by Eli Brown
Almost too quietly to be heard, Laroche said, “Then you know my several motivations, my lord. I comprehend my position full well. You humiliate me in front of the servants, demand the details of my ignominy over the sound of the meat cleaver.”
“Should I leave the pigs to rot? I did not acquire my holdings by letting things go to waste. I value a penny as a pound.”
Finally Laroche looked at Ramsey, and in his slate eyes I saw a man whose suffering had become a kind of skeleton holding him upright. “I see the lesson, but it is wasted on me. I never hoped to dictate the terms of our arrangement.” His gaze had returned to the horizon where the thorn of the moon was sinking. “If I am fit for the task, then for God’s sake, use me.”
After a moment, Ramsey stood and shook Laroche’s gloved hand, and they went together to sign papers, or drink champagne or whatever one does to commemorate such an arrangement, leaving us to our disassembly.
This account has, perhaps, painted an uncouth image of my late employer. A man of such responsibilities must occasionally negotiate the darker eddies of life’s tide, and it would take a nimbler hand than mine to describe the ultimate righteousness of it. So I leave the details smeared on the page. He who writes our every story needs no annotation from me.
It is encouraging, nevertheless, to think that rescue may be on its way in the form of this eccentric and capable Laroche. In the light of the sun, I tell myself that my tribulations may soon be over. As the sun sets, though, I shudder.
I write here all I can, yet cannot express the fatigue I collapse under each night, worn to the bone with worry. I feel Hope and Fear beside me all the time, two woodsmen with a saw across my middle. They pull the saw in turns. It is everything I can do not to fall in two.
Wednesday, August 25
Conrad’s verbosity is, at last, of some use. I asked him about the other prisoner and received this response: “’At’s Jeroboam. Cap’m of the Sinensis, which is restin’ happy on the bottom. Mabbot thought he had the Fox aboard; we broke her masts. ’At’s why we went to England in the first place, only to find he’d left the Fox on the penal island they call the Fist. But Mabbot didn’t waste the trip, did she? Got Ramsey, she did!”
“And the rest of Jeroboam’s crew?”
“Playing cards with the squid.”
“She’s a monster. Why is he chained even at sea while I am free to roam?” I asked.
“You haven’t fired guns at us. She keeps you without prejudice. But Jeroboam’s earned her spite.”
A captain! Here is an ally who knows battle. Here is a weathered crag on which to build hope. I have narrowed the possible chambers that might contain Captain Jeroboam to two. I shall investigate further.
Why it had not occurred to me before, I cannot say, but after seeing the men hoisting the longboats today on their return from Porto Santo, my head has split with an idea. The boats are always ready, and, if no one saw us, Jeroboam and I could away in one to try our luck for land. Two men upon the deck, by means of davits and muscle, can haul the boats up or down, and this while they are full of cargo. Jeroboam and I could manage this, I’m sure. Even if we were intercepted by strangers on open water, they could scarcely be more villainous than those who hold us now. The trick will be secrecy; the deck is never empty. Even in the dead of the night, I hear the graveyard watch clomping about and the stations calling “All’s well!”
Thursday, August 26
I’ve located Captain Jeroboam. A rap on his door elicited a weary “What now?”
I slipped a note under his door. It read:
I am a simple cook but I have the resolve of a garrison. I am at your disposal, Captain, and ready to fly. Longboats in dead of night? Meanwhile keep you well. O. Z. Wedgwood.
It was tempting to write a longer missive, but I kept it brief so he might destroy it easily. I do not know what effect eating paper has on gout. I should not like to make things more difficult for the man.
It is a good omen that, today, my bread sponge batter has a faint but unmistakably intimate aroma of yeast. Like the smell of hard work that surrounds one who has just come in from picking apples. I must admit a certain motherly feeling toward this stowaway on my person. While I still don’t know how I will use it, at least one of us is comfortable.
My labors have yielded a further spark of inspiration. In considering my scarce resources, I realized that I have privileged access to the provisions upon this ship, and this small advantage might be just enough to free me. A night watchman properly lubricated with food and drink is no watchman at all! This warrants consideration, but I must stay alive in the meanwhile, and that means cooking.
I have been forced to indebt myself to the carpenter, Kitzu, who is Japanese, thick, and bearded. He tends to speak in grunts. He is also a skilled fisherman. He drags nets and bait lines behind the boat, hanging like an ape from the railings. He adjusts and retrieves the nets with considerable strength and brings forth variegated treasures. Fish I have never seen, of all colors and shapes, beaked, spiked, soft, and armored. It is Kitzu’s wont to choose a few to roast whole on sticks over a cresset, tossing the bones to the petrels who follow the ship. In this way, he and a few others break the unrelenting monotony of Conrad’s cooking.
With Mabbot’s dinner but a few days away, I stood by, watching him perform his feat, then begged to share a portion of his bounty. I had nothing to offer in exchange, save for my skills. So I am now beholden to this man; I have promised him something good to eat, and I cannot imagine what it will be. I implored him to keep our arrangement secret, for I do not know how jealous Mabbot is. Neither does Kitzu seem a man I would wish to disappoint.
But I must focus on my achievements: I have now, in a pail by my feet, a lovely spotted fish with an elegant stripe, which, I’m certain, is a type of cod. Further, in a bucket, a good handful of vigorous striped shrimp. By refreshing their water regularly, I hope to keep them alive until needed.
I am lost at sea. I have a single fish with which to preserve my life.
5
JEROBOAM’S PLAN
In which I vow to stop Mabbot
Friday, August 27
This morning, to my surprise, Mr. Apples opened my door and dragged me to the deck. I cursed myself for not having shown more care in communicating with Jeroboam.
The deck was already alive with all hands, and I feared a flogging or execution was expected. I tried to gather my courage as I was shackled together with Captain Jeroboam. The man nodded at me with the grim composure born of gentility and hardship. Our wrists were connected by a short length of chain looped through the railing.
Up close, the poor man’s body bore testimony to his ordeal. Despite the palm-leaf sun hat, his face was peeling and burned. His muttonchop beard, majestic as it must once have been, now looked not unlike two frightened squirrels clinging to his head. Though it was scratched to opacity, his monocle never fell from his eye.
“My good sir,” Jeroboam intoned as soon as we were left alone. “A pleasure and a good thing, for now we have the strength of two!” We shook hands awkwardly, bending at the knees to accommodate the chains.
“If only we’d had more time to hatch a plan,” I said.
“Oh, the plan is hatched, Quincy,” he whispered. “This is the plan. But we must be patient, this is apt to take all day.”
“Do they mean to torture us?”
“Jupiter, no. Not today. Today we’re sacking the Fist, the island prison. You’ll forgive the impertinence, but you wouldn’t happen to have a spot of tobacco on you?”
“Sorry, no.”
“No, of course not. Tighten up that chain, will you? After I tug, you give it a tug. Put your weight into it, Quincy! That’s it. Ha ha. Slowly now.”
By alternating our efforts, we began to use the chain to rasp at the railing.
“Don’t look at it, Quincy, you’ll give us away. We’re just talking, you see. Gesturing, just passing the time, ha ha. Mabbot’s shackled us here because she half s
uspects I’ve led her to an ambush.”
“My name is Owen,” I said. “Owen Wedgwood.”
“Yes, I got your note. A pleasure. Now tug a little harder. That’s the stuff, Quincy. You should know, fellow, that your capture was in no way a result of any disclosure I made to Mabbot. She came by Ramsey’s whereabouts through another channel altogether. The devil himself whispers in her ear, I’d wager. Tell me, though—you were there—how did Ramsey fare? No, by your face I see the answer. Jupiter, what a pity! I’ve played cricket with the man and won’t hesitate to swear that he was the very figure of good breeding! But you know that. And a lovely bowler. I’ve seen faster, but not a man bowls more elegantly … bowled, I should say. Take heart, chap, the tallest tree gets cut first.”
The ship was abuzz, men ran to and fro carrying cannonballs and funnels of powder.
“No,” Jeroboam continued, “I would have let her roast me alive before I so much as nodded in the direction of such a gentleman. I’ve given her a lesser prize. A rock, nothing more. You can see it now, there—see that guano-encrusted knob on the horizon? A prison. Mabbot is looking to crack it open and shake out the Brass Fox. I know he’s there, as I delivered him myself, though I didn’t know it was him at the time. Caught him with ten others near the Pearl River, trying to pass as Chinamen. Not cowardice but prudence has compelled me to lead her to him now.” He leaned in here, the curl of his whiskers nearly grazing my cheek—he must have been maintaining them with pitch and spittle. “Now give me your ear, Quincy. This prison was a French fort before we repurposed her to hold the scum of the seas. High walls and armed guards won’t be taken easily, will they? Opportunity for Mabbot to catch a bullet in her heart, perhaps. But here’s the meat: in the heat of battle, you and I will take the opportunity to make a quick move for one of the boats. Right? Right. Know any good riddles, Quincy?”
I did not.
The spit of rock on the horizon grew.
“We’re getting closer. C’mon now, Quincy, give it a stiff yank, show some muscle! There you go. My ship was the Pendleton Sinensis, a third-rate ship of the line, armed like a man-o’-war! A proud beauty. Mabbot took us in a storm. Waves around us like the Carpathian Mountains. Shameful, reckless, there is not a cracker’s worth of honor in her. She used her own ship to roll us, like pigs wrestling in the mud. It stained my dignity just to witness. Not proper. The codes of engagement mean nothing to her. White horses breaking over both our decks and still she charged. Well, cheats lose in the cheating, as my father said. And my men knew it was no dishonor to lose that way.”
“Who is the Brass Fox?” I asked.
“A worm and a freebooter—just like Mabbot. They’re cut from the same cloth, those two. Anyone with eyes can see that. He’s got some grand scheme, that one. He’s not just picking pockets anymore—he’s onto an altogether different game. He’s kept mum about it, but they’ll squeeze the truth out of him there on the Fist.”
My wrist was already blistering where the shackles rubbed, and we had made but little progress through the hard wood.
“We’re in the sauce, aren’t we?” Jeroboam laughed. “But don’t fret. Don’t spend a second worrying, Quincy, Jeroboam has a plan. She tricked me, that’s what she did. Didn’t even get the opportunity to die with my crew, good men and clean-shaven every morning. That’s how I ran my ship. Boot polish and tea at two. Other ships leave civility on the docks. The sea is a corrosive influence. Take a glance at this monkey crew and you’ll see my meaning. Not on my deck! ‘A clean face is an alert face.’ That was our creed. ‘If we die in the course of our duty, it shall be as gentlemen!’ It’s a distinction to sail with Captain Jeroboam. Where else does a sailor learn proper cricket while earning his stripes upon a forty-gun ship? Well, the proportions weren’t quite right for cricket, but all of the basics, bowling, batting we practiced every day … Fielding we had to get creative with, of course. ‘If you can catch a ball in twenty-foot waves, there’s nothing that can upset you.’ That was our motto.”
Here he lapsed at last into a silence. We continued to grind our chain over the railing. My fingers began to go numb. It occurred to me that the man had perhaps not survived Mabbot’s assault with his wits entirely intact. The stubborn perch of his ruined monocle unnerved me.
“I’m sure you did your best by them,” I said.
At this he smiled sadly. “Only a few of them could really bat. I mean properly,” he said.
“But what is Mabbot’s purpose?”
“Who can tell? She wants to steal something. That’s sure. The Brass Fox is the key she needs. The man could steal the royal commode with His Highness still upon it. But her ultimate goal? I don’t know. Something ghastly, I assure you.”
I could see a structure on the island now, a fortress of granite.
“When we see the opening, we must take it with all speed and courage,” Jeroboam said. “A prison has plenty of nooks to hide in. We’ll not get a chance like this again. Once we’ve escaped we’ll bring back an armada to sink her. Have you a prayer? I’ve never had the tongue for it.”
This finally was something I could do. “Deliver us, O Jesus, from all evil, from all sin”—even with our heads bowed, the man kept tugging on the chain—“from your wrath and from the snares of the devil.”
“Amen. Just right,” he said, looking relieved. “Are you married?”
“My wife is passed,” I said.
“I’m sorry for you.” He tried to pat me on the back, but the chain brought him up short. “Myself, I have the sweetest wife at home and yet I philander. You know the kind of smooth-cheeked women who carry baskets near the docks? Who are not afraid to look you in the eye? Of course, now, in the thick of it, I can think only of my wife.”
“You’ll see her soon enough,” I said.
This, too, cheered him, and he smiled at me as if we were both already free.
The prison was perched upon low cliffs where it had a clean view of the sea. It had been built so close to the edge and with native stones that it looked like a brief extension of the sheer face itself. From a distance the squat structure looked disproportionate, like a child’s sand castle. As we got closer, it was clear, by the action atop the walls, that they had spotted us long ago. Guards ran about making preparations. At the base of the cliff, sea lions lounged like drunkards after a bacchanal.
I flinched when the fortress guns fired. The water danced where their missiles went under, but none reached us. The sea lions barked out their own response, and then slipped enviably away.
“Unsporting!” Captain Jeroboam yelled. “They’ve only carronades. A prison is ready to guard itself from within, not from without.”
Mabbot anchored the Rose fifty yards from where the crowns of foam marked the edge of the enemy’s range. She shouted at Mr. Apples, “Aim well and take your time! Bit by bit!”
Mr. Apples went down the line of deck cannon, sighting over their maws and cranking them into position himself. Sometimes he would give a cannon a knock with his fist to make its angle perfect.
It was an eerie thing to watch him so at ease with the enemy’s wrath landing so near. Occasionally I heard the whistle of rifle shot in the air above us, or the crack as a musket ball set itself in a mast. Bound as I was, I could do nothing but make myself as small as possible.
Mr. Apples was intimate with each of the guns and cajoled and patted them as if tending to a field of dairy cows. Their positions were locked, and the men marked their angles with pencils. Only after Mr. Apples had gone below deck to see to all the other guns did he give the order. “By the numbers and easy!” he shouted. “Fire!”
One by one, our guns, with a terrible rolling tempo, like the ticking of a monstrous clock, fired on the prison. The blasts were dreadful. I tried to cover my ears, but Jeroboam, still trying to saw through the wood, tugged the chain and I ended up slapping myself into the rail.
The first bombardment hit the base of the closest tower, making little mark save for a cloud of powdered
granite. But what was just a scratch on the surface of the prison grew as each subsequent cannonball clawed at the wound. Mr. Apples’s aim was unerring, and, slowly, a hole opened at the base of the tower. As a boy I had seen fellows stabbing at termite nests for fun. The result here was similar; the prison guards swarmed and scattered in great agitation, unable to prevent the slow erosion of their keep.
Mabbot, with a mug of hot tea, descended from the poop deck to confer briefly with Mr. Apples, then returned.
I yelled at Captain Jeroboam over the noise: “Isn’t giving her the Brass Fox unwise?”
“I let her have this battle so we might take the war.” Jeroboam put his finger to his nose. “We’ll bring back an armada.”
During the siege, one of the prison’s cannonballs, by fluke of wind or powder, surpassed its range and punched a hole in the planks so near Mabbot that she had to dance to keep from falling in.
Mr. Apples rushed to her side. “Cap’m?”
“It’s nothing. Keep at it, Mr. Apples,” Mabbot said, irritated at the spilling of her tea. “Keep at it.”
After an hour of this inchmeal injury, the tower, haloed in dust, leaned as if considering a more comfortable repose, then collapsed spectacularly, dropping in clusters off the cliff and into the tortured sea.
Silence and dust followed. Mr. Apples set himself to realigning the guns, then the terrible metronome started again, this time picking away at the adjoining walls. Only when a white flag unfurled from the top of the prison and hung like a parched tongue did Mr. Apples cease firing. Mabbot put aside her tea and checked the breach of her pistols.
“Trip the mudhook!” Mabbot shouted, and the anchor crew ran for the windlass while the rest readied themselves for battle. The Flying Rose jibed to position in the lee of the cliff, well beyond the arc of the remaining carronades. Longboats were lowered and, full of pirates, made for the beaches.
Mabbot shouted to the departing crew, “Not a prisoner harmed! Hear me! Don’t touch the prisoners!” before disappearing into her cabin.
