Cinnamon and Gunpowder (29 page)

And worse, my mind moves beyond the uncertainty of escape to the uncertainty of home. Perhaps I’ll find myself again on the stoop of a monastery, that family that has never turned its back on me.

Deeper and deeper into the barbarous regions we go, and every step away from the light of civilization brings us closer to Macau and the den of the Brass Fox. I tremble to witness the end of this bloody story. He has been nothing but trouble for me, and any man who could so enslave Mabbot’s mind must be a monster, indeed. I cannot help but breathe the heathen vapors here and find myself racked with an unholy anxiety—a premonition—that we shall indeed find the Fox waiting for us, just where he promised, and somehow, at that moment, I shall be lost for good. His words haunt me: “We never go home again.”

Sunday, October 17

I have worked, at last, with the raw materials of my craft. I am enjoying it while I can, for I know it won’t continue; soon enough I will be again the blacksmith without a hammer. Today, though, we made a proper feast.

Before sunrise, Joshua and I set the neck, bones, and feet of the aged pheasant to simmer with onions into stock, later adding a little of that mysteriously seductive miso.

Pie crust has never been so hard-won. The winds are hot and dry, and even on the lower deck, one feels the sun warming the planks overhead. To properly chill the water and lard, we corked them in clay amphorae and sealed them tightly with wax. With a little help from Kitzu, we fastened the jars to long fishing lines with lead weights and tossed them into the sea behind the boat to spend the day in the frigid depths.

The sun-dried tomatoes we soaked in a little hot water to ready them for a puree. The yams turned out to be inedible by way of density. If I were a cabinetmaker, I might have the tools for converting them into something useful. Perhaps this is one ingredient better suited for Conrad’s galley than mine.

There is a particular terra-cotta pot that Conrad tended to use as a midden for dirty spoons, onion skins, etcetera. This we washed thoroughly before letting it soak in clean water.

We quartered the pheasant, then floured and browned it in a skillet. In a little lard I sweated garlic cloves, lemongrass, onions, and the minced gizzards, heart, and liver of the fowl. Lemongrass is too fibrous to leave in the gravy, but its aroma is a welcome addition to my world; it has the energy of lemon zest but with a broader range that reminds me of a Riesling wine.

Though I had gained some facility clopping about the open deck with my crutches, here in the galley things were more difficult, what with the close walls, the slick floor, the knives, and the spitting oil; my right hand was usually occupied by the mundane task of keeping me from toppling into a boiling kettle. Therefore it was dependable Joshua who chopped, fried, and rolled. Having to manage most of these tasks by proxy was confounding, both because I missed having my hands in the mix but further because I was forced to articulate, in a language not my own, methods that, though they came as simply to me as paddling to a duck, were nevertheless quite nuanced.

The pie dough was the most difficult, for a crisp and flaky crust is dependent on perfect ratios, temperatures, and texture, normally gauged by experienced hands. I was so frustrated by my incapacity, I found myself yelling at Joshua, who was much chagrined and undeserving of my outburst. Though he could not hear my pitch, my demeanor and visage struck him like a blow, and he turned his back on me for a moment to shut me out.

When the tomatoes had softened, we pulverized them in a coconut-shell mortar with a single anchovy, a splash of Madeira wine, olive oil, and a pinch of cinnamon. This sauce was ladled into dishes to be cooked with the eggs and, at the last minute, basil, whose tiny purple leaves whispered of anise.

The terra-cotta pot was now twice as heavy, having absorbed much water. Into this we put the lemongrass gravy, the browned pheasant, some crumbled sage, mustard, a dash of ginger, and a cup of pheasant stock. I covered the pot with its lid and placed it into the hot oven to braise. This wet-clay method, invaluable for dry or gamy meats, was taught to me by a fellow apprentice in France. He was a comrade for only a few months before being excused for an overly enthusiastic crème flambé that managed to incinerate half the table.

Joshua deftly peeled and arranged sliced mango upon the tart crust. We then glazed it with a brandy-and-honey reduction before baking.

By way of apology for my outburst, I reserved some of the dough and made a smaller tart for the boy alone, adjuring him to enjoy it in the privacy of the new galley, lest some pirate snatch it from him.

Fortuitously, the few remaining unripe bananas are starchy and amenable to savory treatment. Just as the slices were browning at the edges, I tossed in a pinch of sage. Once fried, they would make a wonderful bed to anchor the piquant gravy.

As the pheasant braised to a glistening brindle, I found myself shaving and pulling on the lavish
Patience
clothes, pinning one pant leg up to keep it from dragging. How can I explain, except to say that I too need a moment’s respite from this salt-chafed existence? After such a base tumble through the gutters of the world, I’ll take any excuse for civility, even if it is pure theater.

When I showed up at Mabbot’s cabin, with Joshua carrying the tray behind me, I found the dining room lit with a multitude of candles. Mabbot wore a low-backed gown of sage green and a blue-diamond pendant festooned with pearls. Her hair had been pulled up and away from her neck, secured with a jade comb. Her face, enhanced by rouge and dusted with powder, could have been carved from cream marble by Michelangelo himself. She seemed a wholly different person, not only in appearance but in behavior as well, for the raiment clearly embarrassed her, and she fidgeted at the hem of her gown. Rather than meet my eyes, she pretended to be engaged in arranging the candles.

Joshua stared so candidly that I had to physically shove him from the chamber. I was suddenly nervous to be standing close to a woman of such admirable proportions. Further, I found myself worried for her name: that she should not be alone with a man sans escort. This old reflex struck me as so absurd that I couldn’t help but laugh.

Mabbot misinterpreted me. “Am I so amusing? You think this is burlesque?”

“Oh, no, you look a princess.”

Mabbot squared her shoulders and roared, “I’ll not be mocked at my own table!”

I took her hand and, tugging at it to entice her to sit again, said, “Hannah Mabbot, I’ve not a pinch of insincerity in my blood when I say that you look radiant. Let’s have our little soiree. See? I’ve put on the laced shirt; my beard is gone.”

She sat and said quietly, “It’s just that even I need a moment of elegance now and then. Maybe it is a little ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous or no, we take our pleasures where we can, and the repast tonight, I must say, is deserving … You’re radiant,” I repeated.

“You won’t think so when this damn corset pinches me in two. You clean up decently yourself … Joshua is glad for your lessons, you should know. I haven’t had the time to give him the attention he deserves. I thank you for it. You’ve got decency, Wedge. What delicacies have you wrought?”

“Quail eggs and basil shirred in ramekins with sun-dried tomato puttanesca, braised pheasant with dandelion greens and
jus de l’île
over pan-fried banana, and a confetti of pickled hominy
à la mer
.”

Mabbot put her chin in her hands and gazed at the victuals for a moment before saying, “Aren’t you clever.”

“A bishop from Rome showed me how to make the puttanesca, though he called it simply ‘
dal mare
,’ and suggested I confess it as a venial sin every time I made it, just to be safe. A stove is a wonderful invention,” I said.

“I have to agree. What a banquet!”

“And, of course, I had proper, if exotic, ingredients—couldn’t we go more often to land?”

“If only I could arrange it every day, Wedge. Alas, I have more pressing matters and much water to cross.”

“What exactly has the Fox done to set the world against him?” I asked.

“He has stolen women from sheikhs and fish from penguins,” Mabbot said. “But it’s the opium that really matters. He’s taken entire warehouses of the stuff. Worse, he’s wooed smugglers from Pendleton, and they are the linchpin of the empire.”

“But that’s your game, isn’t it? I’d think you’d want to give the man a medal. Or is it hubris? You want to be the only thorn in the lion’s paw?”

Mabbot took a moment to carve herself a leg of pheasant, and I was worried I had offended her, but after wiping gravy from the rim of her plate with a napkin, she continued.

“If that were all, I’d leave him be, but he’s slipped into the well. He doesn’t destroy the stuff. He smuggles it into China himself. The Pendleton Company wants my head for tangling their routes, but he redoubles their grief, taking their profit while undermining their market. He’s dancing a jig between the lion and the dragon.”

“Why not let him?”

“I’m not content to have one devil swapped with another. And now he has some scheme to outdo Pendleton? No, I’ll not let him become another opium baron.”

“And when you catch him?” I asked.

“A civil conversation. He’s clever enough to recognize reason. And besides, he said he was ready to work together, didn’t he?”

“What if he lied?”

Her face clouded over so quickly that I sat back, feeling the need to take cover. But beneath the icy glare, I saw a weariness that far surpassed my own. There was indeed a heart beating furiously in those depths.

She sighed. “It’s almost certainly a lie, or worse. But this may be my last chance to…”

“Stop him?”

“To set him straight. I’ve not been this close to him for years. How can I not try to put it right? But let’s not ruin our appetites with this—your work deserves better.”

Without another word, we began to eat. I was hungry, but no appetite would excuse the way we set upon those dishes. We shoveled food into our mouths in a manner ill befitting our fine attire. Bears would have blushed to see us bent over our plates. The pheasant, still steaming from the oven, its dark flesh redolent with the mushroom musk of the forest floor, was gnawed quickly to the bone. It was a touch gamy—no milk-fed goose, this—but it was tender, and the piquant hominy balanced that wild taste as I had hoped it would. The eggs, laced pink at the edges and floating delicately in a carnal sauce, were gulped down in two bites. The yolks were cooked to that rare liminal degree, no longer liquid but not yet solid, like the formative moment of a sun-colored gem.

Whether cast by the menu itself or by another unseen force, the spell was upon us, and we ate until our bellies bulged and we had to sit back in our chairs groaning. And all the while my mind wrestled with what I had seen in her eyes. One does not choose madness. Was Mabbot not a prisoner too?

After only a few minutes of intoxicated burps and happy rocking, Mabbot eyed the brandied mango tart as a pugilist eyes a rival. She carved herself a slice and, with the very same knife, which she wiped quickly upon a towel, reached between her shoulder blades and cut the uppermost tethers of her corset to make more room.

After dessert we sipped on strong cups of tea, one of the luxuries we can afford to take for granted here in the trade routes.

“Delightful,” she said. “If only for a little cream.”

“Don’t speak to me of cream, Captain. I dream about milk at least twice a week. I run naked with milk running in rivulets from the corners of my mouth. I even miss humble parsley—zounds, how I’ve taken that weed for granted! And butter, I’ll not describe my butter dreams, they’re too depraved.”

Mabbot chuckled. “We must leave something for dreams.”

“Anyway,” I said, “I credit Joshua with much of this meal.”

“So your apprentice is working out?”

“Very amenable, an amazing young man.”

“So even a dog can be taught, after a fashion?”

“But Joshua is not a dog!” I nearly shouted. In my ardor I spilled my tea. “He learns more quickly than any assistant I’ve ever had. If I’d had him on land, in a proper kitchen—”