Cinnamon and Gunpowder (34 page)

As this was unfamiliar land, full of natives and who knows what kind of savagery, I decided that, in addition to my usual bag of figs and water, I must bring with me a pistol, dry and with enough shot to defend myself or, if needs be, hunt small game in the eventuality that I am stranded longer than I’d like.

I had made my way to the gun room, where I knew a number of pistols to be in lockers. To be sure no one saw me, I ducked in quickly. After letting my eyes adjust to the dimness, I jumped with fright when I saw three figures, Feng, Bai, and Asher, huddled in a conspiratorial nature.

I had clearly walked into a secret meeting, and they were not pleased.

Bai leaped to his feet. “You were listening?”

“Listening? No. I heard nothing.”

He tapped my chest with his finger and said, “You heard nothing.” It was no longer a question.

I was then escorted back to my cell and locked in.

Friday, Later

An hour later I used my spoon key to free myself and make my way to the deck again. To give Bai the impression that I had been freed legitimately, I lingered awhile near Mr. Apples who, along with the bosun, was orchestrating the stowing of freshly hewn planks. I was not able to regain my previous freedom of movement. Everywhere I went, Bai, or the captain, or Mr. Apples seemed to be near. Even if I could get clear enough of them and leap into the water without provisions to take my chances unarmed, then surely the boats that were forever going to and from the shore with lumber would see my splashing. A cowardly part of me smiled inwardly—I would have to remain safely aboard the
Rose
. I circled the deck, cursing myself.

But ho, what have I seen?

I have been so confounded by my craven relief at not having to swim to those dusky sands that, until I began this entry, I had not properly considered what I had witnessed in the weapon room. Was it not a clandestine meeting of saboteurs? No doubt the insidious twins have decided to sell Mabbot for the prize and take the
Rose
for themselves.

I must admit I am disappointed and frankly frightened, as I know I can never be in league with those two. Even Mr. Apples seems to like me more than they do. Further, if they succeed in any form of mutiny, I am sure I’ll be cast into the sea or set adrift or simply executed on my knees. This is a rebellion I can neither join nor survive.

Saturday, October 30

Today Mabbot sentenced eight sailors for “gambling, untimely inebriation, and maligning one another’s mothers.” In punishment the men were attached by the hip to lines and hung over the rail to chip the hull clean with chisels. If I had understood the gravity of the punishment, I would not have complicated it by requesting that Mabbot include in her sentence that the men return with whatever mussels they should find. The rest of the crew agreed it was a fair and fitting punishment, as the men had been witnessed drinking well before their watch was over. It might have been dealt with swiftly by Mr. Apples if their play had not escalated into a brawl. This, Mabbot would have to make an example of. She stated, “We do not fight among ourselves.”

The severity of the penalty was made clear to me only when the men were allowed, after several hours, to return to the deck, bleeding from hundreds of gashes. At first I thought they had attacked one another with their chisels, but their wounds, I came to understand, resulted from being buffeted against the razor-sharp barnacles of the hull. When one man fainted, Mabbot ordered the other seven to tend to him. He was revived only after much massage and attention. The eight sat wrapped in blankets and huddled together for warmth, while Mabbot addressed them: “We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“Yes, Captain,” they groaned as one.

“And all of us well-bred?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good, then. Get back to work.”

Such is the strange justice upon the ship. In any case, the sailors’ suffering won me a bucket of mussels for tomorrow’s meal.

Sunday, October 31

Curry intimidates me.

Ramsey had acquired the taste from his early trips to the tea plantations and tended to request it when his guests included young women; it is no secret that his lordship enjoyed a bachelor’s privilege. At such meals, Ramsey was inordinately garrulous, and his story of hunting a tiger never failed to elicit gasps from his audience. It was no different from any hunter’s tale; a man-eater had managed to circle around and leap upon our hero from behind. When the animal breathed its last, the guests would applaud and Ramsey would bow.

My own performance was never as satisfactory. The guests didn’t know how curry should taste, and so I wasn’t as concerned with their reaction as I was with Ramsey’s, who would let me know the morning after that the curry was “not quite the thing, I’m afraid.” Like the naturalists drawing fabulous creatures based on hearsay, I was trying to perfect a dish based on a tea merchant’s romanticized travels. Cumin and turmeric, chili and ginger, any one of these in the wrong proportion can ruin a dish, and with all of them fighting it out, I was lucky to do as well as I did. Looking back now, I wonder if my attempts weren’t corrupted by the boorish associations I had with the dish. It was rare to see the braggart and playboy side of Ramsey, but I particularly disliked it.

His tale never failed to end with the rather breathless description of the felled beast itself: “The pelt which had been dusted with a hundred Oriental spices in the fields, the tongue which had lapped at the bones of a hundred coolies, eyes which had seen ten thousand sunsets. At the last moment I hesitated, but the ghosts of his prey called to me, saying, ‘Avenge us!’ I took aim and fulfilled my duty.”

It’s no wonder I couldn’t get it right; I hadn’t really wanted to.

This morning I woke early to try again. There is no excuse not to; I never had spices half as fresh as those that Mabbot gave me, which sing even from their closed box.

A few of these were not ground, and I set to the task of rolling the cannonball over them. The missile serves for a pestle almost as well as it did for a rolling pin. If I ever work in a proper kitchen again, I may have to bring one along.

As if woken by the smell, Joshua arrived to help me, and soon we had freshly powdered cinnamon, mustard, and cloves to mix with the turmeric, cayenne, cumin, and ginger; curry is a multifarious potion.

As the cinnamon broke under the cannonball, it struck me that all I had to do was follow that one note, and it would show me where to go. We built it pinch by pinch and took turns sniffing at the pile, debating whether to sharpen it with a touch more mustard or anchor it with cumin. When we lost the cinnamon’s hum, we knew we had gone too far and had to turn back. This was no dead tiger. We were creating, we decided, a fabulous tree, and when we were done, we could smell cumin’s muddy roots, the callused bark of mustard, the pulsing sap of the turmeric, all the way up to the sunlit blossoms of cinnamon.

Such a rich dish demanded a bright counterpoint, and the papaya was just the thing. It was not quite ripe and so had the satisfactory crunch of a cucumber. The black seeds glistened like roe in its womb, and though Joshua didn’t like the smell of it, he was willing nevertheless to julienne the fruit and toss it with lime and a touch of honey. As the babirusa had been curing for such a short time, the flesh was very supple, and the thinnest slices, almost translucently pink, were reminiscent of a mild prosciutto. These streamers we tossed until they entwined sensually with the marinated papaya.

I must say that I’m delighted with the simple elegance of rice steamed with lemongrass.

Wishing to preserve the tenderness of the mussels, we saved the curry until just before serving. The powdered spices were roasted dry for a few minutes to release their perfume, then combined with a little lard and shredded coconut meat. Anchovies and miso provided a savory foundation for the sauce. We simmered the mussels in ginger beer, and just as they opened and released their brine, we combined all into a steaming archipelago.

To my dismay, Bai was lingering in Mabbot’s cabin when I arrived.

Unsettled, I presented the meal immediately: “Green papaya and babirusa salad, curried mussels over lemongrass rice, garnished with a bouquet of cilantro.”

“Good, then!” Mabbot said. “Damn ceremony, let’s eat.”

When Bai left to fetch hay for the rabbit, I leaned in to whisper, “Captain, I’ll say it straight: the twins are the saboteurs.”

Mabbot turned grave. “This is serious,” she said. “Do you have proof?”

“Indeed. I saw them with Asher having a secret meeting in the munitions room. Quite clandestine.”

Mabbot took my hand and, checking to see that we were still alone, said with gravity, “My God, but how can it be?”

“I know it must come as a shock—”

“It is indeed a shock that you don’t know what proof is.” She cracked a smile. “Such a simple word. Even a child knows the definition of ‘proof.’ Didn’t you hear my conditions? If you accuse without evidence, you lose an ear. I’ll excuse it this time only because you already lost your hoof.”

“But what proof would satisfy you? You ask too much!”

“I know that.”

“Then why?” I demanded.

“Now the crew is watching, waiting. They will police one another, and that will make the saboteur’s job difficult until I find out who it is. Meanwhile we won’t execute an innocent only to have the saboteur emboldened.”

“But I’ve just told you—”

Here I was interrupted by Bai, who came in with a bundle of dried alfalfa for the rabbit. He pretended not to hear, but I was sure he knew what I was up to. I will be lucky not to be slain in my sleep. When he strolled out again, Mabbot whispered, “How do you know
I
am not the saboteur?”

“What nonsense—”

“Is it? A saboteur brings them under my skirts. Not that they’re prone to mutiny. These are good men who love me as they can. But this last year has been a hard one. I have spent much of our winnings on my hunt. Incidents like this tend to draw out the discontent as the leech draws out the bad blood. Now, though, with a devil aboard, the men are neither bored, nor listless, nor rich, nor fat, which upon a pirate ship are hardly benign traits. Left too long, those qualities can lead to discontent and indeed sabotage!” She laughed so hard the tea splashed from her cup and the rabbit came to lap at it.