration of the squall. One man had been lost overboard. The whole ordeal lasted no more than five minutes.

  • • •

  The men were drenched and miserable. They did their best to wring out and dry their clothes and bring lamps to the center of their quarters, placing them under hammocks with the clothes above them.

  Higgins paced and mumbled as his clothes sloshed around him. “He works us like dogs and there was no one out there to watch for squalls, and that bastard doesn’t even allow us to shorten sail. Steers us right in the middle of her, all so he can make good time for his mysterious cargo. Reckless. I know now, for certain, that he is a madman—it’s not as though he isn’t putting his own life at risk. How can a man value the lives of his crew if he does not value his own? What do you have to say to this?” He nudged Archer with his shoulder. “Are you as angry as I am? And you, Black Jack,” he said to Jupiter. “What about the shenanigans he put on between the two of you?” The crew nodded and huddled around the lamps. “That fop on board . . . I say we do something, and there is no need to say the word, men. I think we all know what must be done.”

  Ayes came from the men. Jupiter and Archer glanced at each other.

  Higgins went on. “We’ll take this ship and sail it to the nearest port. Once we hit land we’ll leave the ship to him—but that’s if he is cooperative.”

  “And if he isn’t?” asked Jupiter.

  “Then we’ll jus
t have to sacrifice one of our boats. And he and Singleton will just have to handle things on their own out there. Something should be done. Aye, something should be done. Something ain’t right about this ship or its captain. He’s obviously of a sadistic nature. Half the men on this ship were kidnapped. Black Jack, why doesn’t it infuriate you when I bring up the crimping? And here you are, enslaved once again, your life in another man’s hands.”

  “It certainly does,” answered Jupiter.

  “Good. Then you can help us. You fought in the war?”

  “I did.”

  “Then you can help us to fight for our freedom. You can teach these men what you know. Are you with me?” Higgins extended his hand. Jupiter looked at it for a moment and then clasped it in his own.

  “The guillotine is prepared to fall, men. On which side of it will you be?” Higgins sidled up to Archer. “And you fought in the war as well?” he asked Archer.

  “I did,” Archer said, shoveling a spoonful of the horrible gruel.

  “Is it safe to assume your inclusion in our group?”

  “I do think I can be of some help,” said Archer.

  “I knew it was a grand idea to come to you. I am pleased to hear that. You see, all of us are tired of our situation, but few of us are so aptly trained to change our situation. We will be needing someone with a more strategic skill set, so to speak.”

  • • •

  “What will we do about navigation?” said Jupiter over Archer’s shoulder.

  “What’s that you say?” Higgins asked.

  Jupiter spoke louder. “What about navigating the ship once we seize it? Who here can sail?”

  Higgins grew red. “Easy, Black Jack. Let white men talk as white men must.”

  Jupiter only smirked in response and then returned to his gruel. Archer stared at Jupiter in silence, then returned his attention to Higgins. “He’s right,” Archer whispered. “Once we take the ship, who will navigate?”