Cinnamon and Gunpowder (37 page)

The pigeons I prepared by dredging them in flour and browning them in a skillet with lard and smoked babirusa ham. I then placed them in the terra-cotta pot and braised them in a little brandy before ladling in the voluptuous sauce and letting them simmer for fifteen minutes.

The wet terra-cotta mitigates burning, but braising in Conrad’s hearth still requires banking red coals into a crescent and worrying over the position of the clay pot minute by minute.

The last of the potatoes went into the crab croquettes. After grating and salting the tubers, I squeezed out as much water as I could and put the liquid aside to settle out. In half an hour the starch had precipitated. I poured off the water and stirred the starch back into the potatoes (such are the humble measures of an eggless world) along with the virginal crabmeat, black pepper, and dried cilantro and set them aside for frying.

Joshua, on his own recognizance, prepared a warm sauce to crown the croquettes. I offered suggestions for the ingredients—a shaving of Pilfered Blue, anchovies macerated in wine, etcetera—but his dark eyes sparkled when he understood that I would not be looking over his shoulder. “I’m trusting you,” I told him. “Make it simple and balanced.” It took an effort to keep from peering into his pot, but I remember well the first few times Father Sonora asked me to take on a soup or sauce myself. There is no replacement for the sense of accomplishment one feels at having made his own sauce; it lifts the chin.

The pleasure I took from preparing the dessert was libidinal. The vanilla and dried rosebud simmering in brandy sent waves of intoxicating aromas washing over me. When the spirits had nearly evaporated, I threw in the crushed almonds, dried coconut, and just enough honey to bind it all together.

I noticed, tonight, as I pulled her chair out for her to sit, that Mabbot is getting modestly plump. Her jaw is not as severe, and there are two lovely creases ringing her neck. It is a gentle improvement, and I cannot help but take a little credit.

She saw me looking and I hurried to my seat, embarrassed.

“Crab croquettes with
bagna cauda
,” I announced. “Braised squab napped with chocolate
mole
, and, finally, vanilla-rose amaretti.”

We set to it. The scents that had so inspired my cooking, just hours before, deferred temporarily to the textures of the meal. The croquettes tsked and whispered when bitten into; inside, the delicate fingers of crabmeat parted reluctantly, like lovers holding hands. The squabs were indecent in their steamy terrine. The
mole
slid off the meat and sent dark rivulets under the tongue.

After twenty minutes of nothing but pleasurable murmurings, I finally remembered the urgency of my secret. Putting my finger to my nose, I leaned close to Mabbot.

“Those twins, Captain. Something must be done.”

Mabbot sighed and dropped her fork onto her plate.

I pressed on. “I saw them again, whispering very heatedly, with Asher. The three of them trying hard not to be heard. They speak Mandarin, so I cannot know what it is they were saying, but it was urgent and secret and terribly suspicious!”

Mabbot dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “This is distressing.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so!”

“But, if a mutiny is afoot, why not join them, Wedge, and free yourself?”

“Bloodshed is not my way.”

“More likely you figured, and rightly so, that those two would never have you in their club.” She laughed, and I couldn’t help but smile a little myself, so contagious was her mood.

“In all honesty, Captain, given the choice, I would far rather be your captive than theirs. But you of all people know what they are capable of. I urge you to act soon, now, this instant. Catch them by surprise. It is the only way.”

“You will not let this be, will you?”

“But how can I?”

“Very well. This is not how I would have had it. Don’t you know that nothing happens upon this ship but I hear it? I know their secret, Wedge, or rather, Feng’s secret, for it belongs rightfully to the one and not the other. But a ship is a small world indeed, and even those two cannot have any real privacy.” She took a sip of cider and sighed. “Feng is with child.”

I was sure I had misheard.

“Your face!” she said. “Why so shocked? Though she moves like a fury, and though she goes as a man, nevertheless she has a heart like the rest of us. Asher is her lover, and, no doubt, they were discussing the inevitable dilemma we face when she begins to show, which will be any day now.”

“But—”

“A woman, even escorted by her loyal brother, cannot go easily upon a ship of pirates. Mine is a special position and hard-earned. I was a man upon the seas for fifteen years before I showed my real face. Well, now you know. Of course, you are forbidden to tell another soul. Alas, I fear I shall be wanting new bodyguards in a few months. I don’t suppose you will take up training as a pugilist?”

“But—”

“As protection, your width would make you an asset, though for that I could just as well stand behind a barrel.” She laughed. “Have I hurt your feelings?”

“How can it be?”

“The Shaolin monks wouldn’t teach boxing to a woman, but she had sworn revenge along with the rest of her brothers, so she became a man. I assure you, there are many of us passing in the halls of power. We are not all so content to spend our lives in the kitchen. In my early days, I shaved my head and wore breeches. There was no other way.”

She must have seen me trying to remember which twin was which, for she said, “That’s right, you were pummeled by a woman. Properly wrung out like Monday’s laundry. But I’m sure she’ll oblige if you want a rematch.”

“What man strikes a woman?” I mumbled.

“Yes, of course. Present your chivalry. It is a sturdy shield.”

It was finally clear to me why Feng had bullied and bruised me in the dark passages: it was in retribution for Asher’s flogging! I had caused her guitar-playing lover to suffer, and she couldn’t let me pass without knocking the wind out of me every time. My head in my hands, I felt laughter rise up, uncontrolled, reckless. “I surrender,” I said. “You talk circles around me and I cannot hope to keep up. But then, you have the advantage, as I am bound by good manners.”

She laughed too and we laughed together, and I felt something important slip from me. Once gone, I could not say exactly what it had been, only that I had been holding on to it ever since this horrible story began, as a man fallen from a cliff clings to a stalk of nettle; that bitter weed had kept me alive. Now that I had let go, I was falling and I would not be the same.

Perhaps I was feeling the effects of the cider, for I noted again Mabbot the paradoxical beauty, her bearing upright and yet relaxed, her eyes soft and sharp.

We had been looking at each other for some moments before I was properly aware of it. Suddenly anxious that she would see the admiration in my eyes, I mumbled, “Ah, I’ll retire now, Captain,” and felt the heat of her gaze again as I made my way to the door.

21

WOLVES AND SHEEP

In which I attempt a final escape

Tuesday, November 9

We have reached, finally, Macau—a coast like shattered terra-cotta.

The ship is alive with anticipation. Word has spread that the Fox may finally be within reach, though what this means is, as always, contentious. Some say we will soon be tossing out our silk to make room for his gold, while others believe that the Fox’s smuggler army will join the
Rose
to take on Laroche. The excitement is but a thin veneer over the anxiety of being in very dangerous waters; not fifty miles away is the Pearl River, where the Pendleton office sits and oversees the filling of ships with cinnamon, tea, and porcelain packed in straw. That means first-class warships roam these seas, ready to defend the heart of England’s trade with China.

After sending a longboat crew to secure our landing, Mabbot set about provisioning another with maps, guns, and food for a full day’s excursion. I begged to go along, citing a longing to get off the ship and feel the blessed soil beneath me. Truthfully, though, the recollection of my unfettered laughter in Mabbot’s cabin and our locked eyes frightened me, and I felt I must find an opportunity to flee before I lost myself completely.

There were nearly two dozen of us: Mabbot, Mr. Apples, Mr. Braga, the twins, myself, Joshua, and a pack of Mabbot’s best fighters, hungry for action. Macau was known to be a country of thieves and highwaymen; no matter who planted their flag there—Spain, China, or Portugal—the reputation for lawlessness only grew. As we rowed closer, the rust-colored hills baking in the sun and wreathed with smoky grey trees made me regret my decision to join the party. This was a landscape of caves and hidden valleys—precisely where bandits refined their craft. I asked, “Are the Portuguese sovereign here?”

“The Portuguese have no cavil with me,” Mabbot said. “Neither the Dutch.”

The waves fairly threw us upon a beach so rocky my peg could find no purchase. If not for Joshua’s help, I would be stumbling there still. We stowed the boats under some low-hanging bushes bordering an inlet and followed the creek.

The sailors went before us, hacking through the brush with mattocks. To my relief we left the river stones behind and crested low, parched hills. Mabbot, consulting the chicken-blood map, took some time to get her bearings, and I did too. The landscape offered nothing more promising than dust devils and lurching black beetles.

“Doesn’t Braga know the way?” I asked Mr. Apples.

“Braga only knows the tunnels at Pearl River. The Fox never took him here nor told him how to find it.”

In the distance was a mountain with a peak shaped like a blade, and we made for it. I quickly fell behind with Joshua and Mr. Apples, who had been charged, apparently, with watching me.

Though the terrain was rough and dry, it felt good to be on land. Even the coarse weeds struggling in the cracks of the clay fostered a brotherly feeling in me. Bowing to a strange compulsion, I picked up a pebble and popped it into my mouth, sucking at it like candy. I could tell the captain felt the land-happiness too; her walk was jaunty. When she tossed her coat over her shoulder, I could not help but admire her waist tapering to flare at the hips. I tried to imagine a man to match her, a character absurd enough to marry Mad Mabbot. There could be no taming her, but at least one would not lack for humor or adventure. And too, she loved to eat.

We passed some abandoned barns whose walls had been used for bills. Glued over the rest was posted Mabbot’s warrant, similar to the one we had seen on the Pendleton ships. There was a drawing of her, and, in three languages: “Cannibal Pirate Mabbot! 15 Ingot Gold Reward.”

Mabbot frowned as she stared at it. “Are my eyes really so far apart?”

The poster was ripped up and we moved on.

The walk was long and I had plenty of time to chat with Mr. Apples. “I thought Portugal had no cavil with her,” I said.

“That’s a Pendleton poster.” Mr. Apples laughed. “Lies grow wings. Truth grows bunions.”

He was distracted, looking at the distant hills, no doubt worried about bounty hunters. I was glad to have him nearby.

I asked, casually, “So is this it? Will we finally find the Brass Fox?”

“Cain’t say. He doesn’t tend to linger, though Macau would be a sensible place to call home. Plenty of scoundrels to enlist, and the rare sheriff is easily paid off. In Macau you don’t ask questions.” Mr. Apples grunted, stopping for a moment to stare at some animal scat, then picked up his pace. “Even if he ain’t here though, sooner or later we’ll have him. He’s running out of tricks and showing signs of sloppy. He’s tired.”

“I’ll remind you that I met the man,” I whispered. “I know Mabbot isn’t after gold. What does she hope to accomplish?”

“Spoons, you’re not half as clever as she says you are.” He coughed and spat a thick wad of mucus upon the ground. “Think it through: Mabbot teaches him how to sail, how to shoot—more important,
who
to shoot. But turn around to find he’s off and smuggling opium. He steals it from Pendleton and sells it to buy more smugglers and mercenaries, building his own little empire. He’s become the very thing she hates, what she’s given her life to fighting. If it were your child, could you just let it go? There’s a hundred reasons for the captain to kill Ramsey, but what would make her risk her ship to walk in on your little feast like that?”

“She’s trying to clean up the mess,” I said, beginning to see it. “Undo all of her mistakes.”

“But with every passing day, the Fox becomes more and more like his father. Captain thinks she can make him see it her way. Between you and me, it’s too late for that. I’ve watched him kill fishermen and there was nothing in his eyes but fun. The man is a whetstone. Here’s a better question: When it comes time, can Mabbot put an end to it?”

After making our way over a great valley of hard-packed sand, we took a break at noon under a gnarled and leaning soot tree to eat and catch our breath. There I removed my peg to massage my stump and let the pad air out. We had only started our repast of figs, dried fish, and hardtack when Mabbot set off again, kicking up dust, and we were obliged to pack up and follow.