Cinnamon and Gunpowder

by Eli Brown

  Very soon we had made it back to my room, where the twins tsked and muttered while lifting the captain from my hammock.

  This confusing development would have been enough to keep me sleepless for the rest of the evening, but, as it turned out, we weren’t the only ones awake. As the twins carried Mabbot through the purgatory lamplight of the lower deck, an explosion shook the air. The clamor woke even Mabbot, who blinked in horror at what we saw as we emerged above deck: the steerage blooming with flame.

  As every hand crowded the decks in confusion and Mr. Apples called for buckets to quench the flames, it became clear that we were not under attack; the moon was bright and the only thing upon the water with us was the dark line of the Cochin China coast. It could mean but one thing: a saboteur was among us.

  Someone had pilfered a cask of black powder and set it off just below the wheel. By luck the helmsman was resting in his cot and relatively unharmed, but the wheel itself had fallen through the deck and was in shambles. Only by a swift bucket line was the conflagration smothered.

  When one has been a long time upon the sea, one would rather see blood hemorrhaging from one’s own navel than to see a hole in the deck. Men worked in shifts to jury the rudder, holding their breath as best they could through the smoke.

  Mabbot refused to go to her cabin and, somewhat sobered, brought her great stuffed chair to the deck and said, “If aught has a fight to pick with me, best they do it here in public, like men.”

  Trying to stay out of the way of the sailors rushing fore and aft, I crouched behind Mabbot’s chair. In a brief respite between shouting orders, Mr. Apples and Mabbot conferred in hoarse whispers.

  “We’re close enough for someone to row back to shore,” said Mr. Apples, “but all boats are accounted for, Captain.”

  “If the powder room itself had gone up, we would have sunk in minutes. No, this saboteur wants only to cripple us. Give Laroche time to find us. Someone wants to switch sides. How is it, Mr. Apples, that one of my own men is vying for the bounty on my head?”

  “I can’t see it, Captain. If anything, they love you too much.”

  “Then why is there a hole in my bloody deck?”

  “Maybe this one.” Mr. Apples jerked his thumb at me, without so much as a wink. He was never one for subtlety.

  “Wedge didn’t do this tonight,” Mabbot said. “I know that much.”

  Mr. Apples went back to herding the crew. Happily, the rudder had survived intact, and while a new wheel was being built, the helmsman could shout his orders to those who steered below by leaning into the tiller like half a dozen mill mules.

  The hole in the deck might have proved calamitous if not for the skillful and swift repair by Kitzu and his gang, who patched it with boards and rags soaked in pitch. Soon I was drafted to help lathe planks for a proper repair.

  It was a glorious sunrise—strata of silver and pink, like an abalone shell held over the earth—and we worked right through it. As a result, my back is seized and my hands are stiff as antlers. Some portion of the booty looted from the Patience has reportedly been destroyed by the blast and water damage, though I haven’t had time to assess this for myself. I assume the tea and tobacco is most vulnerable, followed by the silk.

  So there is a traitor aboard. Naturally gossip pollinated every ear as we worked, and the theories were varied and convoluted. Some suggested that the saboteur was a spy for Laroche, which might explain how La Colette has tracked Mabbot so efficiently. Opponents of this view argued that such a spy would have to leave communiqués at port, which would require Laroche to know our course in advance, or to have messengers ready at every harbor in the hemisphere. Many assume that Pendleton, once they learned of Ramsey’s murder, will have doubled or tripled the bounty on Mabbot’s head, and no one has come closer to claiming it than Laroche. Some argued that the saboteur was trying to capitalize on the prize before Laroche could. This plan would require delivery of the Rose to the Royal Navy, which would mean that naval ships were near. The simplest and most logical theory was the one Mabbot had already hinted at: the saboteur hoped to slow us long enough to defect to Laroche’s crew, changing the bet in the middle of the game.

  Mr. Apples, who had been bellowing orders with the demeanor of a bee-stung bull, finally ended the gossip with a threat. “So much whispering! The one thing we know about saboteurs,” he said, “is that they love to whisper.”

  18

  LOST TREASURES

  In which I am misunderstood

  Friday, Later

  After a late and tense breakfast, Mabbot spoke from the quarterdeck to all hands.

  “What a calamity, a blow struck from behind! But what the powder has done to the hull, we must not allow done to our spirit. Speculate you may, whisper you will, but you shall not accuse a fellow without reason and proof. We are a fine crew, the finest upon the sea, and we are so because we are a family. Well, that, and because we are so very good-looking!” This goaded a begrudging chuckle from the crew. “We will not allow a worm to defile our trust! Be vigilant for the saboteur, but more, be vigilant against idle gossip. Only as a family do we survive. Bind yourselves together. Do not be alone. The rotten kernel will float to the top!”

  She paused a breath before issuing the law: “Who gossips maliciously receives ten lashes! Who accuses without proof loses an ear! Those who do not have ears left to lose shall lose a toe, Charlie.” There was more laughter at this as all looked at Charlie, who had already lost both his ears in melees. “But if you bring me true proof to identify the traitor, you will win this purse.” She hoisted a leather sack and let it dangle in the air. “Ten gold!”

  This she tied to a spike hammered to the mizzenmast.

  Someone is no longer Mabbot’s loyal soldier, no doubt spent by this endless and costly pursuit of a shadow. Isn’t Mabbot herself showing signs of weariness, for what was that episode in my chamber? So much grief is tangled in the Fox’s tail.

  It is hard to articulate how profoundly my emotions are crossed by these recent events. To have a villain among us who would see us drown or blown to bits is discouraging, to put it mildly. On the other hand, this same shadowy figure may be my best ally, for through him I might find a path to rescue. But how to align myself with such skullduggery without getting myself killed? It is all very confusing.

  I have spent hours imagining the mind of the saboteur and have concluded that he must have plans of escape. If there is indeed a way to take one of the longboats, perhaps in the dark of the night, and meet up with agents of the Crown, or even France, I should very much like to be on that boat with him. But if the plan is as poorly worked out as Jeroboam’s, well, such a situation has no appeal, for it is my chief desire to place my good foot upon solid earth as a free man once again, not to burn and drown as a result of some disgruntled sailor’s sudden suicidal machinations. If only I could find a way to know his intentions. But here I must tread very lightly indeed.

  Saturday, October 23

  We have, each of us, lost much.

  The sabotage of the steerage had us stalled for half a day before we were on our way again at three-quarter speed, Mabbot assuring us we would put to land and make repairs as soon we reached the Paracel Islands, which lay just days ahead on our course toward Macau.

  We had not been sailing an hour, though, when the bells rang out and all hands went to the deck.

  Laroche’s balloon was again above us.

  Conrad passed me on the deck. “Smoke from the fire brought him to us, and nowhere to run,” he groaned.

  “Aye,” Mr. Apples said. “From that balloon he’ll have seen us right off. We stick out like a cock in the cloister.”

  Mabbot conferred with Mr. Apples, and soon the orders went out through the booming horns: “Jettison all cargo! Everything but provisions!”

  When this order was met with some hemming and hawing from the men, Mabbot disappeared into her cabin and emerged with a heavy chest. Behind her the twins brought stacks of her books and
cases of fine wines.

  As all took heed, Mabbot kicked the chest at her feet.

  “Today we must buy our wind. These are my personal jewels!” she shouted, opening the gilt-inlaid case to show them. “Pearls, lapis lazuli, gold. And these, my books, which you know are the jewels of my heart. And this, my wine, which is too good for you scoundrels!” This brought nervous chuckles. Mabbot, with no further ceremony, threw the case of jewels overboard as the men watched; the box tumbled in the air and sent the treasure in a sunlit arc before disappearing into the pea-soup sea. The twins pitched out her books and wine. She said, “There will be a time to meet Laroche in battle, but for now we put our hope in speed. The greedy wolf gets shot. We must be swift. We love our silver but consider this: What would you pay for your life?”

  Her sacrifice had motivated them. “A penny for life!” Mabbot shouted, and they responded as one, “A penny!”

  Then the men drew from the various holds their hard-won hauls. Tons of silver and silk were thrown over the rails. Strong and brave men wept as the eager waves devoured it all without a trace.

  “We will have it again!” Mabbot shouted. “We will earn it back and more!”

  Thus the entire plunder of the Patience went to the bottom.

  The men even tore the stove from my galley and pitched it into the foam. My heart ached considerably then, for the stove had great use here upon the sea, while silver had none.

  A young sailor was caught pocketing a brick of silver, and I hid in my room as he was bound to the mainmast, stripped naked, and flogged thrice for every ounce of metal. Even as I write this, I can hear him cry out. At least it isn’t theater paint.

  Of the magnificent treasure this ship carried yesterday, only the little purse of ten gold pieces tacked to the mizzen remains.

  Thus purged, the Flying Rose lived up to her name and cut through the water with, as Mr. Apples put it, “foam between her teeth,” leaving behind that ominous balloon, which leered at us like a swollen eye until cloud and distance finally erased it from the face of heaven.

  To calm my thoughts, I racked the frothy pineapple-banana cider today as best I could and bottled it, securing the corks with cord and wax. A quick taste told me it would not be aged enough by Sunday.

  As Mabbot has sacrificed her personal cache of wine, I have undertaken to give our next meal as much support as possible in the form of a simple but refreshing beverage. I boiled the fresh ginger along with lime juice and what little zest I could scrape from the ossified lime skins. To this I added honey and the few precious anise seeds, then took it off the heat and strained it. While it was still warm, I added small pills of yeast batter and covered it to let it come alive.

  To throw my lot in with an unknown saboteur or to retain an allegiance of apathy with my own captors? This is the puzzle that has kept me awake all night. It is a wonder that the planks of my cell have withstood my clip-clop pacing; any softer stuff would have worn through as I tread hither and yon over the arguments. How strange to admit that I feel safer siding with Mabbot than with someone who may very well be an agent of the Crown. Safety, though, is for lapdogs. Yet such a saboteur could just as well be working only for himself, or for a cabal of outlaws depraved enough to make Mabbot look like Mary. These are the racquets that have been batting my shuttlecock mind about.

  I am writing here to cement my decision: let this be a contract with myself—to action! If I am to die, I would rather it be in pursuit of freedom than in a coward’s sloth. I will try to make myself known to the saboteur. To do this risks exposure, and, ironically, I rely on Mabbot’s word for my safety, for while I may make myself suspicious, I trust her crew not to accuse me without sufficient proof.

  Saturday, Later

  Tonight in the berths, for the purposes described above, I stood, as I sometimes do, to offer grace and instead made this encrypted speech: “Lord bless this food and bless us together and each alone, for together with You is a joy while to be alone is a terrible thing, indeed. Not alone should a man wrestle with the order of things but in league with friends; one may take great comfort though he be surrounded by unkindness. Whoso is alone among us, let him find friends.”

  It was obscure, to be sure, but it is a dangerous game I am playing, and my safety lies in prudence. My goal was to communicate to one by dissembling to all. Immediately upon sitting, though, I was beset by doubt. I could just have easily broadcast my traitorous tendency to all while missing the one. My mind became a stewpot of worry. Fears rolled, steaming, to the surface only to drop back under before I could fork them.

  I was prepared, in case the hidden saboteur did not catch my meaning right away, to find some other means of making my intentions known. I was surprised when, immediately after the meal, I was approached by a thin seaman named Gimbal. Gimbal looked at me with portents and put his finger upon his nose and indicated that I should follow him into the companionway, where he whispered that I was to meet him two days hence, at the foremast, at midnight.

  Monday, October 25

  I am full of bats and starlings about meeting with Gimbal tonight.

  To pass the time I set myself, these last days, to the task of Mabbot’s weekly feast, which, without the proper stove, was an exercise in prestidigitation.

  It may be that Mabbot’s cold threat has ebbed. If I failed in my duties, would my life really be forfeit? Yet I find myself continuing the pursuit of flavor for the sake of my own sanity. It calms my soul. If I lost this vocation, I might die by my own hand. Therefore I continue to re-create the progress of culinary history with wads of dough as a boy re-creates epic battles using only twigs and stones.

  To compound the loss of the stove, Kitzu’s catch yesterday was meager. The man can be forgiven, for if this ship floats it is thanks to his ceaseless hammering; the steerage is nearly fixed, though the wheel has yet to be lashed to the rudder. Kitzu reserved for himself a handful of small silver fish and left for me the roe, two squid the length of my forearm, and nothing else.

  Joshua cleaned and grilled the squid while I started on the white-bean and onion soup, a comfort made possible by the last of the basil and the surprisingly tender salted pork provided by the babirusa.

  Meanwhile, we simmered crushed pineapple to a near jelly. Finally, Joshua sliced a mango as thinly as the knife would allow, while I improvised a cornmeal-and-flour biscuit dough and rolled it out.

  I dressed again for my weekly date with Mad Hannah Mabbot, the Shark of the Indian Ocean, wishing I had more than one pair of this dead man’s trousers.

  Mabbot too had a limited selection, for when I arrived, she wore the same gown. Her pearl necklace had been lost to the sea.

  We sat in silence for a moment before I complained, “I was on my hands and knees for two hours today, trying to coax the heaps of coals into a manageable pile without burning the ship to the waterline.”

  “You’ve made a worthy sacrifice,” she said. “We all have. The men will be bitter for having lost their silver, though it saved their lives. It is a complicated thing. With money in their pockets, they become lazy and contrary. Heavy and slow, as does the Rose herself.” Under her breath, she continued: “A small part of me is glad to be rid of it. When my men are hungry, with death upon their heels, they work hard and never complain and enjoy their own company. They sing every night.”

  “But did the stove really need to go? How much difference—”

  “The stove was destined for the bottom, Wedge. We merely contrived not to have the ship go with it.”

  “You’ll taste the difference.”

  “I have come to trust your genius. Show me.”

  “Grilled squid and green-mango salad with cilantro, mint, and a pinch of cayenne,” I announced, lifting the cover to reveal the meal. “White bean soup à la babirusa, garnished with pilchard roe, and, to finish, pineapple cobbler.”

  “You see?” Mabbot said, kissing my forehead. “You’re unstoppable.”

  The early evening was spent in a very plea
sant fashion with heavy attention to the feast. When we could not eat another bite, I popped open a bottle of ginger beer, which made quite a mess, gushing as it did. There is little alcohol in it, but its effervescence finished the evening perfectly. I’m emboldened by the success of my ad hoc yeast, and it has given me hope for the banana cider. I was so content with things that I felt brave enough to pose a question: “If the Pendleton Company is busy flooding China with opium, who is delivering afternoon tea to the civilized world?”

  “It’s a fancy piece of finance,” Mabbot answered. “The ships arrive empty; not a single shilling comes from English coffers. The Pendleton Company buys tea on credit, sells slave-grown opium to eliminate that credit with a substantial profit in addition, then heads home with ships full of tea, silk, and silver.”

  “I thought China allowed trade only through Canton.”

  Mabbot laid out a map of the South China shore and pointed to an imperial-looking structure. “For the sake of the tea trade, China allows Pendleton to occupy this little patch of land at the mouth of the Pearl River. Every cup of tea you have ever had was a once a leaf under that roof. The Chinese call it the Barbarian House. It’s a warehouse, a fortress, an embassy, an outpost, and a front for the biggest criminal operation in history. It is the reason England is rich while the rest of Europe is planting in salted fields. You know, Wedge, you’re positively handsome when you’re not being a boor!”

  I saw her point. Or rather, I believed her. I had heard of the opium trade, but I had no idea it was the foundation of the Oriental shipping industry, let alone the reason for the English presence in India. Our little interview was proceeding with an uncommon courtesy. I have to admit that there is a certain thrill in seeing the world through Mabbot’s unflinching eyes. I had not known secrets this large could be kept.

  I pushed on. “But if China knows the Pendleton Company is smuggling opium, why do they tolerate it?”