“When they reached the Java Sea—a somewhat diminish’d lot—they declared themselves a Maroon Society of Freebooters. Okoh, most of the female pirates, some Anglo Englishmen, several Tahitian Islanders, Africans, French Protestants, and lascars. They were rich in livestock—including a small Band of chickens and swine they had liberated from a Dutch ship (cautious to escort off only those animals who walked willingly alongside, not wanting to ‘press-gang’ any creatures into labor)—herbs, and other Provisions. Everything was held in common and every soul Valu’d and loved.
“So as not to disturb any societies living on the islands further south, the mutineers threw anchor far from any coast and set about transforming their ship into a small village. The upper deck was Devoted to growing vegetables and herbs, along with a chicken-and-swine pasture and gardens for Exercise, star-gazing and the pursuit of open-air Arts. Lowerdecks hous’d root cellars, a small library (to which the society added their own narratives), a makeshift laboratory for mutineers interested in pursuing natural Experimentation or training in doctoring, and sleeping bunks. In time, using various Flotsam collected from the sea (the Detritus of distant shipwrecks, driftwood, bones and dried shark-and-whale skin), they added to their single ship an Archipelago of outlying flotillas.
“Each member of the society was encourag’d to discov’r Activities of greatest interest. Okoh spent much of his time exploring his Passions—which tended towards the astrological. He was a sky-watcher. He’d lie awake at night, observing the conduct of the constellations across the giant dome. Daily, he conveyed valuable Information regarding developments in the Weather and the Winds to those mutineers who had taken to fishing or planting.
“Some of the pirates had become eager amateur Scientists. Their experience with roots and herbs for shipboard health form’d the basis for many gentle Experiments with the animals and plants they had collected from the Company ships. In the course of this Practice, the pirates devis’d a kind of Concoction—a recipe based on cane-drying methods they’d discover’d on long ocean journeys. They found that if they distill’d the urine of the swine for weeks in the sun and mix’d it with fruit pectin, they’d arrive at a stiff jelly that could be granulat’d in the manner of cane.
“The pirates admired the swine, which seem’d possessed of an especial Meatiness, and they wished to thicken similarly. They conjectur’d that the urine might hold a key. But the granules—they found—had little effect. Seeking Okoh’s advice, they determined on a more Subtle process—applying to the gel’d urine a complex combination of herbs, fruits, mashing Techniques, and an ineffable Something else: exposure to certain strains of Starlight. The serum, when completed, emboldened and thickened them as hoped. Over the course of time, they came to resemble grizzled coves in ways that surpris’d and delight’d them.
“This ‘gravel,’ as the mutineers called it, was easily integrated into the Maroon society. Some said it made those who took it exceptionally hell-houndish*1 and Free and Liberated with each other. Though others said they had been quite Free and Liberated with each other all along. They lived this way for the space of some years—those who wish’d to take of the serum did so, just as those who wish’d to take of spice to their food or other medicinal extractions did—while the winters were long in England and the navies kept their ships close to shore or engag’d in more pressing matters.”
The elixir. A mutineer recipe.
Jack drew closer to the bars.
“But the East India Company doesn’t forget. In addition to which, the Dutch were increasing their presence in the Java Sea. The Company—was thus provok’d to retrieve their lost merchandise, ships, and men in case the Dutch made an opportunity of the loss. In the heat of June 1722, they sent a Bombay Navy frigate to hunt for mutineers and their vessels.
“The mutineers had long dispens’d with weapons, as they had no need for such items in their community. Their guns, in fact, had gone to Rust in the heat and damp, and one or two mutineers—those that had found a liking for the cooking Arts—had discover’d the barrels served very well as planters for herbs and spices to flavor the meals.
“The Bombay Navy was supply’d with cannons, muskets, and longswords.
“The battle was brief.
“The Mutineers were rounded up and brought on board the frigate. Okoh look’d at his fellow mates, thronged in miserable bleeding Heaps on deck, and fear’d.
“ ‘What should we do?’ they called out to him. Okoh spoke in pirate cant, vociferous and Hopeful, despite the inauspicious Circumstances. We have battled the Company before and won. The captain did not understand the words Okoh spoke, but, watching him, he understood this: a journey with the mutineer leader would be too risky. When they had sail’d some way from the flotilla, the captain ordered the crew to lift Okoh from the deck and throw him overboard into the shark-clotted waters.
“And then to press on for England.
“Okoh was skilled at ropework—as some of the mates on the flotilla had entertain’d themselves and each other with games of masterful Knotting and Unknotting. He had untied his wrists long before he was thrown overboard, though he’d left the cord loosely wrapp’d to retain the appearance of Confinement.
“As the frigate pulled away, he swam back to the mutineer ships.
“There, Okoh mournfully attempted to perform all of the tasks that the freebooters had accomplish’d together. He tended the chickens and swine in the morning, rested at the heat of the day, cook’d in the evening, repair’d his tools, and attended to his bunk and general Cleanliness after supper. He told himself stories around his campfire, the way their favored tale-teller had done each night. But there was too much lost. It was not the Same without his mates. His camp fell to ruin, his literary Arts languished, and his foods dwindl’d to a daily broth of wilted greens and roots with no spices to flavor them.
“But he did have one thing: an enormous supply of the pirates’ strength gravel. He had not tried it previously, but now found it invigorated his condition.
“Okoh loaded one of the smaller flotsam-boats with what gravel he could carry, and set off for the mainland. Rumor has it he fought sea monsters and Tritons of the deep en route, but who can say for sure. They say he killed a Kraken, then pilot’d his craft through its innards and out the anus, taking note, along the way, of a lion eaten entirely whole, a British smallship, and a host of Octopi and cod. These latter he collected and supp’d on.”*2
The Lion-Man went silent for a moment as the wind howled nervously over the Thames.
“How might you have come by this history?” Bess had not moved throughout the telling.
The Lion-Man gave Bess a grave look. “I, too, was indentur’d to the Katherine. Sold to Hunter and the East India Company by my father as a ‘useless imp’ at the age of some fifteen years. It was I who swore Solidarity to the pirates.
“I lived in the freebooter society; participat’d in swine-tending and gardening. But my Specialty in the community was tale-teller. I spun the inimitable yarns for our mates, as I had learn’d some letters in my small years of schooling. On the flotilla, I practiced the ancient Greek art of plitho-hypomnesis*3. It was an honorable position.
“Until that fateful day: the day of our capture. On that day I was below, writing in my bunk, when I heard a scuffling on the topdecks. I laid down my stories for the evening campfire and peer’d up through the portal to find one pink-faced and crazed sailor, plied to the gills with gin and tottering down the stairs towards me. Before I knew it, the brute was waving a pistol. In a Panic, I held up the thick sheaf of my diaries as a shield. He discharg’d his pistol directly at me, blowing through the diary and straight into my ribs. It was not a deep wound, but it was disabl’ng. I fell to the ground. Shortly, we were all of us truss’d up like boar for roasting and loaded onto the frigate. We sailed for England. Except for Okoh, who—as I mention’d—had been thrown overboard.
“Many of us perished in the first days of capture out of sheer Misery and hopelessness. Some they secreted off to other ships bound for parts still unknown to me. As for me, after eight long weeks at sea (the ship returned to Canton to make one more set of trades and discharge more mutineers as captive, bound laborers) I was deposit’d unceremoniously in the King’s Wharf cellar amongst the rest of the foreign goods. Apparently they had concluded that I looked amazingly close to a beast, and would fetch a fortune in revenues at the King’s Menagerie. I have been a Prisoner here ever since.”
“In the elements?”
“Day in and out. I was accustomed to sleeping under the night canopy, but the coal-smoke and the cold here—”
Bess let out a sob.
“But to bring us towards your question: imagine my Surprise when, just a few weeks ago, the Tower Guards brought Okoh to an adjacent cell, there to be jeer’d at by the Guards and the King’s retinue. Okoh is—well, not one to take discipline lightly. He thrash’d himself against the bars night and day, refus’d his meals. Began to waste. We had precious little time to speak, but I did learn of his journey and subsequent capture.” He held their gazes. “Last night he was removed.”
“And what of the mutineer recipe?” Jack cut in.
The Lion-Man shrugg’d. “There are certain forms of knowledge develop’d collectively that can’t be translated into a simple recipe, I’m afraid. Evans—that was his name? Your ‘doctor’?” Bess nodded. “Evans—I believe it was he—visit’d on the day they brought Okoh to the Tower. He arrived with Wild. Evans sought to interview Okoh, but he was immediately refused. Then he came to interview me regarding the gravel. They’d promised me my Freedom. Of course I long for freedom, but even if I had consider’d giving them the recipe, their own Navy had destroy’d my diary and all my notes of our goings-on. I saw Evans’ efforts as absolutely futile. Without the records, I’d need the rest of the society to reconstruct it. And they’re all dead but for Okoh and myself.”
The wind gusted plumes of sea-coal over the Menagerie. Clots of rain clouds drift’d up the Thames, lit blue-gray by the moon.
“But,” said Bess as the squalls threw strands of hair onto her cheeks, “why would Wild want the mutineer recipe? What for?”
“I can’t say. Although I heard ’em discoursing about how there’s a ship coming up the Thames—the Poor Maria—”
“When?” Jack broke in.
The Lion-Man shrugged.
“They said it’s got somethin’ on board that’s going to enrich them beyond measure. Somethin’ they can market to the stockjobbers and barristers—the new-monies stayin’ up all night balancin’ books. The ship’s got to be quarantined with all the rest down in the Blackfriars for twenty-eight days, according to the Minister of Publick Health. Wild went on about it, saying nobody would be able to get near the ship through all the centinels. That they’d have easy access to conduct their Business. And once the ship comes in, he boasted, they won’t need to raid any more ships ever—or conduct any small jilts to fund their operations.”
He paused. “If you want my hypothesis, they’ve sent the Bombay Navy for the rest of the strength gravel. If my memory serves, we had produced enough for a year at least when we were captured.”
Jack shifted from foot to foot. A year’s worth?
“Thank you for taking the time with us, tonight. We’ll come back for you, I promise,” Bess said.
The Lion-Man laugh’d. The lamplight gave his face a sort of Vampir-glow. “I’m surrounded by Tower Guards at all times. And even if I did escape, they’d find me. They’ll never let us Free—not mutineers. Too dangerous, too likely to stir Tumults among the publick. Do me a favor: Just make certain Wild doesn’t obtain that strength gravel.”
*1 Lewd (in a lovely, roguish sense)
*2 The informed reader will recognize that the Lion-Man’s tale is borrowing in style from the tradition of heroic romance, which combines early anthropology, travel narrative and medieval epic. Several come to mind. Uncannily, Fielding’s History of the Life of the Late Mr. Jonathan Wild the Great (in which Wild is lost at sea and battles a kraken), as well as Behn’s Ooronoko: or, the Royal Slave. On the topic of the often unremarked appearance of African and Afro-British figures in eighteenth-century British literature and visual art, see also Tisa Bryant, Unexplained Presence (Leon Works, 2007).
*3 Hypomnesis (i.e., “memory-prosthesis”) is easily sourced in Freud and Derrida. As I do not read Greek, however, further research on “plitho-hypomnesis” and its usages will have to be referred to a colleague.
14.
The wind was very high and building higher as the night deepened. Bess and Jack raced down the streets, both quiet. Both thinking. A pair of knickers loosed from a washing-line and skitter’d down the alley, collecting filth as it tumbl’d by.
—And on through the streets—nightbirds shrieking on corners, urchins dashing down alleys—to Dennison’s. The bat house was buzzing—the sound of glasses clinking and liquor decanting, beds creaking and sighing into their casters—fill’d the halls and stairwells.
As they ascended the stairs, Jack spoke excitedly at Bess’s back. “The elixir—in the Lighthouse—must have been the small amount Okoh carried—and now Wild’s sent a ship back to the flotilla to get more.” Relief was washing over him. “All we have to do is jump the ship.”
Bess turn’d as she opened the door. Jack reached out and held her hand, squeezed it. She caught a glimpse of his pale chilly fingers wrapped around her own. For a moment she recognized neither of their hands. She removed her hand, walked into the room with Jack just behind. What doesn’t he see about the foolishness of his approach? Another utterly obvious thing she’d have to explain. She closed the door.
“Presume whatever’s on the ship’s something Wild means to fund his policing operation. Do you not see how Powerful that’ll make him?”
“Exactly! That’s why we need to get it before he does!” Jack sat on the bed, beaming up at her.
“But if we did pull such a thing off”—she shook her head, pacing the windows—“even if we could—with his Army of centinels. You think we’d ever get Free?”
“We are free.”
Bess studied his face. “You believe that?”
“I mean, not free, but—” His eyes were beginning to cloud with the realization that he was missing some point.
“Can’t you see there’s only one thing to do on board that ship?”
“Anything—I’ll agree to it.”
“You won’t like it, I’m afraid.”
“Won’t I?”
“Destroy the elixir.”
Jack stared, openmouthed.
“Jack, just imagine a Policing operation with endless finances. A factory of watching, self-funded and Autonomous. A true Policing Business concern. At least if we destroy it there’s no question of Wild ever getting his hands on ’t.”
“But…” Jack’s body was shrinking in his mind’s eye—wasting down. He would become the empty room he was before.
“You’ve seen what’s transpired since the Lighthouse. We’re squirreled away in this corner like rats. I hid once—from the surveyors. I always said I’d not hide anymore. But”—she swept her arms out—“look at me now. Look at us. Look how they’re tormenting the entire Town.”
The distance between them grew—a cold cloud filling the room.
“What about my—” Words were caught in his throat.
She touch’d the back of his hand. “I love you all ways.”
But the specter of approaching elixirishness was engulfing him like foul Weather spinning towards shore from some awful horizon, churning up spray and inevitability. He would be as nothing—as away from himself—as he was before. And she would not desire him that away way, no matter what she said. Without their Entwinedness, without their unabash’d T
akings of each other, what was he?
“I can’t.”
“If it’s some kind of mutineer recipe, we can devise it again, together. We’re mutineers”—she managed a smile, trying a different tack—“of a sort. And Wild—Wild is of the same machine that created the Surveyors. The profiteers and killers.”
“Then let’s bilk him,” Jack pressed.
“No.” She shook her head. “Don’t you see—this is our chance. We have to ruin him. Entirely.”
“His entire enterprise? Us?”
“It matters that we try.” Her voice broke. She was looking at Jack but suddenly his face and Wild’s face were alternating with each other. She saw Wild’s face rising over London like a huge summer moon, surveilling them all. Then the face was Jack’s. She breathed slow, focused. “It matters that we try together.”
Some part of Jack was affect’d by hearing Bess’s voice crack, and the other was spiraling into a hot flash of fear—his more spidery before-self was waggling itself before his eyes. Every day had brought with it a closening of the gap between himself and himself. And (he dared hope) a closening of the gap between himself and Bess. But now—
Bess was rifling through his sack— Then Jack was rushing at her. Grabbing her wrist. It was a terrible manner in which to touch her. There was nothing of their intimacy as they dropp’d to the floor in a tangle, wrestling for purchase. Heat, pressure, the slick of anxious sweat.
She pushed him off her and he fell back against the wall. “What are you doing!”
“You’re trying to destroy my elixir too?” Jack grabbed for the sack— The gin bottle with the dwindling stash of elixir slid out, rolling to a stop on the floor between them.
Confessions of the Fox Page 23
