Cinnamon and Gunpowder (16 page)

For a moment it was frighteningly real. A seaborne mirage. But the longing it set alight was so penetrating, and the remorse so ferocious, that, had Lucifer arrived with a contract and smoldering quill, I would gladly have signed my soul away for a single day in that dream.

I know I’m clinging to Joshua, carving him in the shape of my own grief. Of course, his shoulders are much too narrow to carry the weight of it, and besides, he is here willingly—the boy is a pirate, after all, there is no denying it.

These hysterical flights of fancy are yet more reason to find some way home, wherever that may be, before these weakening pieces of me finally break and madness rushes in.

Thursday, September 2

This morning at sunrise, Asher was whipped for letting me escape. He walked, of his own accord, to the mast, where Mr. Apples tied his hands. It would have happened earlier, but Mabbot had wanted me present. All of us gathered, and she announced from the upper deck: “Punishment for dereliction of duty!”

The first lash brought a mournful cry from the young man. I went to Mabbot and said, “Please, let me stand in his place. This is my mischief.”

“It
is
your mischief,” she said. “But look at you. Your skin is still hanging from your fingers in folds. The sea has made you soft as a babe. That whip would cut you in two.”

“Mabbot, please don’t joke. This is not justice.”

She looked me steadily in the eyes and said, “If I let you take the whip, what will you learn? What will he?”

The whip cracked and the poor man sank to his knees. When I averted my eyes, Mabbot said loudly, for all to hear, “Can you not even give him the dignity of witnessing his punishment?” And so I watched, sweating with shame, as the last strokes broke his skin open.

Afterward I went to him where he lay on his side under the hammock and tried to clean his wounds, but he would not tolerate me.

Thus I am caught in ratlines of reliance, and the more I struggle to free myself, the more entangled I become. I have never gambled, nor borrowed. When necessary, as a poor journeyman, I ate moldy bread rather than ask for flour on credit of my honor. Now, though, it seems I am daily indebted to a new scoundrel, men whom I would not have nodded to in the city streets.

Even so, yesterday I was heartened to have found fellowship of sorts. Eating supper with the men on deck, a bowl of gelatinous porridge before me, grateful to be still among the living, I stood and gave grace. I then announced my intention to observe evening prayers and invited any to join me. Expecting ridicule, I got instead half a dozen volunteers who followed me in prayer before bed, a sweaty bunch of fellows happy to bow their heads and whisper “amen.”

I had been quite weak since my ordeal, my sea legs wobbly and my stomach eager to turn, but after this hodgepodge mass, I felt my strength returning. It satisfied something deep in me, and I slept better than I have in a long while.

Therefore, it was a shock when, today, I caught five of those same men prostrating and praying with the Mohammedans. Unable to contain myself, I scolded them for their sacrilege and got this response: “Gold ye may gamble. But sumtin’ precious as a ’ternal soul, one is best taking no chances. Cover yer bets, man, for ye only look to break even.”

This nonsense was delivered to me with motherly concern. From their expressions one might have mistaken them for missionaries guiding a lost savage. A better Christian would have stayed to show them the error of their logic, but with holy prayer compared to a game of dice, I was struck dumb and merely wandered away muttering to myself.

I may not be skilled at eloquent oratory, but for muttering angrily under one’s breath, I have never met a more capable man.

When Joshua came for his lesson, I had already prepared a stick drawing of a family. I wrote
MOTHER
and
FATHER
beside the appropriate figures and
JOSHUA
beside a smaller one. Pointing to the patriarch, I asked, “What’s his name?” with my face to the light so Joshua could read my lips.

Joshua put his fist on his heart, then tapped the thumb of his right hand against his forehead with the fingers splayed like antlers.

“No, write it here.” I put the pencil in his hand, but he dropped it and made the gesture again. “The man must have a proper name,” I said and moved his hand toward the paper, but he pushed it away and continued with his inscrutable gesticulations. I seized the wild bird of his right hand and put the pencil firmly in his palm, saying, “Whatever you wish to tell me, you can write. God made hands to hold tools, not to mince the air. You’ve only to learn to write, and you can express anything at all!”

But the impudent child broke the pencil in two and crossed his arms. Gathering all of my composure, I sharpened the pencil, taking the time to make a fine point, and placed it again in his hand. When he threw it down and began to gesture wildly, I pinched his ear, for effect, and said, “That is not the way to do it! Learn to write!”

The boy slapped me hard in the face. It took me so by surprise that he had turned and slammed the door on his way out before I could summon a response. I spent a good amount of time grumbling to myself. Perhaps I should not have laid my hands on him, but if he really wishes to learn the rudiments of language, he must apply himself. I cannot do all the work for him.

I wish Joshua’s slap was the only insult today, but I must make a note to avoid Feng whenever possible. For no reason at all, while we passed in the twilight of the lower deck, the little man scowled and elbowed me, causing me to lose my wind completely. My ribs ache now with each breath. While a few here may be justified in their resentment, this man’s cruelty seems quite gratuitous.

Friday, September 3

On this gruesome day I was the unwilling witness to the sacking of the Pendleton Trading Company ship the
Patience
. Although I’ve no desire to relive it, I shall note my impressions to be read, let us pray, at the eventual trial of Mabbot for piracy and murder.

During the night previous, we weathered a squall. It was a small one, the men said, though I could not tell if this was one of their jokes. I had tried to sleep and failed. It felt like I had been placed in a barrel and was rolling down a particularly steep and uneven hill. There were moments when I could not distinguish between the thunder and the clopping of boots on the deck as men ran about reefing sails or securing cannon. My hammock beat against the wall and tenderized me thoroughly. In my half sleep I wondered if Mabbot had foreseen this storm on the horizon and exchanged my sack for this hammock just in time for me to be flung about in it like a piglet brought to market. At one point, hoping to stave off nausea, I made the mistake of going above deck to see what the men were up to. As soon as I emerged, a great wave smacked me down, and only by scrambling upon the wood and catching hold of an errant line was I saved from being washed over the bulwark into the frothing void. Those seconds, illumed by the ghostly lanterns and the great shudders of lightning, were like another world, neither above water nor below it, a world of howling fear, and a darkness whose appetite was insatiable. Returning to my cell, soaked to the bone and shuddering, I resolved to tell the first priest I met that all the fire in hell had been long since dowsed.

Only in the mean dregs of morning did the storm pass and the ship calm itself enough for me to close my eyes. This is my excuse for sleeping well into the day. But that too was a mistake, for I had the misfortune to wake to cannon fire. God keep you from this fate. It is completely upending: the heart leaps up and tries to escape the prison of the ribs before the eyes are open. One may find oneself running, as I did, in an arbitrary direction, hands instinctively covering one’s crotch, and slamming face-first into the doorframe.

But to the point.

I discovered, above deck, that our cannon fire had been a warning shot and that we were quickly approaching the
Patience
, which had been damaged in the storm and was making no effort to flee. The garish two-headed lion of the Pendleton Trading Company flag was impossible to mistake. Except for the broken mizzen yards of the Pendleton ship, the only sign of the storm was the mackerel-striped clouds above. Our crew was in a state of great excitement, and I had to push through a crowd of men at the bulwark to see the ship. Some of the men blew upon enormous tin trumpets, each easily twenty feet long. This colossal flatus that echoed off the sails of the
Patience
was meant, no doubt, to instill fear in our victims.

I have learned that although the oceans are vast, the shipping lanes themselves are rather narrow. Between the currents, winds, and storms, any ship hoping to make it to China and back dares not venture too far from the courses laid out in the almanacs. Though hundred-foot waves and mast-crushing winds sound terrible enough to me, nothing chills a sailor’s mood quite as much as talk of the “doldrums.” In these swaths of the ocean, nothing at all happens. Any ship slipping into such a zone becomes a windless island, and its crew castaways forced to eat rope and, eventually, one another. To hear them tell it, Mabbot’s crew would rather row a live shark into a hurricane than find themselves in the doldrums. Mabbot’s mischief, then, is made easier, for she needs only follow these safe routes and eventually she will spot a company ship on the horizon, like the
Patience
, homeward bound off the western coast of Africa, on the last leg of her long journey, with a belly full of cargo and hope.

The captain’s upholstered chair had been brought from her cabin to the gun deck, and she sat there enthroned. When she saw me she beckoned and said, “Well, good morning, slumberbug. Bring a stool and join me. It will be educational.”

“Mabbot,” I demanded, “I forbid you to harm these innocents—”

“Ah, the barrister-at-sea with his customary objection.” Mabbot sighed. “But hush now, darling, we’re doing business.”

The crew nearby had gasped at my tone, but when Mabbot dismissed me, they sneered and went back to work.

Because the view from the poop deck was better than from the quarter, I lingered near Mabbot. It was from there that I spotted, distant to the
Patience
, a cluster of boats. I held my breath with hope, thinking that it might be a fleet come to apprehend us, but those hopes were dashed when Mabbot said, “Good, then. You see? They’ve done the sensible thing and given us space. If they stay out there in their longboats, I’ll let them live. It is better to have survivors to spread the word that the best option is surrender.”

Thus we lay aboard the
Patience
without trouble or bloodshed. The men threw planks and ropes and stormed the ship, guns and swords drawn. But resistance there was none, and in only a few minutes the men began to emerge from below deck carrying their booty like a swarm of ants.

They brought pitch-sealed lockers first, carried by two men apiece, and set them upon the deck. The horns were blown again and all eyes were on Mr. Apples, who stood beside the chests and announced in a ceremonious voice, “Men, put down your worries and grab your cocks. It’s bathing day at the sheikh’s harem.”