Cinnamon and Gunpowder (33 page)

Monday, October 25

I am full of bats and starlings about meeting with Gimbal tonight.

To pass the time I set myself, these last days, to the task of Mabbot’s weekly feast, which, without the proper stove, was an exercise in prestidigitation.

It may be that Mabbot’s cold threat has ebbed. If I failed in my duties, would my life really be forfeit? Yet I find myself continuing the pursuit of flavor for the sake of my own sanity. It calms my soul. If I lost this vocation, I might die by my own hand. Therefore I continue to re-create the progress of culinary history with wads of dough as a boy re-creates epic battles using only twigs and stones.

To compound the loss of the stove, Kitzu’s catch yesterday was meager. The man can be forgiven, for if this ship floats it is thanks to his ceaseless hammering; the steerage is nearly fixed, though the wheel has yet to be lashed to the rudder. Kitzu reserved for himself a handful of small silver fish and left for me the roe, two squid the length of my forearm, and nothing else.

Joshua cleaned and grilled the squid while I started on the white-bean and onion soup, a comfort made possible by the last of the basil and the surprisingly tender salted pork provided by the babirusa.

Meanwhile, we simmered crushed pineapple to a near jelly. Finally, Joshua sliced a mango as thinly as the knife would allow, while I improvised a cornmeal-and-flour biscuit dough and rolled it out.

I dressed again for my weekly date with Mad Hannah Mabbot, the Shark of the Indian Ocean, wishing I had more than one pair of this dead man’s trousers.

Mabbot too had a limited selection, for when I arrived, she wore the same gown. Her pearl necklace had been lost to the sea.

We sat in silence for a moment before I complained, “I was on my hands and knees for two hours today, trying to coax the heaps of coals into a manageable pile without burning the ship to the waterline.”

“You’ve made a worthy sacrifice,” she said. “We all have. The men will be bitter for having lost their silver, though it saved their lives. It is a complicated thing. With money in their pockets, they become lazy and contrary. Heavy and slow, as does the
Rose
herself.” Under her breath, she continued: “A small part of me is glad to be rid of it. When my men are hungry, with death upon their heels, they work hard and never complain and enjoy their own company. They sing every night.”

“But did the stove really need to go? How much difference—”

“The stove was destined for the bottom, Wedge. We merely contrived not to have the ship go with it.”

“You’ll taste the difference.”

“I have come to trust your genius. Show me.”

“Grilled squid and green-mango salad with cilantro, mint, and a pinch of cayenne,” I announced, lifting the cover to reveal the meal. “White bean soup à la babirusa, garnished with pilchard roe, and, to finish, pineapple cobbler.”

“You see?” Mabbot said, kissing my forehead. “You’re unstoppable.”

The early evening was spent in a very pleasant fashion with heavy attention to the feast. When we could not eat another bite, I popped open a bottle of ginger beer, which made quite a mess, gushing as it did. There is little alcohol in it, but its effervescence finished the evening perfectly. I’m emboldened by the success of my ad hoc yeast, and it has given me hope for the banana cider. I was so content with things that I felt brave enough to pose a question: “If the Pendleton Company is busy flooding China with opium, who is delivering afternoon tea to the civilized world?”

“It’s a fancy piece of finance,” Mabbot answered. “The ships arrive empty; not a single shilling comes from English coffers. The Pendleton Company buys tea on credit, sells slave-grown opium to eliminate that credit with a substantial profit in addition, then heads home with ships full of tea, silk, and silver.”

“I thought China allowed trade only through Canton.”

Mabbot laid out a map of the South China shore and pointed to an imperial-looking structure. “For the sake of the tea trade, China allows Pendleton to occupy this little patch of land at the mouth of the Pearl River. Every cup of tea you have ever had was a once a leaf under that roof. The Chinese call it the Barbarian House. It’s a warehouse, a fortress, an embassy, an outpost, and a front for the biggest criminal operation in history. It is the reason England is rich while the rest of Europe is planting in salted fields. You know, Wedge, you’re positively handsome when you’re not being a boor!”

I saw her point. Or rather, I believed her. I had heard of the opium trade, but I had no idea it was the foundation of the Oriental shipping industry, let alone the reason for the English presence in India. Our little interview was proceeding with an uncommon courtesy. I have to admit that there is a certain thrill in seeing the world through Mabbot’s unflinching eyes. I had not known secrets this large could be kept.

I pushed on. “But if China knows the Pendleton Company is smuggling opium, why do they tolerate it?”

“England’s navy could strangle them in a matter of weeks. It’s all China can do to keep them restricted to the Barbarian House. All of the Pendleton officials this side of the world live there in lavish quarters above the warehouses, fat and happy. After five years a young officer can return to England wealthy enough to buy a duchy. But I’m sure Ramsey told you that.”

I ignored the barb. “I’d thought you’d have attacked the Barbarian House by now.”

“It is a heavily guarded harbor. I could never get close enough.”

“Yet the Fox manages.”

“Braga tells us he dug an elaborate system of tunnels at the mouth of the Pearl River. Braga helped design them but says they braid together with natural caves, a labyrinth of pits and slick slopes. He says the rug map is the key to navigating them.”

“Can’t Braga be your guide in Macau?”

“The tunnels are for smuggling into Canton. The Fox’s lair in Macau is far enough from Canton to hide but close enough to sneak back in when he needs to. Braga claims to know nothing of it.”

“Are we really going all the way to Portuguese China?”

“Pish, Macau is right around the corner, a few hundred nautical miles.”

Here I reached for an itch only to find myself scratching the peg. “The frustrations of a phantasmal foot,” I said.

It may be rare, but Mabbot laughs like spring itself. She’s shown great tact about my peg. Moreover, much to my relief, she has not yet mentioned having visited my chamber three nights ago. If not for the twins’ witnessing it, I might believe I had dreamed the encounter. For all I know, Mabbot does not recall it. I certainly do. The event has played out regularly, in various permutations, in my fancies since.

Tuesday, October 26, Early Morning

Judging the passage of time as best I could by the moonlight sweeping across the narrow porthole, I made to exit my chamber at midnight.

Thus, agitated and mistrusting, I met Gimbal at the fore and followed him, without a word, down the starboard stairs into the bowels of the ship. On the way he said, “You’re late. Anyway, hurry on, we’ll be glad for a new face.”

“We? There are more?”

“Oh, yes. Half the boat, one time or another, has come to our meetings.”

Before I had time to weigh the wisdom of joining a full-blown mutiny, we arrived at the door of a damp hold used to store empty barrels and crates. When the door was opened and my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the lanterns, I saw a most salacious scene, one that might have leaped from Bosch’s canvas. Ten men or more lolled upon heaps of burlap in a concupiscent tangle. I saw then why so many of the crew winked obscenely when certain rope knots were mentioned: Wasn’t I seeing here the monkey fist, the slippery Spaniard, and the ten-fingered glove? Such a heap of blasphemy it was that I could scarce tell whose limbs were whose; rather, they seemed to be one beast, reeking of the body’s own sea-foam.

Someone shouted, “Need a seat, Spoons? There’s room on my lap!”

There is, no doubt, a proper and Christian response to such an offer, but I was so shocked that my only thought was to excuse myself as quickly as possible. “Ah yes, right! Do go on without me. I have a sudden case of the shits.” With that I turned and fled to my chamber and spent the rest of the evening watching the door.

If the sight of those actions aroused in me certain unwanted pressures, it is only because I have long been sequestered in this unholy environment with no friends but these. The kerchief is not lifted clean from the gutter.

Wednesday, October 27

Despite the watch and the unease that saturates this ship, the saboteur managed to strike again last night. This time the fire, fed by oil, considerably compromised the port holds of the lower deck, not far from my own chamber. These holds, being recently emptied, held little of value, but Mr. Apples says the starboard hull is sprung not far above the waterline. We now have no choice but to find timber on the Paracel Islands, which the crew is loath to do for fear that Laroche may trap us in the harbors there.

At noon, Mabbot tacked a piece of wood next to the purse already dangling from the mizzen. She read the inscription aloud: “Two full shares of our next haul! And for the saboteur, theater paint!” At this, a roar went up.

The folly of early Tuesday morning has taught me that one must not trust in hidden messages for communication. If I have hope of finding the saboteur, it will be through vigilance and keen perception. In this I am no better suited than anyone else. All persons have become suspects. He will be difficult to find, for the entire ship is after him, and if he has even the brains of a crumpet, the man will not make the mistake of announcing himself.

Everything has become so confused. I despise this saboteur despite his being perhaps my only true ally. I find myself fantasizing of bringing him to Mabbot for punishment. I am on a steep slope indeed. If I escape, it will be to peril, and unwritten pages, but they will be, at least, my pages. Better to die in the attempt (I tell myself again and again) than to live a hundred years as a captive or, worse, a pirate. I will have my life back, bereft as it may be.

As for my oath to bring Mabbot to justice at any cost, well, those words were written long ago, it seems. Boiled long enough, even garlic loses its bite, and I have been so thoroughly boiled. These scribbles indict not Mabbot so much as the entire filthy world.

19

THE CULINARY USES OF A CANNONBALL

In which trust is betrayed

Friday, October 29

Today we’ve set anchor off the shores of the western Paracel Islands, which are scattered crescents of sand and palms, like the crumbs left from God’s earth-making. The men shuttled across the shallows in the longboats to cut timber for Kitzu’s repairs. The atmosphere among the crew has grown quite sour, and twice Mr. Apples was obliged to stop quarrels himself, lest they spread into riots. The men pop and spit like fritters in oil.

To my benefit, they were all so distracted that they took no notice of me as I made my way around the ship making preparations for departure. It was clear I would have to swim, but that has always been a strength of mine, and, this time, the sea was warm and calm. Even with my attenuated figure, I was sure I could do it. I had spotted a series of fishing villages along the coast that, by my estimation, could be hiked or paddled to in half a day.