Deluded Your Sailors (24 page)

‘Owl Runciman,' they called him, for his watching and his night-hunt and the way he asked
Who
? Tightwrapped in damp disguise, I'd touch my face and ask the same question. I sailed to Benvolio with Matt Johnson. A second son, debt up to his tits, just smart enough to be useful and easy prey for Runciman. Me following along to learn the trade – ‘learn the trade,' tis all a trade!

Johnson travelled as a passenger, sick and useless most of the way.

I worked the ship, to keep from going mad with boredom and found I liked it. Runciman tasked us to find his precious Michael Farr and then coax him back to England. I suffered much doubt we'd accomplish this. But Farr surprised me. He wanted to be found so he could gloat and refuse.

When Runciman needed to persuade, he would talk.

Incessantly. Morning and night, over food, while pissing. He even got me to sketch Farr's face from his descriptions. But it was Farr's value Runciman tried to press into me. Hoped I'd take Farr as a model. An experienced courier who could handle papers, cash, arms. Intelligent and efficient, vicious and cold. Violent when angered – Farr had beaten two men to death. A useful capacity, when harnessed, Runciman called that. Farr also spoke four languages. His speech came wordy and decorated and hid a deep coldness. He looked melancholy, but he would bark laughter at brutal misfortune. He hurried with his food.

Runciman studied my sketches. —Very good.

Christ, what a crooktback lame story Runciman came up with.

Did he want us to fail? Matt Johnson, pretending to be a Jesuit with me playing the mute servant-boy so as to gain entry to a monastery on Benvolio and wait for word of the missing Farr.

That long table where we ate with the Franciscans, their brown eyes, green eyes, blue eyes, fine noses, fleshy noses, brown hair, black hair, white hair, Johnson speaking to one or two of them in Latin – Runciman's training keyed my senses to a weird pitch where I knew things before reason could explain them. Those monks knew why we'd come, though they might never say it. Finally he arrived. Through a tunnel, he later said, a tunnel blocked with a mighty stone. I found him while sweeping a hallway. Be sure, I got much practice walking silently. All you heard was the sigh of the broom. The abbot's rooms were nearby, so I handled the broom to sound as though I moved farther off, not closer. Then I leaned against the abbot's heavy door and listened.

A man prayed. An Irish voice rattling through words as though they were tasks, as though he must speak many more before sleep.

I listened for a long time, but the mumble slipped into silence, then a snore. The abbot's steps came to the door, and I flattened myself against the wall, barely breathing. When the door opened, it hid me. But then the abbot closed and locked the door behind him, catching me. He abused me in his own language, then smiled a bit, boxed my ears and shoved me so I fell. I knew I must find and advise Matt Johnson.

At table that evening, in the dim gold light of sunset without candles, I recognized the face I'd sketched. Details I'd missed: a broken nose and a cloth bag, slung over his chest, left shoulder to right hip. He called it a nunny bag. I tried to avoid his eye, but he caught me looking. He stared me down. I stared back. Johnson missed the entire exchange.

The three of us left the monastery the following morning and travelled hard across scrubby rocks and hills. Like Norway. Like Newfoundland, but much warmer. Speaking little, Farr got us to a strange cave. It reared up forty feet, all cracks and dents and dust, all delicate menace like a cobra. I saw an engraving of a cobra once – that hood. Yet the cave also looked like a cottage, if one warped by a fever-dream. The steep roof gave slide to hundreds of rocks, fallen and piled against the east wall.

So. Sunburnt and standing as far from England as from heaven, Johnson and Farr argued.

First, the tired question dropped out Farr's mouth as he mauled cheese and licked the whey that leaked between his fingers.

‘Runciman and his plots, aye, on who else's charge would we three hug the edge of Benvolio?'

Johnson compared Farr to someone named Ahab, and Farr grinned.

‘Runciman hides what makes a man gurgle in an alley, hides behind policy and reports, but he sees, like those menhir staring out, staring down. When I cast my thoughts back to this damned rock, all I shall ever see is those tall squinting statues, all neck and face – Christ, they unnerve me. Did they burst up through the ground, shrugging off soil and smaller rocks to glare down on us and judge? Spine of a whale, a piece of it, what are they called? I saw the same face in scrimshaw once. Who is it? Like someone we have all seen but cannot place. Ferocious. Taller than we are, the head growing out of stone. Christ. Look behind us. Naught but more empty land. Higher ground, that's what we need. Johnson.

Wasting your thoughts on prayer?'

Johnson met Farr's eyes with some fear, as if expecting to be struck. He'd looked at me suchwise the night we met. I'd rolled him out of a puddle and exposed his beaten face to the night air of a Portsmouth alley, and I'd said quietly, ‘My master Runciman would know if you still refuse.' As on that night, Johnson rose from his knees like a foal. He studied the Irishman, studied the crumbs of cheese at the edge of his mouth, and said, ‘When, Farr? When can we leave?'

Farr ate more cheese and said ‘Been away long?'

Johnson lied, as Owl instructed, and then took it on himself to lie further. Said he'd been gone four years on a fool's errand to Barbary, to find word of another agent who'd disappeared, but that he'd arrived in Barbary with wretched timing – the land shook with revolt – men fixed to crooked crosses – and the Sallee Rovers stole him for ransom. He'd met an interpreter, handily, a Spaniard, hair and beard in long plaits to his waist, each plait of his beard knotted off with a tortoiseshell bead. The beads clicked as he moved. The interpreter spoke passable French and primitive English. He decided, so Johnson's story went, that Johnson threatened the emirate. He'd not got the wit or the knowledge to puzzle out how this was so. To find out, he put Johnson to the rack.

Farr laughed. He had been sitting on the ground, his chin bowed, his eyes on the horizon, nibbling cheese. He held up one hand, so graciously, to indicate he meant no insult.

So Johnson continued his tale, saying the interpreter racked the English out of him and then left a time. He returned with ‘this pup' (meaning me), a ship's boy made prize by plundering Sallee Rovers. Said he tried three days to make me speak, but I loosed not one word. Then Johnson described his discovery of my injuries, of how I'd been utterly unmanned while still a boy. Happily, the interpreter returned, plaits knotted so his beads would not click, to lead us aboveground. A Benvolian trader waited in the harbour.

The interpreter leaned down at Johnson's feet and drew a fish in the sand, just where a wave would soon melt the impression away.

From there we sailed to the abbey on the western shore.

Farr rubbed his itchy back against a rock and said, ‘Horseshit.

You travelled dead straight from England to find me. Runciman did not even expect you to last out the voyage, so he sent one of his boys, that one there, to coddle you along. And to give me instructions in cipher. Did you not know the boy had instructions to give this to me, and me alone? Hard to know if passing the cipher was more to test him or test you. Now there be the odd fleck of truth in what you say. I believe in the boy's old injury. I even believe Runciman sent you on an errand. The Owl has figured out at last that I've had enough of him and wish other employment, but you see, Johnson, I'm too valuable. I know the land here, I know the people, I know the policies. But by Christ, for a chance to get off Benvolio. I did once. But that damned Owl found me, sending in two redcoats to bring me back, if you please. Fuckery.

All of Europe, or in your case all of Barbary, stretches in front of us like some tantalizing fat woman, and we're set to hide in her until he plucks us back, wet and squirming. Myself now, eight years on this island. I've been back to England twice, should have been three times, but I missed a rendezvous. That ghoul always knows I'm coming and sends agents to meet me. And they take me back to the next ship sailing for Benvolio. I tell you, this is no life but a sentence.'

Each man stared northwest. Johnson took in a breath but said naught.

Then Farr nudged him and asked if he would rather be back with the Franciscans. ‘Hide amongst your own skirts at the abbey.

Go papist. Runciman will never find you there.'

Johnson still said naught. I tried hard not to stare.

Farr tore into him again, saying, ‘Johnson, my man, you're not afraid to return to England? You're not the same Johnson that Runciman had beaten half to death in Portsmouth? Tis all in the ciphers the boy gave me. I believe Runciman tried to do you in.

Consider it: if you return, will Runciman pay you enough to even dent your debts? Creditors and bully-men: will not you be beaten again? And again, until you bleed to death some night? No need to turn your back, Johnson. I have asked you some simple questions.

I err now and then.'

Johnson said, ‘You err now. Is this some further test of my loyalty?'

‘No, no,' Farr said. ‘You are unwell. You should be retired, put on half-pay like some naval officer in peacetime. What may I do to help you, Matt Johnson, and make certain Runciman never finds you again? Why? Because I am tired, too. What would your dream be?'

Johnson shut his eyes, and a breeze stirred his hair, and he said, ‘Freedom from debt. And freedom from this work.'

Farr said, ‘Agency is a young man's work. But freedom won't come without a great deal of noise first. You can't go back to England. You're not fit to go to the colonies, working the fishing boats or the coastal traders. I have no proposal yet, only the desire, and this is the loyalty I want to test: will you forsake Runciman and work with me to get off this damned rock and become our own men? Will you join me in the knowledge that should we separate and Runciman catch up to me, I should say naught of you? Will you do the same for me? God will not protect you, but I might. Once Runciman pins you to a spot on the chart, he will catch you. He does not let his dogs stray so easily. Think you I am still Runciman's man because I wish to be?'

Johnson said he thought Farr enjoyed the work. Then Farr demanded that Johnson tell him about me, and my uses. Johnson said, ‘At the abbey he swept the floors, mucked out the pigs.'

I arranged stones, all the good little witless mute, but when I happened to glance up, Farr was staring at me. I stared back, and Farr said my eyes burnt hot as a forge. ‘Now then, Johnson, back to your safety. I'll be some time yet arranging our disappearance, for it must be done in secret, and my funds come by way of Runciman. Eventually. Where shall we hide you in the meantime?

And how will you pay for it?'

Johnson said, ‘Take whatever you want. Take my soul if it stop your mouth.'

Farr laughed. He said ‘I see no candle, bell and book, no
homo
fuge
throbbing on your forearm. I don't want your soul. What use would that be? I'd have to be hauling it back up through the dirt while the devils would be hauling it below, and the screaming would keep me awake.'

Then Farr rose suddenly and strode to where I'd arranged small rocks so they resembled a leafed vine. Briefly taken with the image, Farr grabbed me under the arms, hoisted me up, and said for payment, he'd take me.

He staggered as I wrenched myself out of his grasp. I aimed a kick before he could get up, but he caught my foot and upended me. That fall knocked the breath from me, but I gasped in enough air to call Farr a dog-fucker.

Farr laughed and compared me to a pig that squeals at sight of the knife. I kicked him properly then, right in the stones. He fell, and I rolled out of reach. Farr vomited cheese and said ‘Not mute, then? I'd as soon break that one's skull as trust it.'

Johnson stood over Farr, looking happy. I didn't like it. He commanded Farr to stay on his back so they might bargain. ‘Get me to safety, keep silence, and keep the boy.'

‘You care not what happens to him, then?' Farr asked.

Johnson said I belonged to Runciman, who would see him dead, so any bad turn for Runciman would be reason enough. Farr said he'd witnessed more cleverness in a sheep getting penned for the night and advised Johnson to choose a line of deceit and stick with it. Johnson kicked Farr in the ribs, and he said, ‘Will you get me safety?'

‘Chainshot fuck you in darkness.'

Spittle flecking his lips, Johnson kicked until Farr gave assent to the ground. He wiped them clean with the back of his hand.

Then he sat down near Farr, straightened the robe over his legs, and stared northwest. Again.

After a time, Farr managed to stand. He called me over. ‘Bristol boy, if so you be, tell me your name.'

I told him ‘Kit', and he said, ‘No surname? Finn will do. I like it. I'm not accustomed to assault from servants, Kit Finn, so go at me once more, and I'll bind and dump you a mile from the crossroads. Leave Johnson. Leave your thoughts of Runciman, too, for this is Benvolio, and you are mine.'

Farr grasped my wrists and forced them together, most painfully. I refused even to whimper.

I woke up alone on our last morning in the cave. The fire had gone out. The fire being my responsibility, I feared a few good smacks from Farr if he returned to dull embers, so I hurried it back to life. I had fallen asleep the night before to the drone of discussion between Johnson and Farr. Johnson deciding, questioning, deciding different. Farr muttering of changed minds and treachery and how he now understood why anyone who knew Johnson would try to beat him to death.

Beautiful sunrise that morning as Farr picked his way back to the cave, blood on his hands and clothes. I did not ask after Johnson, for I did not want Farr to utter aloud what he'd accomplished. Runciman's orders, or Farr's desire? No, I did not ask, but Farr somewhat answered me. ‘Because he kicked me when I was down, my head rattling in the rocks. Could not be trusting that. I need to know whom I can trust. Did you let that fire go out?'