“It was a great mistake joining up in the navy,” he remarked, slapping at a trickle of water before him. “A toad has more sense in him. There’s no harder a life, Mr. Wren. And it doesn’t get easier. Believe me, Mr. Midshipman.”
“At least you did it of your own volition,” I replied.
“I have proved myself a stupid man time and time again,” he growled. “Hold out two choices and I will always claim the wrong one.” He looked over at me. “But you should have no gripe, Mr. Wren.”
“Why is that?”
“Barely out of your swaddling and the old man boots you up to master’s mate,” he said. “Why? Because you delivered a prize to him. That’s the way of it, isn’t it? While old Moody plucks ochre and plays the holystone.”
Tickled by his grim humor, I laughed aloud. He turned and regarded me fondly, then joined in the joke.
“What would you be doing if you weren’t a sailor?”
“Milking teats, I suppose,” said he, “and spanking flies.”
“Well then?”
“Teats are scarce in this man’s navy.”
“Do you miss home, Mr. Moody?”
“What I miss, Mr. Wren,” he answered, pensively mulling over the clouds, “is the tranquility of the countryside. Standing in a forest alone. Watching a river flow with no mind to do a thing. Walking over bare earth. And I miss the sounds. What about you, Mr. Wren?”
It took a moment for me to flush out an answer, which seemed disingenuous even as I spoke it, for I was looking into a void. I missed nothing, except Ruth. But I would be misplaced in my old world.
“My liberty,” I said. “I could like never to take another order.”
“That takes hard specie and plenty of it,” replied Moody. “I tell you, my friend, the light of luck crowns your head. I shall stick close to you.”
My first bit of luck was my new acquaintance with Mr. William Moody.
Three days of rains and the air was cool, soft and radiant. The city of Canton was washed of her dust, debris and odors. It was the first hint that a new season was approaching. The wind became mild and steady and the humor of the citizens followed suit.
That afternoon Mr. Moody came bounding into the barracks in a tumult.
“She’s arrived!” he said. “The Phoenix. Dropping anchor as we speak.”
I quickly reached for my boots and slipped on my shirt.
“How does she appear?” I asked.
“Smaller than I imagined she’d be,” he replied. “Twenty guns, like Hearne said, but mostly six-pounders with nine-pounders at her waist. Maybe seventy crew, if that many. Pretty little bitch. She’s been in disputes. I could see teeth marks along her larboard bow and along her flank. I’d wager she’s a scrapper.”
With our orders tucked into our belts Mr. Moody and I trotted along toward the harbor. As we neared, my apprehension began to fester.
“Six-pounders could barely blow out a candle,” I remarked. “Why would she look for trouble? A ship that small would not be allowed to stand in the line.”
Mr. Moody seemed perturbed by my question.
“Mr. Wren,” replied he, in a condescending tone, “First, second, third-raters are for show. They make sweet paintings. But they’re useless against pirates and raiders, who can chase up a river or a channel. They also carry the dispatches and do the hard work of blockades. Every war is waged by the small ships, the sixth-raters and sloops.”
As we neared, through the cluster of spars and hulls, I caught my first glimpse of the Phoenix’s port quarter. From her mizzenmast hung a flag and a pendant, playing lazily in the breeze. Both the fore and main masts towered over the mizzen. Everything about her seemed as fresh as the changing season. All her brass sparkled and winked. Two broad, salty windows marked the gallery. She was painted overall in a greenish black that gave her smooth and glassy lines. Her furled sails contrasted white and flawless. In truth, I could not imagine how her two decks could accommodate even forty men, let alone upwards of sixty.
Still, she was a lovely, dainty object and I found myself doting on her slender form and modest adornments.
“This ship owns herself,” remarked Mr. Moody. “What a vain girl! And not a weeping eye on her. Well, what do you think, Wren?”
Before I could respond, an officer who was standing on deck, leaning against a half-pound swivel gun on her stern, shouted down to us.
“Are you the new men?”
“We are, sir,” answered Moody, tossing off a salute. “William Moody and Daniel Wren reporting, sir.”
The officer moved to the rail for a better view of us and we of him. He had an uncommonly handsome face, curly, reddish blonde hair and dark, intelligent eyes that took us in at a glance. There was something about the man that recalled the marble bust of a Greek boy-hero, yet I took him to be near forty years.
“We have scrubbed our decks for you,” he said, beaming a wide, charming smile. “I hope the Phoenix meets your approval.”
“I’m sure she will, sir,” I returned.
“You’ve had something of a wait, I understand,” said he.
“We have, sir,” replied Moody.
“Which of you is Mr. Wren?”
“I am, sir,” I answered, doffing my cap.
“I have heard favorable reports about you, Mr. Wren,” he said. “I’m Lieutenant Robert Henchly and I captain the Phoenix.”
We both leveled a bow to him. Mr. Henchly’s eye never wavered; indeed, the man seemed alive to human sentiment and read our every nuance.
“Pleased to know you, Captain,” said Moody.
“And Mr. Wouk,” inquired the captain. “He is not with you?”
“Not yet, sir,” answered Moody.
“We’ll have to bribe him aboard, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Moody, laughing.
“The boys will be taking leave for a day,” Henchly offered. “Most are just donning their tiddley suits. You are welcome to join them, gentlemen. You can report back in the morning. They’re off to the Sea Dragon. Do you know it?”
“I do, sir,” replied Mr. Moody.
“I’ll tell Mr. Forester to extend my hospitality.”
“Thank you, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Moody.
Mr. Henchly’s grinning face vanished from the rail.
“Well,” said Mr. Moody, amazed and delighted, “I say he’s a fine fellow, aye, Mr. Wren?”
“It appears so,” I replied with hesitation.
“Come now,” scolded Moody, “don’t be the dog in the manger. It’s more than that old skinflint Hearne ever gave.”
The men of the Phoenix came bouncing down the boarding ramps onto the dock, then turned marching toward the city gates. In their shore clothes, they swaggered past us as bold as parrots. Never a more arrogant flock had I laid eyes on. A number of them sported gold earrings in the lobes of their ears, some as thick as leather string. Others had garnet rings on their fingers. Their tiddly suits in quality of material were as fine as an English merchant’s. A few of the sailors wore an odd mix of oriental and eastern fashion—trousers with broad blue or red stripes and shirts with broad silk sleeves, accented by bright oriental caps with long tassels that would have provoked howling laughter on the streets of London.
Mr. Moody, however, was humbled by the extravagance and abashed by his own dreary appearance.
“They’re a swank lot, aren’t they, Wren?” he remarked under his breath.
One of the men strode up to us, a large, merry fellow, with hands as wide as nets, which he placed on our shoulders.
“Come away with us, boys,” said he. “To the Sea Dragon. Every cup will be ours, my friends.”
Moody and I were promptly caught up in the parade toward the pub. The pub was one of the few of its kind in Canton that served strong Portuguese rum shipped in from Macau. The herd of sailors swelled the establishment and overflowed into the street. Inside, our new friend ordered tall cups of rum for Mr. Moody and me, and over the din introduced him
self.
“I’m Toby Forester,” he said, holding his rum at eye level to keep it from being bumped from his hand. “I’m a bosun aboard the Phoenix. You are—?”
“Daniel Wren and William Moody,” interjected Moody.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Forester. “Lieutenant Henchly charged me with keeping your cups full.”
“That is kind of the lieutenant,” said Moody. “He’s a very friendly sort, isn’t he?”
“Henchly is the richest soul in the Royal Navy,” Mr. Forester crowed. He then lifted his cup high to his fellows around him and gave a roar: “To Henchly, boys!”
A cry rose in salute and everyone tipped his cup. Mr. Forester drained his, then reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a dozen Indian silver rupees. He plucked one out and tossed it to the Chinese proprietor. Our cups were promptly brimming full again. The sight of the silver and the elevated spirits of the men lifted our own. Soon, Mr. Moody was smiling ear-to-ear and bellowing laughter at every clever remark.
“What has been the Phoenix’s mission?” I inquired when I thought the moment right.
“Aye, what does she do?” Mr. Moody chimed in.
Mr. Forester, who, despite his size, was becoming tipsy, put a finger to his lips in a hush of silence. He made a show of searching about for spies then regarded us confidentially.
“We guard the coast of India from pirates and brigands, my friends,” said he. “We hunt down the thieves and seize the spoils.”
“What do you do with them?” Mr. Moody asked innocently.
“Make them a gift to the church,” said Forester with a raucous laugh. “Now you boys are members.”
Either it was the rum or my suspicions, but at this point my mind was running in circles and brought me back to Lieutenant Henchly again.
“What sort of man is Lieutenant Henchly to serve under?”
“He’s a natural leader,” said Forester earnestly. “He cares about his men like a father and treats every man fairly. Not a man is punished who does not owe his shame to the captain and his brothers aboard.”
This warm declaration from Forester sat well with Mr. Moody, but settled nothing with me. There was something of a lying conspiracy to this whole thing. I saw sly, prying judgment behind the eyes of the men in that room when they looked at us. Lieutenant Henchly did not arrive to the pub, and my suspicions told me that this was by design. This is how the new men were nose-led aboard the Phoenix, with Mr. Forester gently pulling us along like trusting cattle. I dreaded the thought that Henchly was so cozening and clever, but I could not push the belief from my mind.
Mr. Forester shoved off to join in other exchanges with his fellow crew, leaving Mr. Moody and I alone for a moment.
“Well, what’s your verdict, Mr. Wren?” asked Mr. Moody in leaping high spirits.
I leaned closer, so that I might not be overheard. “I believe we have fallen in with a band of robbers.”
Moody’s smile withered and he held his gulp of rum in his cheeks. He discreetly reconnoitered the expressions of the men around him, and turned back to me.
“I don’t have a farthing to my name,” said Moody, brightening again. “It’s not me they’ll be robbing.”
We drank more cups of rum until Mr. Moody began paddling across the floor and had to be carried back to our old barracks for the very last time. I lay my head down under the mad swirl of faces I’d met that evening. These men, with their strange allegiance, would be my new family, and India my new home.
I was awakened at dawn by a gentle, yet persistent tug at my foot. One of the servant women at the barracks was standing at the end of my bed. When she saw I was awake, she began chattering urgently in Chinese and gesturing toward the courtyard. With bilious effort, I sat up and the woman hastily pushed my boots onto my feet. A second woman entered and the two of them brought me onto my two legs then guided me through the courtyard toward the street.
To my amazement the street was lined with a retinue of Chinese soldiers, all festooned in handsome uniforms and standing two abreast at attention. In the dim grey predawn light an officer stepped forward. He gave me a cursory glance, then motioned down the street. I could hear the ringing hooves of horses charging toward us. A carriage abruptly came to a halt. I could make out the ghostly figure of the driver hopping down to escort a second figure down onto the street.
Wen Xi, even more remarkably beautiful than I remembered her, stood before me.
“Mr. Wren,” she said, “I go now to my father. I came to wish you farewell and to thank you for my life.”
Rank, disheveled creature that I was, I bowed and beamed a hapless smile back at her.
“You are most welcome,” I replied. “I wish you a safe journey home and a happy life.”
“I very much valued your company,” she said, with slow emphasis, as if she had rehearsed the words. “It was great adventure, was it not?”
“Yes it was,” I replied.
“I will never forget that once I have adventure and that you are a part of it.”
“Nor will I.”
“I tell my children that I was saved once by a brave young man and we imagine together where you are in the world.”
She then extended a small, red silk purse to me, which I accepted.
“A gift,” she said. “I pray it bring you luck.”
She gave me one last smile, a slight inclination of her head then returned to the carriage. In an instant they were off, hustling away in to the blushing dawn.
I opened the purse. Inside was a single tea rose blossom, a perfect bloom that had been recently picked. I placed the purse in my chest along side Mr. Grimmel’s instruments. What struck me most about that moment was not Wen Xi’s sweetness but the tempered pride in formality she commanded. Nothing bent her spirit, least of all love.
The master of the Phoenix was Jeremiah Thompson to whom I reported a short time later. Mr. Thompson had a remarkable appearance. His head was round, his nose small and extended like the spout on a teapot. His skin had an oily sheen that suggested an unhealthful constitution, and his expression was chased with acrimony that altered in severity as one’s angle of him changed. Mr. Thompson blinked his limpid eyes and inclined his head defensively as I addressed him.
“Mr. Daniel Wren reporting, sir,” I declared. “I have been assigned as your mate, Mr. Thompson.”
“Yes, yes,” he replied. “Happy to have you aboard, young man. We’ll discuss your duties when we are underway. For the present, Mr. Wren, you many take the time to make a record of the instruments and such we have aboard. I assume you are acquainted with a quadrant?”
“I am, sir,” I replied.
“Well, India is a dead run west,” said he, wiping a tear running down his cheek. “We may have trouble with monsoon, but I expect we will run ahead of it.”
“The Phoenix is a fine ship,” I offered.
“Quick as a lemming,” he replied. “But in weather she wallows, so every board and bean must be secured.”
The bumpers were raised and we were soon wading out into the Pearl River to our new destination. We drifted north in a firm, flighty breeze for a short time then came round and hove-to so that we might change tack onto the larboard. As we did, I caught one last sight of Lord Douglas’s post. The flag was twitching in the skittish breeze and I thought I could see just the edge of Mr. Brooks’ headstone.
My mind tracked back across our journey to that single piece of stone, and I recalled him and Grimmel, Mr. Stempel, Mr. Lamb, Jacob Flowers, Henry Boles, and all the others who had been dropped like seed pearls into the sea. Some powerful knowledge was coalescing within me, but concentrate as I might I felt it slipping, slipping away with the rising tide.
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Mean Sun (The Diaries of Daniel Wren, Privateer Book 1) Page 18
