The comte claimed to have already purchased some forty-five of these coolies due to arrive on the Rozack itself. If the new labor scheme proved successful—and who could offer a viable reason as to why it should not?—he had already set aside funds to purchase hundreds more. Indeed, the comte estimated conservatively that his cane, cocoa, and copra cultivations in Trinidad, Tobago, Grenada, and the other islands were so extensive, they could employ a thousand coolies! Of all the estate owners aboard, he was the most vocal and enthusiastic advocate of this new strategy of importing indentured East Indian laborers.
According to the comte, these coolies were starving in their own country. Some of them—particularly the lower Sudra and pariah castes—lived loathsome, abominable lives; they were treated no better than dogs. These coolies were most eager—in truth, some of them even desperate—to sell themselves away on contracts of five or ten years, after which they would return home to India. At this time—when their contracts had expired and the coolies would more than likely no longer be useful, anyway—their owners would be absolved of all responsibility for them. (This had proved an expensive and tedious problem with the former African slaves, bound to their owners for life; in this regard only had emancipation served to the plantation owners’ benefit.) The coolies would, by law, be provided their return passage, at which time the population of workers could be replenished by fresh, youthful, and unspent laborers, sent out on the same ships. For once this labor scheme was fully and permanently put into place, the ships would be sailing back and forth between Asia and the West Indies, virtually without interruption.* Even if the demand for these coolies grew to be so great that the Indian population could not sustain it—an incredible notion indeed!—countless more indentured laborers were readily available in China.
During the period of indenture stipulated by their contracts, the estate owners would be responsible for the coolies’ housing, care, and sustenance. For this reason new barracks of bamboo or mud huts were already under construction on the estates, or, if they had not already rotted and fallen to the ground, the quarters utilized by the former slaves were being renovated. Due to the Hindoo and Muslim religions that the East Indians adhered to with the utmost reverence (and, the comte pointed out, as a result of the “Indian hemp” and opium they habitually consumed), the coolies, unlike the former Africans, were extremely placid and agreeable by nature. Their Hindoo and Muslim religions also forbade them the consumption of animal food (another “fringe benefit” for their owners, according to the comte: cheap fuel!); the coolies maintained a strict diet of rice, channah,** and a few basic vegetables and roots. These staples could be grown easily and cheaply enough by the laborers themselves, on small plots located near the barracks set aside for that purpose. Or, alternatively, the staples might be imported for next to nothing on the same ships that brought the laborers: rice, dried channah, and “Indian hemp” traveled the sea without spoilage better than any other consumable commodities. Lastly, according to coolies’ contracts of indenture, the estate owners would pay them a daily allowance of twenty-five cents.***
Comte César de Beauvoisin was also, as one can well imagine, the particular object of Mr. Etzler’s seething and pent-up wrath. And not simply as a flesh eater. (Indeed, it was rumored that the comte’s only luggage consisted of 106 cured Catalonian hams, and a flock of twenty-seven sheep from his farm in the Pyrenees, together with a collection of other live animals that made the Rosalind seem, in truth, like his personal Noah’s ark!) For the first week at sea Mr. Etzler and the comte did not exchange a word together. Though the comte was present at all of Mr. Etzler’s lectures, advertised and improvised, on the TES, his satellite, naval automaton, and his various other inventions. In fact, at each of these discussions and lectures the comte made a deliberate show of dedicating more attention to his pair of half-eaten mutton legs—reclining on a commodious chaise longue toted dutifully by the stewards from deck to parlor to saloon at his beck and call, with a large white napkin spread diamondwise over his enormous chest—shifting, quite audibly and voraciously, from one greasy fist to another. Likewise, each time the comte fell into an extended discourse on his indentured coolies, Mr. Etzler stood at a distance listening, without so much as opening his mouth. Until the experience had become so physically painful for Mr. Etzler he could no longer bear it, and he stormed off in a huff.
Not until the evening of their seventh day at sea was there any actual communication between the two headstrong men. On that evening there had been a particularly elaborate dinner for the first-class passengers, provided generously by the comte himself, the prize of his private menagerie: a recently born litter of eighteen slowly and delicately spit-roasted petits porcelets, each encrusted with a skin of the crispiest crackling. With Mr. Etzler and Mr. Stollmeyer making their standard demonstration of getting up indignantly from their seats as soon as the meat or fish course was served (on this occasion an entire piglet curled on their plates in the fetal position, adorned with a sprig of parsley in its snout), crossing the dining hall before the main table at which Captain Damphier and the comte sat, and whirling their full plates in the manner of Olympian strongmen tossing their disks, out the open window. Same as every meal taken aboard the Rosalind that Mr. Etzler and Mr. Stollmeyer attended—much to the scandal of the other diners—they did not touch a morsel that was placed before them until the final fare, when the stewards brought out the dessert tray of puddings, fruits, and nuts.
As usual, the majority of the gentlemen traveling in first class retired to the saloon after dinner for a brandy and cigar, the ladies to their tea parlor. But on this particular evening Mr. Stollmeyer and Mr. Etzler had joined them in the saloon for a lemon bitters. Mr. Etzler had launched, in one corner of the room, and in his heavily accented English, his case of silverware chained somewhat awkwardly to his wrist, into an impromptu lecture to several of the wealthy plantation owners present. As was his custom, he ascended a small coffee table to facilitate his delivery.
“West Indian plantachion owners”—Mr. Etzler spoke loudly enough for all to hear—“stuck in zee blind prejudices huff zair age-old practices unt customs, are dumb as donkeys! Belligerent unt boorish as billy goats!”
He cited, by way of example, the dangerous and particularly labor-intensive process utilized by the planters to crystallize sugar from extracted cane juice. This process could, he maintained, be accomplished virtually cost free (since there would be no labor involved) and danger free (since neither heat nor fuel would be required to boil the juice) by employing a procedure of his own invention; it had been thoroughly and rigorously tested in London by scientists and chemical engineers of the highest knowledge and experience.**** Furthermore, his invention was now patented, due to the assistance of his faithful associate (here Mr. Etzler indicated Mr. Stollmeyer, who took a gracious bow), in Great Britain, France, Holland, and other countries as well. This process for crystallizing sugar, stated Mr. Etzler, like all of his inventions and discoveries—so praised by the world as advances of profound and extraordinary genius!—utilized only the most rudimentary and basic of scientific, chemical, and engineering principles.
“Zee problem wiz men since antiquity,” stated Etzler, his voice growing still more voluminous, “is zat zey do not reason! Zey do not sink!” Stuck for centuries in their colossal state of mental sloth and barbaric ignorance, the generality of men do not even open their eyes to see what lies directly in front of their noses! In point of fact, Mr. Etzler boasted, his little chest expanded within the confines of his crimson vest, this invention for crystallizing sugar—which could easily earn him millions of pounds if we’re only interested in offering it for purchase on the international market, and not for the general advancement of scientific knowledge and embetterment of life for all humanity—utilized the simplest chemical principle known to every “knuckleheaded schoolboy older zen zee age huff seffen!”
In the silence that followed Mr. Etzler’s speech—a moment that felt, in truth, as though h
e’d sucked the air out of the entire room—the comte got up, with some difficulty, from his lounge chair at the other end of the saloon.
“Écoutez ici, Monsieur Etzler,” he spoke in an even voice, holding a fairly large and somewhat soiled canvas sack in his two hands.
All in the saloon turned to give the comte their attention.
“You crystallize sugar,” he said, “without see use of fuel ou le feu, oui? for everyone here to witness, and I pay you see equivalent of ten thousand pounds in gold doubloons!”
With that he tossed his bag—in a resounding shillink and with a great exhalation of ancient dust—onto the coffee table before him.
“Fail,” announced the comte, “et avant le Christ avec sa Vierge Sainte, Captain Damphier’ll set you in a fuckin rowboat, adrift, au milieu de la grande mer!”
Another palpable silence followed the comte’s pronouncement, during which every man in that saloon—not excluding Mr. Etzler himself, standing atop the coffee table with his silverware case chained awkwardly to his wrist, his mouth agape—watched the comte recline again in his chaise longue. He reached into his vest pocket, the livery-clad waiter stepping forward to light his cigar.
Now began the period of Willy’s night prowling. His first objective was to recover his frock coat and the rest of his newly tailored clothing from his family’s luggage in the hold, so that he might move with impunity between the third- and first-class sections of the ship. It took him four nights. He slept in his cabin during the day. Willy became a nocturnal animal: not long after the ten o’clock curfew—when the third-class passengers were required to be in their bunks and his three sisters had fallen asleep—he would slip out of his berth and take down the kerosene lantern from its hook on the bulkhead. (Though he wouldn’t light it until he had securely relocked the plank door of one of the storerooms behind him.) Still wearing his nightshirt, in the dark, he’d tiptoe out of the cabin and up the stairs. Willy discovered that during the evening hours the deck steward was seldom at his station. If he happened to be there, he generally lay in the middle of a huge coil of rope, an unfinished flask of rum in his hand, snoring away.
Unless there was some special event for the upper-class passengers, they’d be sleeping soundly in their cabins by ten o’clock as well. Only the first mate and his watchman at the helm, or the cooks preparing meals for the following day, might be awake at that hour. But on his bare feet Willy moved silently across the boards. He ducked past the elevated, window-shielded station at midship that housed the helm. Willy proceeded forward, across the forecastle deck and down a flight of carpeted steps, past the deserted dining hall and saloon and the vacant ladies’ tea parlor—past the open door of the first-class galley where the cooks tended their pots in a pungent cloud of smoke and steam—down several flights of narrow stairs to the hold. In pitch darkness, he knew by touch now which of the eight iron keys fit each of the eight brass padlocks, four doors on either side of the hallway.
Willy was always careful to lock the plank doors behind him again—squeezing the padlocks closed with his long, dexterous fingers shoved, conveniently enough, out through the holes that served as door handles. Still, there’d been a couple of close calls: the cook descending to the ship’s pantry for some necessary ingredient for his pot, a steward sent to retrieve a bottle of whiskey from another of the storage rooms. But Willy had managed to out his lantern just in time. He grew accustomed—even in the midst of his wild rummagings through the veritable treasure trove of luggage and goods—to keeping a cautious ear cocked.
Willy should have been reunited with Juliette three days earlier. He now knew the ship’s layout (at least that portion forward of the cabin he shared with his sisters) well enough to diagram and label each level: the purpose to which each room was dedicated, the contents stowed in every compartment. According to his calculations the Whitechurches’ cabin—and the bed in which Juliette, at that same moment, lay peacefully asleep—was located two levels up, and only a short distance forward of the very compartment of the hold into which he had, presently, locked himself. For on that same night in which he discovered, finally, the whereabouts of the five brown leather trunks labeled—
—and in the light of his kerosene lantern he’d shed his nightshirt, dressed himself at last in his newly tailored suit, including his boots and embroidered silk vest and frock coat; Willy also happened to find, in another storeroom entirely, the place in which the most valuable and luxurious articles aboard ship were stowed.
Waylaid by his findings, Willy did not let himself out of this particular storeroom for another three days and nights.
Willy was not present on the forecastle deck for the demonstration advertised by Mr. Etzler and Mr. Stollmeyer, though it was the first event since the onset of the voyage at which practically all of the passengers aboard the Rosalind were in attendance, including the other members of Willy’s family, the Whitechurches, and Juliette herself. That afternoon the sea was flat as a plate. As though to signal the approaching proximity of the tropics, it was colored a most luxurious and glittering sapphire. In fact, the sun shone brighter and warmer on that particular afternoon than it had since the Rosalind set sail fifteen days previously. Such splendid warm weather worked well in Mr. Etzler’s favor. At his specifications a small table was placed atop the enormous crate that held the disassembled Satellite, lashed down securely in the aftmost portion of the forecastle deck. Upon the table sat a fairly small and innocuous black box. No one could say when during the day the box had appeared there, or what might be its contents. Though it was the general speculation of all present that if the box did not contain Mr. Etzler’s invention, then it must at least hold some ingredient or chemical substance necessary to his scientific demonstration.
Adding to the festivities Captain Damphier had ordered iced lemonade for the children, in addition to a special punch of his own recipe spiked with dark West Indian rum and Angostura bitters, to be served to all the adults. In truth, a considerable quantity of this punch had already been consumed when, accompanied by a resounding cheer, Mr. Etzler appeared at last at the bottom of the ladder installed by the sailors for him to ascend to his elevated platform atop the crate. He’d arrived a good hour and a half after the time stipulated on the announcement that Mr. Stollmeyer had written out by hand in multiple copies and posted throughout the ship.
But it was not the Comte César de Beauvoisin—as advertised in Mr. Stollmeyer’s notice and sitting placidly enough in his chaise longue drinking a rum punch some distance away—who would be responsible for the mishap that ensued. And that very nearly resulted in Mr. Etzler’s loss of life and limb. Neither would Captain Damphier be found guilty. Indeed, it would be due to the captain’s own quick thinking and ready actions that his life would be spared! It would be the passengers themselves, not excluding two or three members of Mr. Etzler’s society, who would find cause to respond in such an uproarious and unruly fashion. Particularly after offering up their very dear shillings for the privilege of witnessing this much-anticipated scientific experiment. Particularly after the rum punch began to run short.
Mr. Etzler tucked the tail of his long beard into his crimson vest. With obvious danger to himself and others as well—especially those spectators gathered directly beneath him—he began to climb the ladder while simultaneously carrying his case loaded down with silverware. Arriving safely to his elevated platform, he laid his case on the table and snapped it open. It was only then that the spectators realized that he had dispensed with the chain and padlock securing the case to his left wrist. Now he removed not knives and forks or a silver teapot, as some might have expected, but the model of his Satellite, in addition to a miniaturized version of one of its prescribed attachments. As was his custom, Mr. Etzler snapped his case closed again and placed it on the plank boards of the crate beneath his feet, stepping up on top of it.
Taking advantage of the crowd gathered before him—in English that became increasingly inflected with German, and less easy
to interpret, as his excitement grew—Mr. Etzler launched into an impassioned lecture on the subject of his agrarian machine. The fact that he happened to be standing atop the crate containing the very mechanism that he now elucidated for his audience added a further poignancy to his delivery. Of course, a good number of those spectators present—members of the TES and others as well—had heard all of this verbatim on a number of occasions already. Other passengers, including a handful who knew absolutely nothing of Mr. Etzler or his machine, were similarly disinterested: they had offered up their shillings to see a “scientific demonstration” (which, in the minds of most, meant an experiment of extraordinary and arresting chemical magic). They had not paid to hear a lecture on some silly model that looked, to them, like the plaything of a mischievous boy—a rabbit-sized rack of medieval torture. And if they did not get the spectacle, in the very least, they had surrendered their hard-earned shillings for the somewhat perverse pleasure and privilege, as advertised, of seeing this peculiar little puffed-up man who thought so highly of himself, set adrift in a rowboat in the middle of the sea.
One way or another, they were going to get their money’s worth.
In response to a handful of rather indignant shouts to “Get on with the bloody experiment!” or something similar, Mr. Etzler put down the model of his Satellite, and he took up the miniature attachment.
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