Sea of Two Suns

by Nicholas McAuliff

  “Roc,” said the pirate. “Strange name for a ship.”

  “Iron fittings on the hull,” said Francisco, running his hands over iron sheeting wrapped about the bow.

  “She’s double and cross planked,” said the merchant.

  “She was fit for the ice then?”

  “Never made it that far,” replied the merchant. “She’s a Barque. A merchant vessel run aground, then a short venture as a modified whaler in which quota fell so short no man beyond the captain took any lay at all. Then none wanted anything to do with her so an ambitious captain having failed to find the passage bought her at discount and started fitting her for the north.”

  “And then.”

  “And then he drank himself to death.”

  “I see.”

  “Two stoves be below deck forward and aft but only be enough coal for three day’s burn. Now consequently she has less storage in the hold, yet she can sport a good tonnage gentlemen.”

  “Sounds like a catastrophe of a ship,” said the pirate sternly.

  “Then I implore you to take sail with a traditional crew, two are leaving on the morrow.”

  “But the tryworks,” said Francisco. “She was a whaler indeed.”

  “The Roc has never quite had a place to call her own,” said the merchant as he admired the ship. “An ostrich among eagles, ironic as this is seeing her namesake. But I am guessing you are not looking for whales,” said the merchant.

  “We make sail northbound, but rest assured we don’t seek out any fool’s errand like the Northwest Passage,” said the pirate. “Not that far north, one hopes.”

  “We do not care where you sail. I understand pirates do not name their ships, especially after the frozen fate of the last Barbarys.”

  “I was a whaler,” replied the pirate.

  “I have seen whalers, and pirates, and criminals who believe their freedom lies out there,” the merchant said pushing his hand toward the open ocean beyond the titan ships dotting the port. “You are not a whaler, but I do not care what you are.”

  “Then enough questions and onto the payment!”

  “We lease these ships on credit, not good faith gentlemen.”

  “Credit,” said the pirate.

  “Coin!” said the merchant.

  “Ah,” whispered the pirate.

  “Understand if you are granted a lease, should you decide to disappear at sea or plunder merchants or whalers, once ashore you will be in the custody of the Marshalls who shall chase you from here to the far southwestern lands which Mexico once called their own. Understand that you will be shot on sight. Understand that your families will be responsible for the debt, even if it takes decades, and if you have no family your estates will be plundered. All of this is in the lease. Now, about the credit.”

  “Aye,” said the pirate. “As I said, no fool’s errand. We are whalers going on our own way so as to make this our last voyage.”

  The merchant raised his eyebrows and he and the older merchant looked at one another. “You will offer no competition to whalers who sail from here or Nantucket,” he said. “Should even your voyage be blessed, whatever haul you manage will not allow you to retire from the work of men.”

  “Why in God’s name would you sail north at the dusk of October?” asked the monocle wearing merchant. “For whales, at that,” he said. He wore a long white beard.

  “Well we will see about that,” said the pirate faking a smile. “You understand, as a man, time wears on you like the sea and surely-”

  The other merchant put up his hands. “This is all irrelevant,” he said.

  The pirate spilled from the leather pouch three rubies which sparkled pink-red in the sun. The white-bearded merchant lumbered over and observed them with his monocle.

  Francisco stacked two high rows of silver rounds in front of the gems and Isaac from his pocket pulled the single Spanish gold coin and held it up and bit it then placed it in front of the silvers.

  “Significant amount of silver Francisco,” said Isaac. “For a man who left their coin back home.”

  “Sold the horses back in Boston. Along with the trapper’s stallion. Tell him not.”

  “They were leased,” hissed Isaac. “In my damned name!”

  Francisco ignored Isaac and from his pocket pulled a tarnished silver pocket watch and added it to the pile.

  The merchant laughed. “I am not a jeweler, sir. I am not lending one of our ships for rubies, gems or not.”

  “The gold, the silver!” yelled the pirate.

  “You’ve a fair amount of value here, but the rocks I don’t want,” the merchant said, rolling the three reddish stones back toward the pirate and greeting another group of men who approached.

  “Most men in civilized towns and counties in America do not trade in gemstones,” said the white bearded merchant with his monocle donned. “That how they do it in Quebec?” A low rumble of laughter came from the other merchants. “Maybe the high seas, but not here, gentlemen. One more ounce of gold, forty more ounces of silver, or fifteen horses as collateral, of which we keep four as interest. We are not taking notes at this time. Good day.”

  “Hoy!” the pirate yelled. “Hoy,” he said as he dug through a pocket in his lapel. Out he pulled a fistful of silver ingots, palm sized, no more than one ounce per. They were unmarked and unstamped.

  The merchant sighed and looked at the lopsided silver. “Has it been assayed? I do not want junk silver.”

  “Silver is silver,” said the pirate.

  “In fact it is not,” said the merchant pushing back the pile. “Good day!”

  The two men hurried to keep pace with the pirate, who with a look of fury about him was pacing through the busy streets, not taking any care to watch for the traffic.

  A mule team pulling a wagon of cut-stone stopped and rose on their hind legs. Their rider gritting his teeth and cursed. “Make way!” he screamed. “Damned knaves!”

  “You understand if my confidence is wavering pirate,” said Francisco as he trailed the man who had almost broken into a sprint.

  “And your letter spoke cryptically of treasure on the frozen seas!”

  “Where are you going?” asked Francisco.

  “Stables,” he said. “Should he still live a trapper resides on the far side of the city and he owes me. It will be an hour’s ride to get there.”

  “I will go tell the men,” said Isaac.

  “No,” said Francisco. “Stay with us.”

  “A fur trapper,” said Isaac? What business do they have in New Bedford?”

  “He used to plunder with me and now sells his loot sparingly to outgoing and incoming whalers who tire of the lance,” answered the pirate. “I know of his hoard and his past and he owes me.”

  The fur trapper sat at a desk strewn with items befitting of a tradesman. There were brittle maps furled and curling at the edges, quills and nibs and a lectern stacked high with papers. A long musket was mounted on the wall behind the trapper and miniature silver ingots were stacked all over as if ready for some large payment.

  The man himself sat bearded and gaunt; A brown-bearskin draped his shoulders, and around and behind him hung rolls of furs, stacked high in bundles of red and yellow and stark white. They were stamped with ink, marking different points of origin from the frozen north. Two men and a woman in an adjacent room beat pelts with rods and clouds of dust soon coated all.

  He inspected the lump of unmarked silver rejected by the seaside merchants. “I’d not turn away gold and silver but they’ve been had,” he said. He wrote busily as he eyed the pile of silver ingots before him.

  “Ha!” balked the pirate. “You’re a whore for anything that shines.”

  The trapper grinned and tossed down his quill. “In my youth always, gold and silver,” he said. “Rounds, ingots and idols of gods east and west. Now, my hair is grey, pirate. Relics of the far east interest me, things had by emperors and kings.”

  “Think you I am walking tomb!” sai
d the pirate.

  The trapper smiled. “Indeed I do,” he said.

  “You owe me!” the pirate hissed.

  “Stones of the earth were never abundant even in my days of venturing caverns far and deep across the Black Sea,” he said. “One sapphire for twenty-seven years of sailing and searching, that’s my lot, and imperfect at that,” he said, pointing to a sky-blue gem sitting encased atop a shelf above the far oaken Armoire.

  The gem sat high and proud as an insert on some sort of ebony curved dagger. But it was indeed imperfect from its own design; uneven and milky. Like cloudy skies, not dark like the frozen sea, as was said to be the most valuable sort of sapphire.

  “I know,” said the pirate. “We had this discussion in St. Augustine before you had us sail through a summer squall which ran us aground. Last time I sail with a damned fur trapper!”

  “Never, never as long as I live would you let me forget that day,” the trapper said.

  “That day, amongst others where had I not been there you would be dead or mending broken down whale ships on these docks!”

  “Alas,” the trapper said as his faced turned somber. “But I desire things from chambers across the sea. Where they say river kings of old once dwelt and knelt to the sun.” His eyes flashed up quick, then he was back to his work atop a wax-strewn desk, candles in the throes of death.

  “I can add three rubies in the raw, small cuts,” the pirate said, producing the small leather pouch from his lapel.

  The trapper’s eyes sparkled. He emptied a vile of whale oil into a lamp, and it radiated almost instantly. “How many carats?” he asked.

  “I’m no jeweler,” replied the pirate. “You tell me a fair price. I bide by your honor.”

  “Obliged.”

  The trapper grasped the leather purse and wore a single optical lens. In the lamplight it was as if a magenta shine came somehow from within the bloodier red stones. Inside, dusty stars running in trails, sparkling through hollow ruby canyons. Two were similar in size, jagged and cut hard at the corners, like lopsided squares. The third and smallest was almost perfectly round, save for a deep gash in its center, contrasting the pink of the larger rocks.

  “Where did you find these stones?” asked the trapper.

  “That’ll be a different price,” the pirate said.

  “Fair gems. I’ll give you this one-ounce cross of our lord.” The trapper pulled from a drawer a small golden cross, barely larger than a ring and baring the image of Jesus of Nazareth. Though small, it shined radiant yellow and beamed bright as if atop the Holy Mountain now.

  The pirate’s eyes grew huge and reflected the tiny treasure. He snatched the thing from the trapper’s hands and bit down on it as those beating the furs gasped and signed the cross. “Done,” the pirate said without looking away from the gold, and the two clasped hands.

  “Now between that ounce there and my word, I will vouch for you as a lessee. I know the men you just came from and they trust my word.”

  “Fuck your word,” said the pirate.

  “We have a ship in mind,” said Francisco. “Called Roc.”

  “Absurd name for a ship,” said the pirate.

  “Yes,” said the trapper. “She is small for a whaleship.”

  “As we are aware,” said the Mexican.

  “She ran aground in Angola and then ran aground once again off the Cook Islands and that was that,” said the trapper. “So none have sailed with her since nor her Jonah Captains.”

  “Angola?” said Isaac.

  “Aye,” said the trapper. “Their French captain at the time claimed to be staved by some denizen from the waters, or maybe just a mad crew.”

  Isaac laughed. “Failures of a captain are less a man’s fault when caused by a monster.”

  “Yes. But he swore never to go to sea again, whatever happened off that countryside. Eighteen and o-one, that was.”

  “When!” exclaimed the pirate. “We need to sail immediately, tonight preferably.”

  “I will vouch for you now,” said the trapper as he rose and took up a heavy fur.

  “Obliged,” said Francisco.

  “Now understand that this ship does not belong to you,” the trapper said wagging a finger at the men. “You have ten months, gentlemen. Then the Marshalls shall be at my door, Christ be saved. And do not think an inventory is not had of the dishware in the captain’s quarters. This is a lease.”

  X

  With nightfall making way the New Bedford tavern filled with whalers and merchants as one. Rows of cod topped with tomatoes and oysters lined the center long table and men in blue woolen lounge jackets and trousers took shillings and served out the chow and others kept glasses full.

  “More of my taste,” said Isaac looking around.

  “Do you recognize anyone pirate? I see no Cree here,” said Francisco. “We cannot make sail with six men, pirate. You forgive me for not counting Julius in the manifesto.”

  The pirate nodded. “Julius! Off the sill,” he shouted. And Julius climbed down from the far windowsill as ordered and lumbered toward the table.

  “Yonder there,” said the pirate nodding toward a packed table of men who sat surrounding a ragged rambling drunkard as if children listening to a storyteller.

  “I do not know him,” said Francisco. “I recognize those yonder,” he said, pointing to a smaller table where a beardless old man raised his glass. “Based in Nantucket. Captain O’Leary. We sailed together briefly.”

  “Aye,” said Jerimiah. “And the fellows over there, yonder,” he said pointing to three stools where long men in overcoats sat silently and scanned the room. “They work the stands at New York Harbor where Ambergris is prized. Send it up to New France. And France itself.”

  “So the Boston Rendezvous has become the New Bedford Rendezvous, I see,” replied the pirate. “Perhaps I should have specialized in stealing Ambergris from whalers bound back for Nantucket and New York. Expensive stuff.”

  “Yes, and they cut off your hands for stealing it,” said Francisco.

  “Simon,” snapped the pirate. “Go see about chow for the lot of us.”

  “And water,” said Francisco.

  Simon rose and walked to the center of the tavern. “How would one procure chow for a crew?” he announced. “I am to see about chow.”

  The pirate sighed and downed his tankard.

  “Thought we wasn’t drinkin!” said the hunter Herb.

  “Belay that order,” said the pirate, his eyes scanning over every single man in the place. “We may be here for some time yet.”

  “Only gotta say it once,” said Herb as he unveiled his flask.

  And through the door stepped McDaniel, who stopped and surveyed the room. Following him was the Inuk. Groups seemed to circulate around the duo as planets orbit a sun, though none spoke to them. They took a seat at a table which remained open as if awaiting their coming. The man in red scanned the room stoically and his eyes stopped on the pirate’s. He raised his glass but did not smile, the pirate remained motionless, and the Irish raised his eyes and tilted his head and drank his drink down.

  “Still keep your arms at the ready and your wits about you,” said the pirate, not looking away from McDaniel. “Jerimiah. Unfurl that map you spoke of and watch the candles.”

  Without words Jerimiah unbound the scrolled map and displayed the thing which took up half the table as its chapped corners curled inwards.

  Julius stepped in and placed his palms down on those corners and looked up proudly.

  “Thank you Julius,” said the pirate.

  Francisco gripped a lantern hanging from the rear door. He lumbered with heavy boots and long coat and the light illuminated him and men from the dark corners looked at him as it did but none challenged the Mexican. He set the thing down so that it glowed on the map.

  The map marked the Western Hemisphere’s passages of the ocean northward and westward of New France. It was focused on the northerly part of New England with no colonial or st
ate designations or boundaries, where farther north and inland to where Hudson Bay would be was the word Baie drawn large and bold, with the word preceding that smeared and unreadable.

  “Baie,” said Isaac. “Bay, I think. Be it English of yesteryear or French, I believe.”

  At the two top corners were Cherubs blowing wind from trumpets downward. What appeared to be a herd of tiny Reindeer were drawn extending inland, with lines crossing out most of the trails on which they ran. Stars extended upwards towards the edge of the map, as if their pattern ran out of its paper bounds.

  Isaac studied the thing feverishly as if his eyes could not keep up. “Here,” he said and pointed to rune-like symbols near the northerly parts of the map, then drew his finger below those symbols and over Norp Aegir written also bold but faded such that the writer had to lean in with monocle to make it out. “It has been amended, added to by others of different tongues,” he said.

  “What does it say?” asked the pirate.

  “Sea of the north, I think, or northern-”

  “Not an American Map,” noted the pirate.

  “Where did you procure such a map Jerimiah?” asked Francisco.

  “When we were in Crimea,” replied Jerimiah. “And the trade chief with whom I bartered for it claimed it first came from the steppes where the Tatars once held sway, then the Ottomans procured it sometime after. He said a lover of the Sultan third Selim had kept it under marble walls and key after that, where no hands nor elements had touched it for as long as she had lived.”

  The pirate looked on at Jerimiah as if ready to erupt. “We never held loot from one another. All the things I have wronged you with, never did I hide loot from you.”

  “No,” said Jerimiah. “But you be out on your arse on the quarterdeck filled to the brim with Rum, so I took that as your go ahead.”

  “You told me you stole this map from the Wazir when we were in Istanbul.”

  “Had I spoken truth I would be decaying dead somewhere under the south pacific and you would not have bothered to attend this rendezvous,” Jerimiah said.

  “It was you who stole the sapphires in Crimea.”

  “Aye, the whole lot of them it took to acquire this map. Kill me now if you see fit.”