by Eli Brown
The captain’s upholstered chair had been brought from her cabin to the gun deck, and she sat there enthroned. When she saw me she beckoned and said, “Well, good morning, slumberbug. Bring a stool and join me. It will be educational.”
“Mabbot,” I demanded, “I forbid you to harm these innocents—”
“Ah, the barrister-at-sea with his customary objection.” Mabbot sighed. “But hush now, darling, we’re doing business.”
The crew nearby had gasped at my tone, but when Mabbot dismissed me, they sneered and went back to work.
Because the view from the poop deck was better than from the quarter, I lingered near Mabbot. It was from there that I spotted, distant to the Patience, a cluster of boats. I held my breath with hope, thinking that it might be a fleet come to apprehend us, but those hopes were dashed when Mabbot said, “Good, then. You see? They’ve done the sensible thing and given us space. If they stay out there in their longboats, I’ll let them live. It is better to have survivors to spread the word that the best option is surrender.”
Thus we lay aboard the Patience without trouble or bloodshed. The men threw planks and ropes and stormed the ship, guns and swords drawn. But resistance there was none, and in only a few minutes the men began to emerge from below deck carrying their booty like a swarm of ants.
They brought pitch-sealed lockers first, carried by two men apiece, and set them upon the deck. The horns were blown again and all eyes were on Mr. Apples, who stood beside the chests and announced in a ceremonious voice, “Men, put down your worries and grab your cocks. It’s bathing day at the sheikh’s harem.”
This was met with hoots and a general stomping on the deck, which subsided only when Mabbot raised her hand.
Then the chests were opened to reveal rows of clay pots whose narrow mouths had been plugged with resin.
Mr. Apples inspected them and shouted up to Mabbot, “Opium, Captain! Perfume on it like a lily stuffed up Satan’s arse.”
“I should say you know where to put that,” Mabbot shouted down.
Mr. Apples nodded to the men, and they carted the locker to the port bulwark and dropped the whole thing into the sea. Fifty cases were thus disposed of. I could not say the exact amount but knew it was the sinking of a dozen fortunes.
“Mabbot, what is your purpose if not to resell your stolen goods?” I asked.
For the first time, Mabbot dropped her singsong tone and growled at me. “Stop your tongue.”
But as the men brought more cargo for her inspection, her mood improved quickly. It was a parade of goods, a veritable market. At each item, Mr. Apples would call out the thing, for example: “Fifty bolts of green silk!” or “Saltpeter for an army!” or “Fifteen hogsheads of loose black tea!”
To which Mabbot would reply, “Ours.” This meant that the item belonged to the ship in general. Once sold, its value would be divided among the men according to their rank. A tremendous amount of silk was thus deposited into the holds, also great casks of tea, loose and in cakes.
Regarding some items, such as a suede hat with a peacock feather, Mabbot would declare “yours!” and thus bestow it upon the man who had found it.
When Mr. Apples called out, “Small silver teapot! Cute as a monkey’s shoe!” Mabbot declared, “Mine!” and the item was taken by Feng to a special hold. (I’ve learned to tell the twins apart, for Feng carries always a little leather-bound book, no doubt a heathen tract, tucked into his belt, dipping into it at moments of leisure.) Mabbot also claimed a rotund bottle of brandy, which was delivered directly to her cabin. Only a few items were thus owned by her, and if the men were upset by it, they showed no sign.
Though it seemed efficient at first, the event took all day. There was a ritual to it; they were reveling in their reward. It was this orgy of larceny, I realized, that made their hard days on the sea bearable, and they were not going to rush it. The air was festive, not unlike that of an Easter feast. A small group played a Gypsy polka on a flute, a drum, and an instrument like a harp but with fewer strings. Seamen danced with each other while they waited their turn to cross the planks from ship to ship. Mabbot was grinning—she drank a mug of tea and tapped her foot to the tune.
It was not at all the savage bloodbath I had imagined a pirate raid to be. The captain and crew of the Patience waited half a league distant, too far to make out individuals by sight, crowded as they were into twenty-foot longboats. No doubt the mood there was not so joyous, but from where I stood, I could see no signs of outrage. They could have been a flock of seabirds bobbing on the water.
The vast majority of the haul consisted of silk—a rainbow ton of it—satin, and muslin too, indigo dye, and, of course, tea. There were also several chests of silver ingots that Mabbot declared “ours.”
After the larger barrels and chests had been lowered through the hatches by can hook and stowed, the personal items of the Patience’s crew and captain began to appear. With very few exceptions Mabbot declared these items “yours,” and the men laughed and wrestled in their joy. They acquired boots, coats, hammered copper boxes, tobacco, hats, musical instruments, guns, swords, books, and trinkets of jade, ruby, and silver. Mabbot looked closely at every book before granting them to their finders.
The ship’s manifest was brought for her inspection, and she gave it only a cursory glance before dropping it with disgust to the deck, where I picked it up. It was a ruled log—a great list of dates and places and goods. It was authenticated by Lord Ramsey’s seal, and it hit me that these merchants had no idea that Ramsey was dead.
If I was reading it correctly, the manifest indicated that the ship was on its way back to England, with one more stop in Cameroon to pick up twoscore “long birds.”
“What is a long bird?” I asked Mabbot.
“What indeed? Do you suppose they provide long eggs?”
Mabbot knew the answer, I was sure, but I didn’t want to give her the opportunity to mock me, so I gave the manifest to Bai and forgot about it.
Then, to my surprise, the men hauled up a diminutive but lovely custom-built iron stove with a flat top for cooking and an ingenious box at the back for baking. Under her breath, Mabbot asked, “Can you use this?”
“Yes.”
She told them to place it in the larder for storage. Mabbot also allocated for my use cabbages, which had kept relatively well in hay in the cool lower holds, and a sack of whole dried corn.
Then one of the men brought Mabbot a piece of paper that bore her likeness.
“A warrant! Five hundred guineas for my head. ‘For crimes against commerce, nature, and the king.’ A kind of poetry to it. Still, I’m a little insulted.”
“Captain,” Mr. Apples said, “five hundred ain’t hardly crumbs.”
“No, but this is my life’s work, after all. One hopes for … Well, it continues: ‘Her captor shall be thanked by His Majesty and granted a title within the Valley Suffolk.’ Mr. Apples, is Suffolk a fine place?”
“Never been, Captain.”
“Then it must be very fine indeed.”
A box of correspondence emerged, full of London-bound letters from various officials and captains. Mabbot picked through these letters as the men stowed their goods. Most she ordered tossed into the sea, but one was addressed to Ramsey from Laroche. She and Mr. Apples read it together, chuckling.
“Good Lord,” Mabbot said. “He’s petitioning for more ships!”
“I told you, the man has ambitions,” said Mr. Apples.
“If he had five of those damned things, he’d rival any navy on the seas.”
“Thanks to God we’ve cut his patron down.”
“Thanks to me,” Mabbot huffed. She handed the letter to me, saying, “You might as well take a look, Wedge, it’s a dead letter. Hard to believe a blowhard like that is so dangerous.”
In a tight indigo script, the letter read:
Dear Lord Ramsey,
I trust this letter finds you, as always, in the excellent health that is your due. I thank y
ou for the additional provisions—though I beg you again for a certain amount of free credit as the épée solaire requires unconventional maintenance and supplies, among them spermaceti for the gears, lenses, and leather. The balloon too requires spermaceti; no other oil burns pure enough and I’ve been forced to trade with whalers at open sea, which slows me. This is but an example of the frustration that simple specie would alleviate.
By your agents in China you must already know that the Brass Fox is gaining influence with the smugglers on the Pearl River. I fear that we are watching the blades of shears converge, but once Mabbot has been apprehended I will happily turn my attentions to that crisis. Let not the pettiness of villainy dampen your spirits.
When the path is made clear, progress and posterity flow of their own accord. We have learned this at great cost—the blood of revolutions, the might of crowns, all are swept aside by innovation and improvement. It matters not what language a man speaks; he holds a pen, he holds a plow, he holds a gun in exactly the same manner. We are all children of our tools.
As for our agreement that my reward for Mabbot’s head shall be a complement of five ships under my command, I must reiterate that these ships, delivered in advance, would speed me to my target and sweep your path clear that much faster. I understand that your associates have expressed concerns about a privateer, particularly one of my extraction, commanding a fleet, but I know you to be a man of great influence and a harbinger of new methods.
I am every day closer. La Colette continues to honor her namesake; sophisticated but quiet, she does not dawdle, slender and lovely, and but a glance from her burns.
The balloon works exceedingly well (when I have oil enough) and will suit to supply an entire armada with instant communication far beyond the range of flags as well as providing a perspective once reserved only for God Himself.
I have not encountered Captain Mabbot since my last correspondence, which detailed my near victory, but be warned, by her reported headings, which are erratic as ever, it would seem she intends to make for the Canaries at least, and perhaps as far as to England itself. I cannot imagine she would be brash enough to advance upon London, but show some care and keep you far from the coasts until the shark is gone.
Included is another letter for my acquaintances in Paris. I would be grateful if you would send it along to the usual address.
Your Servant,
Alexandre Laroche
The letter burned my fingers—had it reached us in time, it would have saved both Ramsey and myself; we could have made a cozy retreat to one of his lordship’s houses deep inland, far from the clawing of the surf, safe and sated on Yorkshire pudding and mutton with mushroom gravy.
How many hands had this warning passed through? How long had it languished in ports while the holds were filled with dumb tons of tea? “Keep you far from the coasts”! Lifesaving advice woefully delayed by the whims of weather and men.
When Mabbot saw me sitting on the deck staring disconsolately at the paper, she said, “Chin up, Wedge! I assure you, it’s better to read his letters than to meet the man at sea. I know he charmed you on the field, but he’s a moray on the water.”
Finally, after all other goods had been apportioned, the men brought forth one final object. It seemed to be a statue of a savage on a wooden pedestal. Mr. Apples walked around it and peered at it from several angles before declaring, “Ahem … a trophy. From the captain’s quarters.”
Mabbot gestured and they brought it up for her to examine. It was no statue but a masterpiece of taxidermy. Though its features were that of a man, it was the size of a child, its skin very black. Its lips were pulled back in a perpetual snarl, its brow furled. It looked eager to heave its spear. It was naked save for the beads around its waist and the bolt through its nose. I could see no sutures, and its yellow glass eyes looked wet and ready to blink. It stood on a block of polished hardwood where a bronze plaque was secured. It read: SAVAGE HOTTENTOT OF SOUTHERN AFRICA.
I felt my humors sour and had to sit again. I had not, in the cruelest corners of my mind, ever imagined that men did this to men.
All eyes watched the captain; even the waves seemed to calm. She was, herself, still as a statue; the two stared at each other and neither blinked. I saw, on her temple, a blood vessel pulsing. Her lip trembled and she whispered something no one could hear.
Mr. Apples appeared beside her and sheepishly asked, “Captain, say again—”
“TO THE BOTTOM!” Mabbot roared as she rose. “Send the dogs to the bottom holdin’ their rank hearts!” Her refined accent had quite disappeared and was replaced by a brined cockney.
The crew burst into action, running to man the guns and tugging at ropes to ease our sheets. “Now! Now!” Mabbot bellowed, her mouth wide as a well. “Place it ’pon the ship! ’Twill be his bier.” Thus the Hottentot was hauled back and secured to the mast of the company ship. A barrel of bitumen was poured upon the deck and set alight. The fire moved quickly and within minutes had leaped to the sails.
Mabbot, blazing with rage, had drawn her jade-handled pistols on the distant longboats where the crew of the Patience awaited their fate. “THIS is yer precious comp’ny!” she hissed before firing both guns. On cue, our cannon battery fired. Of the half-dozen longboats I could see, two burst immediately into splinters. The others were rocked by the plumes of water the balls created. It was pitiful to see them scatter, rowing in all directions as our guns were reloaded.
Meanwhile, the conflagration on the Patience had grown, and I could feel its heat. I recovered from my shock enough to say, “Mabbot! You cannot simply murder those men.”
At this, Mabbot did a most unwomanly thing. She grabbed me by the throat with such force that something clicked and my wind was gone. Tugging me close, she whispered, “D’ye wish to join those noble men, those heroes in their boats? Then hide yer face from me!”
When she let go, I went to my knees, gasping. There was nothing I could do. The cannon burst out at the men sitting helpless on the waves. I made for my berth as much to hide from the horror as from Mabbot. On my way down, I passed Mr. Apples, who was carrying a bundle of smoldering slow matches. He slapped me on the back and laughed. “Captain sure fancies you, Spoons! Any other sailor would have been keelhauled for talking to her the way you do.”
Though I did not watch, I am sure none of the Pendleton crew survived those awful minutes. So this is the terror that sells newspapers back home. Like a bad storm, she sows havoc as she goes. And what calamity will befall us when she finally catches up with her prodigal child?
When I next emerged, we were moving apace and the Patience was a smudge of smoke on the horizon. Below the setting sun, I could see the olive stippling of the Cape Verde Islands. Nearing the equator meant warmer nights, which was about the only good news I’d had in weeks. We were tacking against the southeast trade winds, which sent a ceaseless mist up over the bow. By chance, I spotted Mabbot flinging the door of her cabin open, carrying the stuffed pheasant that had stood upon her mirror. This she flung over the rail into the water, its plumage fluttering behind it.
Hope of escape is with me waking and dreaming, and has become its own cruel despot, whipping my imagination in sweaty circles. Too often I think it were better had Mabbot killed me. For if I managed to escape and survived the unknown perils of a journey home, I would arrive, as she so cruelly pointed out, at the wasteland of my former life.
I confess that there is a part of me, loathsome and cowardly, that wishes to be done with hope and call this ship home. It would be strangely relieving to give up and let myself become just another of Mabbot’s men, loafing with never a decision to be made. This is the siren’s call.
And so I find I must nurse my courage as tenderly as I nurse my yeast sponge, for it too would quickly dry up and perish here.
10
SAUERKRAUT AND THEATER
In which cabbages and history are mistreated as we cross the equator
Saturday, September 4
While eating this morning, the men were whispering about the Brass Fox, and before I knew it they’d gathered around me. “Tell us what you know!” Conrad shouted. For he was usually the one who instigated these gossip parties. Simply whispering “Fox” was usually enough to bring the unctuous cook running.
“What can I know?” I have never been a great liar. “I hardly saw the man. I was half-drowned.”
“I’ve told ye the truth,” one man said. “Mabbot an’ the Fox were lovers, sleeping on a heap of hoarded gold. But the Fox had an eye for the dairymaids, and on the day of their wedding, he left Mabbot holding her flowers. Since then she’s been after him. Her plan is to marry him at noon an’ kill him at one.”
“That could be—” I said.
“Pig shit!” spat Conrad. “Lovers? They were no such thing. The Fox is the deposed duke of Portugal, this I heard from Short Jim. The Fox was betrayed by his own cousin, who sold the royal jewels to finance a rebel army. Now the Fox travels the world stealing the jewels back and slitting sleeping throats. Didn’t he have that air about him?”
“The air of a deposed duke?” I muttered. “I couldn’t say for cert—”
“Naw!” barked another. “The Brass Fox is a true fox whose skin was stolen. Everyone knows a fox is charmed and has riches aplenty stowed under the mountains. He’s looking for his skin so he can return to his fox fambly.”
This was followed by such bickering as made my exit rather easy. It is a position of strange privilege to be keeping secrets with Mabbot. No doubt, unholy grief would befall me if I told these men the truth I know. She has judged that her pirates would hardly be motivated enough by the return of the spoiled child to keep up the interminable chase, and so lets them conjure their own fantastic stories. Whatever Mabbot intends to do with the brat, I hope it involves a goodly reward for her crew.
