Kingston by Starlight

by Christopher John Farley

  Our longboats were of West Indian construction, being made of two cedar trees hollowed out, with three oars on either side. First-Rate took command of one vessel and Read took possession of the second, with Rackam left behind to command the Will. I was of a mind to sit out the proceedings, but Read grabbed my hand, pulled me aboard his ship, and slapped my back.

  “Who wants to live forever?” he said, smiling like a skull.

  The morning was still gray, and a mist hung over the black water. As we set out, with only a quarter of an hour left before dawn, we immediately became aware of a difficulty. The ship we were pursuing had increased its speed and would not easily be caught. If we did not catch the ship before the sun lit the sky, our longboat would be an easy mark for her mounted guns. Read, who had been navigating the craft, pushed aside one of the crew and took a seat at the oars next to me. We rowed with all our might and quite soon our clothes were soaked with sweat. Alas! The ship we pursued was clearly on the move now and had caught a full wind.

  “Row harder, sea-dogs,” Read said. “Row, or this boat, come the dawn, will be our coffin.”

  And so we rowed. Read had a natural air of command and the growl of his voice encouraged the men. The wind must have heard him, too, for it died and then changed direction. Soon we had caught our quarry and we crept up astern. She was a fine ship, of French construction from the look of her. We scaled the sides and surprise was ours— the ship was better built than captain’d and all hands had been dozing through the night, without even a man in the masthead. We took the men when they were in their hammocks and the captain, short of stature and faint of heart, surrendered after the promise was made that no harm would come to him or to a cabin-boy of whom he had grown fond, and that in raiding his ship’s stores, he would be left with at least one crate of his precious Madeira wine. The former we granted, but the latter we wholeheartedly denied, tho’, once we broke open his store of spirits, we offer’d him a glass to toast the demise of his captaincy and craft.

  So now, well stocked with newly captured victuals and other supplies, yet another night of revels commenced. God rested but once after shaping the heavens and earth in seven days; in the week since Read join’d our company, we had so far had occasion to take our pause twice in the same span. But, ah, if I could have but cried “Avast!” to the celebrations raging around me, the cauterwauling, the backslapping, the chorus singing, and carrying-on. We make our own time on board ships, no matter what the calendar declares: so while it was a springtime in the hearts of the other men, in my mind it was an icy December of the soul.

  Even as the men celebrated, I went below deck, to a secret space that I had found insulated from sound and sight, from laughter and smiling eyes, from the pounding of dancing feet and the screech of the fiddle. I was still plagued, every month as surely as the cycles of the moon, by a bleeding between the legs and it was here, in my hidden chamber, that I washed myself, scrubbed my breeches, and stored my soiled rags. I had also transported Sugar-Apple’s iron trunk here for safekeeping, but I had yet to peer inside of it to learn its secrets, for my sadness at the loss of that sweet soul was too fresh. Instead, I used it as a bench and now, gloomily, I fairly collapsed upon it. In the darkness, a decanter of spirits my only company, I put my head in my hands and I wept. The source of my melancholy, I knew not; it was a deep dark well with no bottom in sight and full of the echoes of my own voice. So I wept into this well as if I could fill it with my tears. I felt all around me, even in this enclosed space, a stiff, chill wind. I was without companions, without direction, without a ship of my own. I was alone on the waves, buffeted to and fro, driven to what sea or what shore I knew not.

  It was then that I became aware of another presence in the room. I cried out for the stranger to identify himself, and then, with a laugh and not with words, he made himself known. It was Read, having left the revels above to seek some solace below. He had a bottle of Madeira wine clutched in one hand and his breath was sweet with the drink. He cozied up beside me in a cloud of spirits.

  Ahhh— I could have spilt his heart’s blood at that moment. There is a sanctity of private moments that should not, must not be interrupted or else all the days of our lives are spent in shallows and in misery. We require small, quiet moments set aside in our days and nights to find the true meaning of what we see and experience. Most people, based on my private observations, do without the reflective moments, and so, without them, they simply follow the footsteps of their lives, never guessing that the path they follow is truly one of chaos, a road that leads in circles, or worse, over a precipice. I, however, safeguard my moments of introspection, checking the charts and maps of my soul, as it were, before continuing on the journey of my life. But, ahh, I am not some philosopher king, given to spending his time remarking and reflecting on the metaphysical and the mysterious; I am but a mariner and I will leave such introspections to more erudite folk.

  But, by my faith, it must be said that I did not welcome Read into this time I had earmarked for my soul’s self-reflection. I felt an anger in me escape its bonds, like some shark, a hook caught in its jaws, that snaps a line and swims free. All the rage and resentment I had harbored was now on the loose, ready to confront he who had implemented my torment. This ship was mine; I had joined her crew long before we had come upon Read and his phantom ship. I was filled with fury that bravery, which came to me only by accident, by tumble and by heel slip, seem’d to be his natural state. He was so unlike me, and yet how much I longed to be like him! How I hated him for being what I aspired to be! The fingers of my hand, almost of their own volition, got hold of the dirk in my waistband. Now was the time, perhaps, to finish what I started on that afternoon when we first fought. How good it would be to plunge the dagger deep within his breast! How satisfying it would be to feel his hot blood spill out upon my hands!

  What happened next was as unexpected as the sudden surfacing of a whale, or the happy leap of a flying fish. Before I could react, or say but a word, Read had taken me in his arms and press’d his lips to mine. My first move was to pull back, but not too far. Indeed, his lips were fuller and softer than I might have thought, and certainly not as rough. I could taste the wine on his lips and the tip of his tongue; I felt a kind of intoxication, tho’ I could not say if it was from the wine or his sudden kiss. His arms were sturdy and strong and held me firmly in their grip, tho’ not unpleasantly so.

  But now, my sense came back to me, even as all around me seem’d to welter away. Did Read have a notion of my true gender? No, his kiss and his approach seem’d not that of a man toward a woman, but of something, perhaps, in between. What should my reaction be? At that, I’ll admit, I lost hold of my thoughts, so fired was my blood at his continued embrace. But enough! I recover’d again and thought of my place on the ship— romance of whatever form would open my secret to my shipmates and leave me vulnerable to marooning or simple execution.

  I shoved Read away and stood up. He considered me with a look of bewilderment— not just over my actions, but it seem’d he appeared a bit confused about his own as well. Had his kiss surprised him as well as me? A look of shame passed over Read’s face, follow’d hard by his familiar affability. He clapped me hard on the shoulder, as if his previous action had been simply part of the general manly celebration occurring through the ship. Then he quickly left the small corner and I remained behind, in the darkness.

  In the morning, when I began my watch, I was left to puzzle about the previous night’s events. What exactly was at the core of my encounter with Read? Had his heart guessed at my true nature, prompting him to act as any man would left alone in the presence of a maiden? Or had I had too much to drink that night and imagined the closeness and intensity of his embrace? Indeed, now, in the light of the day, the kiss we shared seem’d all blurred, hard to remember and harder still to interpret.

  At the end of my watch, Read was waiting for me on the quarterdeck. He smiled at me and clapped my arm with much familiarity; his touch, on
this occasion, seem’d softer and less brusque than in our earlier encounters. Later, in the afternoon, as I did my part with several other hands to unfurl the mainsail, he came up beside me and spoke for a time. He also spoke to other hands on deck, generating his usual bonhomie, but, with me, it seemed he reserved particularly gentle tones of affection.

  Later, as I lay in my hammock, I could not willingly go into the arms of sleep, so alarmed was I with my unexpected predicament. I could not pin down what Read’s feelings were on this matter; nor could I accurately chart my own. All I did know for certain was that we were both sailing on a dangerous sea. This was a hard ship, the Will, as all privateer ships were. I had survived this long because I had suffered no breech in my hull; romance would cause all the water of the world to spill into me and take me to the fathoms below. This I could not allow.

  But, nonetheless, as my hammock swung in the dark of my quarters, I imagined rocking back and forth in the safe harbor of his arms. I thought back once more to the unexpected sweetness and softness of his lips. I had been alone for so long, like one maroon’d on some isle, I had forgotten even what I had forgotten, I had no words for what I had lost, and now unnamable emotions and needs were flooding back into my soul. Ah— how I loved men! I had forgotten my affection for the sex, even though I had been working among them. I loved their strong, safe touch, the scruff of their faces, their thick hands, their hard eyes turning gentle with love like a high sea turning smooth. I was a maiden who had guarded my chastity and surrendered it to no one, and yet, in my dreams, more men had passed through my bedchambers than passed through that of the Queen of Sheba.

  I decided I would take action. I had to get away from Read, remove the source of temptation. I would transfer my shift from starboard to larboard; while he slept, I would work, and while he worked, I would sleep and we would meet only in my dreams. Yes, this fantasy could be only fantasy. I would see the captain about my shift come the morn.

  chapter 18.

  At dusk I heard the singing once again. The voice, like milkweed seeds caught by some summer breeze, drifted up to my perch at the masthead. I had come here after my sleep, and now I had finished my shift and was preparing to see the captain. But the voice distracted me, and now, with the coming of the light, I was determined to identify the singer and query him about his song. As Xbalanque and Hunahpu ascended to take my place, I climbed quickly down, looking for the source of the monody.

  The voice, however, was elusive. It seem’d to come from every corner, and then to fade when that corner was turn’d. It echoed across the deck and seem’d, at times, to issue from the holds below and even from the waves that crash’d ’gainst the ship’s hull. I squinted my eyes and tried to follow my ears to the sound. A shadow I saw, a shade that seem’d to sing aloud; the dark shape flickered as it sang, like some ebon flame, and then, as I open’d my eyes to gaze upon it fully, the figure disappeared, like a match extinguished. I was left, then, with only the faint echo of the strange song in my ears.

  “Come back!” I cried. “Who are you and what is your song? I only wish to converse, nothing more! Come back!”

  But then I held my voice. In my wanderings, I had lost sight of my surroundings. I found myself in front of the captain’s cabin, standing before his very door. At the sound of my voice, he had come to his doorway, and he heartily bade me to enter forthwith.

  Rackam’s accommodations were far short of glorious; his room was at best ten feet wide and twelve feet long, and with a ceiling that would make a tall man stoop and a short man doff his hat. His bed would have tempted old Procrustes to ready his scythe, and his sheets and blanket were in need of darning and washing or perhaps outright removal. A small mahogany desk in the corner was cluttered with various tools of navigation— a sandglass, charts, and the like. The walls of the cabin were, in the main, bare, except for two small portal windows on opposing sides, and a small painting of a mermaid locked in an embrace with a man with a fish’s head and fins for arms.

  Rackam himself was seated at his desk bent over a chessboard, which he focused upon with much concentration and some obvious consternation.

  “By Aphrodite’s arse, he has me hard-pressed,” muttered Rackam.

  “Read?” I said.

  “The very one, the very one,” said Rackam. “His play is all feral, all emotional, but beyond his visceral forays and blunt sacrifice lies a canny strategy. To underestimate him is to not give the wolf his due— such creatures being savage, and yet capable of stratagems to catch their prey. And, indeed, I am nearly caught.”

  I drew close and studied the board. Curious it was, that although I had studied the game for some days now, and had come to some understanding of the rules and stratagems, I had, I learned, been mistaken as to the craft that had gone into the pieces. I had previously thought the set to be made of ebony and whale bone; I now saw that one set was made of the most exquisitely crafted ivory, and no doubt purchased at a hefty price, and that the other set, in sharp contrast, was made from ordinary lead. Ahhh— I had discovered the move that had eluded Rackam. I picked up a black rook and captured a white knight. Rackam at first shook his head and then, after a minute of pondering the move, let loose a wide smile.

  “An unexpected move,” he said. “A wise move— a daring move. We pin his king and his opposing rook while threatening his queen. Brilliant! Had I another lifetime to ponder my move, I can say, with all confidence, this same move, no doubt, would have also naturally come to me! Ha!”

  Rackam got up from his desk and flung himself on his bed.

  “Now, I may take my rest,” he said. “But first— what brings you to my quarters? Not to complain about the rations, I hope?”

  “There is not enough food for me to complain about the quality, and the food we have lacks quality enough for me to desire additional portions.”

  “It is the shares you worry about then? None are to be apportioned until we accumulate a hundred thousand pieces of eight. I keep all the shares for your own protection, lest, when we hit port, your gold winds up between a slattern’s legs.”

  “I come not to talk about finances.”

  “Then what then? I know you— you’re not given to flapping lips and loose words. Nor am I— so we have that in common. Where do your people hail from?”

  “Ireland,” I said, “by way of Carolina. My father resided there, though he has lately removed.”

  “My father was a farmer. He raised cats, whose secretions were used in perfumery.”

  “What a curious occupation!”

  “He had, it must be said, a streak of fatal whimsy. He was ever in pursuit of wealth, which, like a gossamer slip caught in the wind, ever eluded him. He also fancied himself a horticulturist— I believe that is the term of the day— and had been cultivating a kind of gray rose, but was unable to grow it, perhaps because of the dull climate. We had a modest estate in Colchester for a time but when my father’s accounts went bankrupt, he removed to London, where he instituted a bear garden.”

  “A bear garden?”

  “There were two others— one at Marylebone Fields, and another at Tothill Fields, Westminster. In each, a bear was chained to an iron ring fixed to a stake; butchers and others with a mind to exercise their dogs, or at the very least, have an afternoon’s sport, would set loose their mongrels to worry the bear for the amusement of spectators.”

  “How did that venture fare?”

  “Verily, it flourished— until one of the beasts broke loose its mooring and mauled the daughter of a prominent attorney. What a bloody sight! Afterward, my father was plagued by lawsuits: for money owed to a shipping concern, for arrears of payment to a linen draper, and the like. He searched for other employment— as a tobacconist, as a snuff-maker, as a soap-boiler— but guild restrictions being what they are, as a man of some years, he was never taken on as an apprentice. When he was, at last, stolen by the press-gang, he owed more pounds than he was likely to earn in five years and twenty.”

  “W
hat became of the family?”

  “My mother removed at last to Whitefriars, a monastery that, by custom, serves as a sanctuary for debtors. I will not trouble you to describe the hell in which she descended in order to make our accounts right, but it killed her, even before they put her in the ground in an unmark’d grave. After that sad event, I, at last, took to the ocean.”

  “And your father?”

  “He died at sea, I think. But when we amass our hundred thousand, I will build myself a comfortable home, and I will grow a whole garden of gray roses. And once I have that house, and that garden, I’ll clip me a bushel of gray roses every week and place them above my fireplace! How does Jamaica sound to you as a place to make one’s retirement?”