Cinnamon and Gunpowder (36 page)

Joshua and I filleted the dragonfish wearing the smithy’s gloves to protect us from the quills. While I would have liked to have my saffron again, I found myself, for once, grateful for the ingredients on hand. Bouillabaisse is often accented with orange peel, but I realized that lemongrass made a much more substantial aroma and admirably carried the baser seasonings of dried smelt and bay leaf.

We were gathering speed again as I puttered, and I felt strangely blessed not to be on the longboats with those villains but here with these.

To make rouille is difficult enough in a proper kitchen, but without a real whisk or thickening egg yolks, I knew I had a serious challenge before me. With my steadfast cannonball mortar I powdered hardtack, adding just enough broth to produce a paste, then crushed in garlic and cayenne pepper. With a whisk made of three forks lashed together, I whipped this paste while Joshua poured in the thinnest drizzle of olive oil until we had a hearty cream.

After the cubed potatoes had begun to soften in the broth, we added the fish, one at a time, letting the embers beneath the cauldron slowly die. To keep them from becoming too tough, the octopus tentacles, sliced into coins, went in just as the soup stopped simmering.

The rouille covered the surface with a rich sheen before spreading throughout like a fog at sunrise.

As we served the stew, I heard several of the crew complain that the coolies ate better than they did.

Two of our seamen spoke Tagalog, and they were kept busy explaining to the guests their change of fortune. While they ate, I asked Mr. Apples what would become of them.

“S’hard to say,” he answered. “Villages probably burned by the Spanish, families massacred. They may take to shore the first place we anchor. Some may stay on. Some of our best men have come to us this way—Utswali, Kinsha, Blue—they were all found in chains.”

I spent the rest of the day helping dress their wounds and setting up canvas tents on the deck. It turned out that these drafty quarters were not for the slaves but for the crew. Mabbot has given the forecastle berths to the women and children for the time being and has made it known that we were going to change our course to deliver the islanders to their home. Conrad grumbled about this, about the scuttling of the
Trinity
, about how quickly we would run out of food with this many new mouths to feed—mostly I believe he was sour because he had heard the men praising my soup.

20

KILLING THE MESSENGER

In which I see my error

Wednesday, November 3

It has been demonstrated today that I am hopeless with knots. Even after several lessons, I am no closer to understanding their wicked convolutions. I’ve been trying to make myself more useful since our guests joined us, but, in a dramatic demonstration of my ineptitude, I managed to free all three stays (no easy feat) of a loose cannon as it was being transported. The cannon, weighing at least five hundred pounds, picked up speed and plowed through a barrel as easily as through fog, nearly crushing a man who saved himself only by climbing a mast like a monkey. The metal beast certainly would have killed someone if not for the swift and strong men who intercepted it with ropes and nets. I have been forbidden from touching a cannon again, and we’re all more comfortable for it.

The Philippine Islanders, having been pushed from their mountain homes by Spanish ranchers, were tricked into boarding the Pendleton ship by company men who offered to provide armaments and support to win their land back. They’d been kept in the hold for weeks as the ship waited for propitious winds. They’re eager to return to the island to find their lost families. Despite their ghastly treatment, and having reason to distrust any crew, they are nevertheless some of the kindest people I have ever encountered. They break their circles to make room for me to sit and, having nothing else to offer, present their soup bowls for me to eat from. They embody the finest of Christian traits while despising the church. For the latter I blame the Spanish. I tried to remedy the situation; through a translator, I related the story of Jonah. After listening politely, they returned the favor with a story about a bird that kills by devouring a sleeper’s shadow. I did my best not to be frustrated, but the rest of the afternoon was squandered on similar heathen fables.

Thursday, November 4

Bai and Feng have continued to convince me of their guilt, for I have seen them passing notes again with Asher.

With Macau so close, Mabbot is increasingly distracted and pensive. She pores over maps and takes private meetings with Braga and Mr. Apples daily, preparing for our rendezvous with the Fox. Despite many efforts, I have been unable to catch her alone. At Sunday’s meal I will strive again to warn her of the twins’ malevolence, for I have a sinking suspicion that it will be my last chance.

Friday, November 5

This morning, after Joshua cleaned and plucked the three pigeons, I hung them to age. I took the time to shell some walnuts and soaked the meats in ale.

Of course I considered setting one of the pigeons free with a plea for help bound to its claw, but Mabbot is smart enough to count three birds. God knows what would happen to me if she saw one in the sky rather than upon a plate. I am fully aware that to willfully kill a Pendleton pigeon is a treason against England. But the rationalizations that assert themselves are hard to gainsay:

1. The birds would have died anyway by Mabbot’s command. Better they should come to some use.

2. I have had my moral fabric so tarred by my long and complicated association with these pirates that I cannot hope to salvage myself by petty attention to the proper use of company correspondence animals.

3. My opinion of the Pendleton Company has, I have to admit, been not a little shaken, and my loyalty with it. While I do not hope to spend my life among pirates and thieves, I cannot, on the other hand, continue to give my allegiance to the trading company, nor to the Crown that funds it, for I have seen with my own eyes their atrocities.

The proper way is lost to me; my compass spins. I therefore give my entire attention to those works that seem to me incorruptible: the application of heat, the proportion of seasoning, the arrangement of a plate. When robbed of all pretensions and aspirations, with no proper home nor any knowledge of what discord tomorrow brings, I still may have a pocketful of dignity. The Roman pomp and raiment have fallen away, and I see at last the glory of washed feet and shared bread.

Saturday, November 6

In order not to draw attention to ourselves, we set anchor within sight of Palawan Island, where the wind sends the palms swaying.

I’d seen little of the captain until we were close to the Philippines. Then she emerged to order that her personal pinnace,
Deimos
, carry the islanders to their destination. “Load it with as much food as it can carry, five pistols, shot, and gunpowder,” she said.

“Shall I sail her, Captain?” Mr. Apples asked.

“They can sail, can’t they?”

“But how shall we retrieve the pinnace?”

“Shan’t,” Mabbot said. “It’s a gift.”

“Captain—”

“You’ll see to it, won’t you, Mr. Apples?” With that she went back to her cabin and did not emerge until we were speeding again toward Macau.

The last I saw of our guests, they were reefing the sails of the pinnace, their faces stony as they gazed at the slow undulations of the palms. Between the Spanish soldiers and the predatory company, their fate is precarious, but they are determined to fight for their farms. As Mr. Apples predicted, a few male cousins have stayed on, preferring to throw their lot in with Mabbot.

Saturday, Later

I made the mistake of leaving my yeast starter in the galley while I helped Kitzu clean the crabs he had caught on a baited line during our brief anchor. I returned just in time to catch Conrad dumping the dough into a bucket of salty slop. I salvaged the poor thing by washing off the outer portions and fed it with fresh coconut water and flour. These barbarians are not to be trusted. Hereafter the yeast batter shall remain on my person no matter what.

Sunday, November 7

I woke early to grill onions and garlic for the
mole
. When I was a boy, a missionary returning from Mexico visited the orphanage and made the dark velvety sauce whose feral aroma so inflamed my young imagination that I convinced myself, somehow, that it had been made with panther’s blood. When the fathers declared it too sensual for the boys, I worried I might never get to taste it and begged the missionary to share his secret with me. It was the first recipe I committed to memory, and, though it did not call for blood, it was for me a magic incantation, a litany of rare ingredients, whispered only in the deep of the night when all others were asleep. I promised myself that I would someday taste the forbidden
mole
. Unfortunately it would be years before I had the freedom to attempt it myself, and by then the recipe was barely a tattered recollection. I have tried to re-create that sauce many times since, and did not truly succeed until today.

The ever-useful cannonball crushed the chocolate and ale-soaked walnuts easily. Missing the miso, I made a quick stock from discarded crab and shrimp shells and black soy liquor. I minced grilled onions and garlic to a near paste, enjoying its caramelized breath. I would have liked a few whole chili peppers to roast but made do with powdered cayenne, black pepper, and a pinch of cinnamon. I wet two sea biscuits with just enough lard and stock to moisten them, and threw them into the pot to mingle with the other ingredients.