by Eli Brown
I can imagine, though, that Joshua simply may not want to return to that world hollowed by grief; better Mabbot’s swagger and the silver luster of adventure. What can I say to that?
We creep about in the filigree inlets of Nasik Island, whose southern coast is surrounded by smaller islands and their coves, like a toppled nesting doll. When we gather way, we go slowly, owing as much to the shifting tides as to our wounded ship, and the men have been exploring the turquoise rivers with longboats. It is a humid world of sudden rains and shimmering mirages—a “malaria paradise,” as the men call it. Jutting crags festooned with cormorant nests loom suddenly into sight, then disappear just as quickly behind lush canopies and low clouds. The calls of monkeys and mournful birds are caught by the sails and cascade onto the deck. Where the sun touches it, the sea is a tranquilizing blue that shifts to slate again when the light goes. We are oft surrounded by granite cliffs and walls of verdant foliage, whose susurrations are cousin to the whispers of the sea. After so long on the waves, it is a strange thing not to be able to see the sky without looking up.
Such is my luck. Here I am near land with plenty of opportunity to duck and away. But when I look to the looming jungle, brash with the calls of animals, I feel the weakness of my one leg and the vapors that come when I am too long upright. Moreover, the forest is thick and tangled, and I can imagine myself wholly consumed, if not by tigers then by the vines themselves. There are no signs of civilization. Until I fully recover from my injuries, I am better off on the ship than lost in that swallowing green.
Friday, October 8
There are others aboard who are worse off than I, those who have been horribly disfigured or mutilated. In all, twelve were killed in the battle or died shortly after. Of the entire threescore crew, fully half of us are significantly wounded, and not a man aboard does not bear at least some mark from the attack.
I have exchanged pleasantries with Finn and Theodore, Mabbot’s “doves.” Finn’s eyes are blasted and wrapped in thick cloth. He will never see again. Theodore leads him about tenderly, reads to him, and fetches panch. At an earlier time I would say this was divine punishment for sodomy, but I witnessed the battle myself; Finn was blinded by man, not God, and though I know no sparrow falls but by His will, I must also consider my own injury. If Finn sacrificed his vision for unnatural acts, what have I traded my leg for, I who have been chaste since my wife’s death and attended mass weekly until my kidnapping? And one must also wonder where poor Finn would be now without his companion, who loves him no less despite his infirmity.
When the gong brought the groggy new watch up the companionway like so many wooden figures from a cuckoo clock, the retiring shift wasted no time lighting their pipes or tumbling below to fill the still-warm hammocks. Mr. Apples took his breaks with the rest of them, and I found him sitting at the base of the mainmast with his needles and yarn. He chewed as he knit, the sinews of Mary Sweet grinding between his teeth.
“Has Laroche no other duties than to hunt us?” I asked, hoping for a reassuring word. I’d come to the wrong place.
“Not a one,” he answered. “If the man sleeps, he dreams of Mabbot’s steaming heart. He’s got none to report to ’cept Ramsey, no particular lanes to protect, and his ship is greased with company gold. At least it was. ’Twill be interesting to see what happens when his provisions go and he learns his master is dead. It’ll add to his determination, but it will gall his crew. They’re used to getting paid, and who knows how he’ll handle them. For now, though, we chase the Fox, Laroche chases us, and around the world we go!”
“But if Mabbot was working for Ramsey when she sank Laroche’s prototype, doesn’t Laroche have reason to hate them both?”
“Ramsey’s got a knack for setting his dogs at each other’s throats. He paid Mabbot under the table; no one knows she was his privateer. The stories of Mad Mabbot the Demon Pirate cover Ramsey’s tracks. But suppose Laroche is smart enough to see through that? Matters not one bean. Ramsey was the only one who would underwrite his vessel, and now Laroche has this last chance to prove himself. We may be the only ones who know his damn machines work. If he brings Mabbot in, he’ll be a hero in any nation—he could take a mink-seated sinecure, or become an admiral, or sell the plans for his ship and retire on the profits. But if he fails, well, what is he but the cracked charlatan who floated balloons over the water? If you had only the two choices, gilded fame or nameless death in a debtors’ prison, wouldn’t you fight hard for the first?” He paused here to pick a piece of grey meat from between his teeth with his needle.
“Strange thing is, Mabbot likes Laroche. She says, ‘By the discipline of his crew, and his own grit, Laroche should be pinned to the ground with medals. Children sing songs about captains who aren’t worthy to wash his decks.’” Mr. Apples chuckled, somehow amused by this glut of bad news. “But history will not know him; his glory is writ on the waves with a knucklebone.”
As if to confirm my decision not to venture out, some Malay-speaking natives emerged from the forest today bearing scowls and ancient Portuguese blunderbusses. With crew members doing their best to translate, they expressed their unhappiness with our use of their teak trees. Mabbot herself negotiated with them, giving them silk and tea, no doubt saving us from considerable unpleasantness.
The repairs that can be done only near land are given priority as all are concerned that Laroche will discover us. Has La Collette been repaired? Is the balloon aloft and searching? These are the fears that animate the watches. Mr. Apples drives the men hard and has even threatened to use me. Every day, though, the sailors are granted an hour or two before sunset to relax and play their Gypsy songs. Mr. Apples seems to prefer not to walk the land but smokes his pipe and knits while looking out at the men frolicking at the edge of the forest.
I have had my first taste of fresh water since my capture. A clean spring was found deep in the forest, and ten men had the task of refilling our stores by carting empty barrels out in wheelbarrows and bringing them back full. If not for my foot, I would have volunteered for the chore, only to get a chance to wash my hands and face in that spring. I contented myself instead with the casks they set on the deck. Soon they will adulterate it with their spirits to keep it from spoiling in the moldy lower holds; in the meantime I’m glutting myself with it. It’s strangely freeing to note that fresh, clean water is better than anything I have ever fumbled together over heat.
The men were preparing one of the babirusas by lining the body cavity with banana leaves and stuffing it with embers. They planned to roast the entire catch in a pit, but I convinced them to salt and smoke a good portion, assuring them that a little ham would do wonders for everyone.
I also struck a deal with a few of the men: if they would share with me their gathered victuals, I would give them a portion of whatsoever delicacies I made. Dozens of men fairly surrounded me with their offers, but, leery of indebting myself to a hoard of pirates, I chose my prizes carefully.
In this way I came to own shares of two spangled pheasants piping in wooden crates, six baskets of mangoes, uncountable unripe bananas, two bags of pineapples, three pails of yams, coconuts, one green papaya, dandelion greens, cilantro, mint, basil, a single ginger root, and an intriguing herb the men call lemongrass, whose odor is true to its name while erring ever so faintly toward pine. Most exciting of all: seven quail eggs.
More than anything else, more than Laroche’s furious attack, more than the ridiculous salt opera, more than the painted vistas that unrolled before the Rose, it was these new ingredients in the hold that impressed upon me how far I was from home. Cooking with these would make me a citizen of the world, a vagabond. Still the nearly visible scent of these herbs, the shameless heaps of mangoes, the ocher stripes of the bananas that seemed to be ripening as I watched, all whispered to me of undiscovered pleasures.
The men also filled a barrel with bitter citrus to replace our limes. After tasting one, Mabbot winced and said, “Tastes like turpentine, but it wi
ll stave off scurvy.”
“Pure superstition, Captain,” I responded. “Everyone knows scurvy is caused by onanism.”
Mabbot gawked. “A joke? Has Wedgwood made a joke?” She shouted down to the riverbank where the men were making charcoal, “Chaps! Twice the wine for every man, for dry old Wedge has found his sense of humor!”
Saturday, October 9
Joshua appears to help me putter in the galley. Near the hearth, as I am still weak, I collapse upon a stool and direct him with a crutch.
It is an agreeable arrangement, as we both have eyes and hands, and while he kens my yelling only half the time, he understands a gesture fully and immediately. His signs are efficient and poignant, and preserve the quiet I prefer for my work. Little by little, I am coming to fluency.
To me, the tiny galley is a gauntlet of shifting coals and sloshing pots, but Joshua waltzes with the room and never stumbles. His nose is far better than mine was at his age. He can detect the lightest traces of an aromatic. Further, the boy can handle a knife with great dexterity even as the cutting boards slide this way and that.
It seems he can learn anything I can teach and faster than I would have expected from any pupil. The boy is a prodigy, and I wish I could send him to an academy.
The men are already eating the bananas, green though they are, and the mangoes are disappearing at an alarming rate. I must talk to Mr. Apples about enforcing rationing. In the meantime I have started my exploration of this new world with a peculiar recipe indeed: pineapple-banana cider. I spent half an hour poking about the hold with a lantern to find the ripest fruit. The bananas are squat, almost rust-colored now, and very fragrant. With Joshua’s assistance, I mashed and boiled them into a thick paste. When it cooled, we added pineapple juice and covered it to let it ripen. In a few days I will strain the contents and add coconut water. If necessary, I can add small pills of the yeast dough to quicken the liquor. In this heat, the cider will be ready in a few weeks.
When I feel the phantom foot cinched within the invisible vise, I am forced to beg for help from the twins. Their needles, their massage, their smoldering mugwort, and their bleeding cups are the only things that keep the soreness at bay. The effect of their care is instantly soothing, and I feel my spirit appeased. The surgeon had demonstrated his one use in sawing off my leg. Unlike that foul and drunken butcher, these doctors treat the body whole—humors and spirit as well.
I have too much time to ponder my fragility and the care those ebon-haired twins have shown. My thoughts inevitably become confused: Could it really be black magic if it soothed so completely? Had God given their land this saving knowledge but not the means for eternal salvation? Such questions make my nights long indeed.
Sunday, October 10
This morning Joshua, grinning like a split melon, woke me and, though I had not yet had tea and was not in the mood for games, led me out of my chamber, across the deck, and down the starboard companionway to a hold that used to contain great coils of rope. The place was transformed. The hull now framed a port window of wooden slats. The air was sweet with pitch and sawdust. The hooks that used to hold mattocks, spikes, and other tools were now hung with pots and spoons. The little iron stove had been set up against the back wall and secured to the floor with bolts, its chimney poking through a hole still ragged from the cooper’s saw. Behind the stove, the wood had been shielded with a sheet of hammered tin that reflected morning light from the window. It was a small kitchen, even smaller than Conrad’s galley, but it had a proper stove, a basin stand, and a block for chopping.
As I marveled, Mabbot appeared in the doorway behind me and asked, “Will it suit?” She was hiding something behind her back.
“Much better, Captain,” I answered. “It will be cramped with Joshua and me—I’ll need a stool. But I’m glad for it.”
“Thank Kitzu,” Mabbot said. “With all the repairs, the man hasn’t slept since we anchored. Something else”—she held out a copper box that I had seen pillaged from the Patience. Inside, the box was divided into tiered chambers, each with a lacquered lid, and these held a selection of ground and whole spices: sage, turmeric, cumin, ginger, mustard, cinnamon, asafetida, mace, cayenne, and cloves. I felt like an emperor receiving the treasures of a new country. The odor rising from the box was like a clambering vine wrapping itself thickly around my head, musky with the deep minerals of the earth and dusting my shoulders with a rainbow of pollen.
“I could have used these in weeks past.”
“Last month I was in no mood to make gifts.”
It was a ransom of spices, a small fortune, and yet out here, with no buyers, they were worthless as ash to all but myself. Only my presence imbued them with value.
Despite my decision not to brave those jungles, today I spent several hours upon the riverbank, bathing and enjoying the blessed constancy of soil with the other men. I forget for long moments that I am a prisoner, and then I am so frightened at having forgotten that my heart races and sweat beads on my brow. Though Mr. Apples keeps his eye on me, I must not slacken in my search for freedom. I am still thin, though, and after only an hour upon unfamiliar terrain, my shoulders ache and tremble from the crutches.
Monday, October 11
Today the Rose was ready for open seas, but Mabbot insisted that we stay and gave the men a full day’s rest. As a result, and though it was only midday, the men not on watch were quite drunk when a ship was spotted approaching the mouth of the river, causing a panic.
Happily, the vessel was merely a Japanese whaling ship, and emissaries from both were sent to meet in longboats to trade tobacco, spices, liquor, and spermaceti for Mabbot’s lamps. I went along.
It was a strange impromptu marketplace we made, four small boats rocking in the tide, tethered to one another by thrown ropes and goodwill. Kitzu translated, though we had to wait long spells as he gathered news of his homeland from the whalers. The others spent tremendous amounts of silver wheedling knives from the Japanese and suggested I do the same. Instead, I convinced two of the whalers to row back and bring me samples of every foodstuff in their galley.
Paying with silver pieces Mabbot gave me for the purpose, I thus obtained a pot of fermented paste Kitzu called “miso.”
I cannot say for certain what it is made of. Kitzu tells me miso is comprised of “winter rice and beans.” Neither rice nor beans ever looked, smelled, or tasted like this, and so I know Kitzu is having fun at my expense. The paste has a rich, meaty smell, and I’ve been assured by the whalers it will keep for a month at least. Kitzu told me it would last ten years, proving that the man is either lying or confused. Still, it is wonderful stuff—would that I could have bought an entire barrel, for, first thing upon regaining the Rose, I boiled a bit of water, and the miso made an excellent broth that will serve well as a replacement for beef bouillon. Further, I bought a pot of savory black soy liquor—salty but, though I cannot yet imagine what to do with it, no doubt valuable.
Macau is deep in the South China Sea, and Mabbot has plotted a course past Cochin China. When the evening tide allowed, we finally left our river retreat and headed again for the vast dark expanse, hoping to put at least a full night between us and Laroche, wherever he may be lurking. The crew is wary, as am I, but there is nothing I can do except focus on my own tasks.
In anticipation of Sunday’s meal, I have taught Joshua the quick and kind way to wring the neck of one of the pheasants kept in wicker cages. We cleaned and plucked it, then hung it in a lidded cauldron in the cool lower holds to age along with a small pot of the salted gizzards, heart, and liver. Such provisions make me feel almost wealthy.
16
TEACHING A DOG
In which Mabbot surprises me and I receive a gift
Friday, October 15
We are again surrounded by sea, and though I loathed to see that fertile and giving land disappear, I knew that it was nothing but a mermaid’s song. My only way home is to press further into the wilderness.
I am begi
nning to learn how to watch the sky for weather. The lavender furls on the northern horizon are as lovely as they are ominous; I’m told they are distant monsoons and that our course will bring us to meet them. Just as haunting are the boat-sized manta rays that fly in languid flocks under our hull.
While I was explaining to Joshua how to make mirepoix to anchor a sauce—a purely fanciful exercise, as we have no carrots or celery—I was interrupted by Mabbot, who threw a bundle of clothes at me and demanded that, prior to our next meal, I shave. The clothes were finely sewn and included linen pants and a silk undershirt. An entirely different class of garment from the stiff and salt-crusted canvas clothes I’d been wearing for weeks. I guessed they had come from the captain of the Patience.
“I cannot wear the clothes of a murdered man,” I said.
“Then wear them and live,” she replied, and left. But her threats no longer have the sting they used to. I do not doubt that Mabbot, in a fit of rage, could have me flung overboard, but, though I do not wish to die, I no longer tremble at the threat. I now have some intimacy with death, and like the hops in a beer, it has both embittered and fortified me.
Mabbot is nothing so much as a spoiled child playing with dolls. She props me in a seat to make tea-talk, and I find myself charmed. When bored, she throws tantrums and lashes out. My task is merely to survive intact and to remember that I must not come to like too much the dark beauty of distant storm clouds or the dreamlike flavors of island fruits—to remember that, though it seems a pale shadow now, my real life awaits me somewhere beyond this rolling deck.
I have made an audit of the foodstuffs loaned me, the portions I owe and to whom. These men know to come to my chamber on Monday morning for their leftovers. My contract with certain members of the crew has borne a curious phenomenon. Men have begun, a few times a day, to knock at my door offering trinkets such as mother-of-pearl boxes or mummified monkey’s hands. One offered to wash my clothes, which I would have agreed to if I had another set to change into in the meantime. (Better to do it myself than wait naked while a pirate disappears with my clothes.) They all want me to cook for them, and I am forced to turn most of them away. One man, though, offered a small bag of dried tomatoes (of an uncertain age but still piquant) that he had been rationing.
