Cinnamon and Gunpowder (45 page)

25

THE BARBARIAN HOUSE

In which the sea boils

Tuesday, November 30

When we were only a few miles northwest of the Pearl River, we sheered off to open seas and spent the night circling over several miles of water, tacking for three hours in one direction, only to turn and run free for an hour in the other. Such are the antics of a ship that has found her location but fears being caught at anchor.

It was under the last of the stars that we finally jibed back to anchor a few hundred yards from a craggy coastline punctuated by short stretches of black sand and eddying colonies of killdeers and plovers. An old hulk lay beached and belly-up on a plateau of guano-encrusted rock.

Mabbot was preparing to board a longboat with Braga and two other men. I climbed in. Before she could object, I said, “I’ll not leave your side. Someone will have to carry you back when you get shot.”

Mr. Apples had his own objection. “Why not just send Braga to set the charges? He knows the tunnels.”

“Feels rather impersonal, doesn’t it?” Mabbot said. “This is something I’d rather do myself. We’ll just nip in and dash out; have her ready to run.”

As we rowed toward the hulk, I saw that the rising sun was cloaked by a thick curtain of purple clouds. “I’ll be giving you a full share, Braga,” Mabbot said. “If we manage this, you’ll have more than earned it.”

“I’ve been itching to see that Barbarian House drop since we dug the tunnels,” said Braga. “My father was a fisherman, Portuguese. Pendleton sank him for a spy when his boat went too far up the river. After that we dug ditches to buy our bread. That’s how my father died, holding a spade in the mud. When the Fox told me he was going to beat Pendleton at their own game, I never looked back. I was still digging, but the Fox made it feel like we were winning a war. He took care of his people. He paid his smugglers twice what Pendleton pays.”

It was rare for Mabbot to listen without interrupting, but Braga had her ear. “He wasn’t a bad man,” he said. “He was just … insatiable. He couldn’t help it.
Adamastor
, my father would have called him, a hungry storm.”

Mabbot said nothing for a moment; her face was hidden by the wide brim of her hat. Then, very quietly, she repeated, “A hungry storm.” After that we listened to the sound of the paddles on the water.

We anchored our boat just beyond the breaking surf and Mabbot told the rowers, “We’ll be making a hasty exit. Be ready for us.”

The derelict was high on the rocks with her port hull bleached white by sun. Between swaths of bird filth, she was stove in and rotted to lace. In some bygone era she had been a Dutch
botter
, then, by her roof, a hulk before she was too old even for that and cast here by a storm.

“There are other entrances,” said Braga, “but they’re a hike inland. Better not risk being spotted by a patrol.”

We entered the wreck through a hole where her forecastle might once have been. Boulders jutted through her starboard hull; though high tide might rock her, she was permanently pinned to the shore. Light came in through the gaps in her wales, and its angle only magnified the unsettling slope of her decks. Planks crumbled like cheese as we passed over them. The water we trudged through was fouled by tangles of rusted rings that I guessed were barrel hoops.

Deep in her belly, a mass of blue that I thought was seaweed scattered into hundreds of tiny crabs that slipped into the water and were gone.

“No surprises this time, Captain?” I asked. “I shan’t be leaping from the deck with my hair on fire?”

“I make no such promises,” Mabbot muttered.

“In we go,” Braga said, pointing to the dark water between two outcroppings of stone where the entrance to the caverns was hidden.

“In?” Mabbot’s eyebrows rose.

“We swim down five yards or so, then up into the chamber.”

“I employ a team of swimmers so that I don’t have to,” Mabbot said.

“I can swim,” I offered. “Cleave to me.”

Braga tied his beard into a knot and dove headfirst into the pool, disappearing boots and all.

Mabbot gave an unhappy sigh, removed her hat, and wrapped her arms around me from behind. In we went. My fingers touched sand soon enough, but there was no sign of Braga, and it seemed we had dived into a well, sealed on all sides. Then Mabbot tugged my hair; she had found the shaft. We wriggled into it, then followed the tunnel for a several disorienting yards. My lungs were burning by the time the tunnel widened and I saw light above us. We emerged in a shallow underground pool in the floor of a slick-walled cavern.

It was clear that our arrival had made a tense situation worse. The Fox’s paramour, Kittur, and one of the lascars from the schooner were pointing pistols at Braga. They had backed him against a wall and were interrogating him so intensely that they did not immediately see us emerge from the water.

As we wiped the brine from our eyes, we surveyed the echoing chamber; its ceiling was blackened with soot and its sloping walls were hidden by shadow. A small corridor led from the cavern behind us, and at the other end, a monstrous tunnel led deep into the earth. The light from their lanterns reflected off the pool and cast a shifting web of gold upon the ceiling of the cave, where tongues of rock let milky droplets upon our heads. Clusters of what I assumed were bats rustled in the darker crevices.

When the lascar saw us, everyone began shouting at once, and for a moment I thought we had come this far only to be shot dead in the water. Mabbot and I raised our hands to show that we held no weapons, and managed to make our way out of the pool. We were herded toward Braga, who was trying to calm the situation in his broken Laskari while Kittur screamed, “Silence all!” The bats, disturbed by the noise, swooped and darted overhead, making monstrous shadows on the ceiling. Hindi, English, and Laskari echoed off the wet walls, and for a moment I could not even make out individual words. But all yelling ceased when a ghostly moan came from the dark throat of the largest cave.

Kittur went pale and shook her head as if to keep the sound from her ears. Her companion held his lantern toward the darkness and shouted, “
Aap kahan hain
?”

“I take it that isn’t the wind,” said Mabbot.

Kittur did not answer.

“One of your crew? Have you sent someone in after him?”

“Of course!” said Kittur. “Four of us—three have gone in after the first, and none have come out. The last went in two days ago.”

The lascar yelled into the darkness again, but the moaning had stopped.

Then he turned on us and whispered something to Kittur.

“Where is the map?” Kittur asked Mabbot. “You must have a map, or you would not have come.”

“In fact, we do,” said Mabbot. Reaching into her satchel, she produced a waxed sack and from it pulled the vellum map Mr. Apples had copied from the rug. The lascar grabbed it and peered at it in the yellow light of the lantern.

“Won’t help,” said Braga. “The map shows the safe routes only. Nothing about the rest. For every safe turn, there are three that’ll take you into the devil’s gut. The walls carry sound—that voice could be miles away, probably at the bottom of a pit a hundred feet deep, his back broken. Those men you sent in, they’re gone. They’re calling you to join them in hell.”

The lascar spat and rushed into the gullet of the cavern with the map. Kittur screamed for him to stay, but within moments the light from his lantern had been swallowed.

The woman was shaking. How long had she been in this hole, going mad with worry, losing one comrade at a time? Mabbot approached her and said, “You aren’t going to shoot us all, are you? I think it’s time you gave me that gun, pretty one.”

Kittur handed the weapon to Mabbot and sat ungracefully on the floor, her head in her hands. Her luxuriant hair, I now saw, had been cut in mourning, leaving the back of her head ragged. Her hands and face were filthy.

“Now we’ve lost our map,” said Braga.

Mabbot pulled the prayer rug from her satchel and tossed it to him; it was wet, but the flowers were clear and bright. Mabbot was more concerned with Kittur, though. She gazed at the exhausted woman for a moment and touched her cheek gently before saying, “When my son stopped stealing tiaras and began to smuggle opium, I thought to myself, he’s gotten a pocketful of patience somehow. The impulsive child has learned to hold out for the right moment. Where did he learn it? It’s something I could never teach him. But then Wedge told me about you, lovely thing with the charts and the knowing smile, teaching him to meditate. And then this grand scheme to win his father’s shares of the Pendleton pie. I realized a pair of pretty lips was whispering into his ear—telling him to bide his time. So here you are, the demon on his shoulder who steered him toward calamity.”

Kittur was looking into Mabbot’s eyes with growing fear, but she was clearly too exhausted to try to fight back.

Mabbot placed the barrel of the gun softly on Kittur’s breast, as if to rest it there.

“He made his own plans,” said Kittur.

“Oh, no.” Mabbot showed her anger now. “I know my child—his blemishes as well as his beauty. He would not have gotten this far without … shall we say
guidance
. Oh, no doubt you let him
think
they were his plans, you played the muse, the clever pet, but the grand scheme was yours. The man would still be snatching rubies from drunken sheikhs without someone marshaling his troops, steering his vessel, telling him to breathe.”

“No.”

“Wasn’t it your idea to seize me like a stray cow? Sell me to Pendleton? How did you do it? Did you wait until he was almost asleep? Pour your body over him and whisper your poison in the darkness? Whispering, whispering, ‘
We can sell your mother!
’”

“I swear—”

“You lie!” Mabbot cocked the pistol. “Leighton wasn’t only impatient, he was greedy and stubborn. He came by that last honestly, I’m afraid. So damn stubborn. Far too stubborn to listen to even the most gilded tongue … unless he managed to love you.”

Kittur was crying now, tears running down her face and mixing with the ceaseless rain from the ceiling. She dropped her head, apparently ready to join the Fox in the afterlife.

For a moment, the sounds of her weeping filled the cavern.

“Why are you crying?”

“He’s gone!” she moaned without looking up.

“So you’re all that’s left of Leighton’s heart.” Mabbot stood and, after a moment, pulled Kittur to her feet. “The only other person in the world who loved him.”

“You look just like him,” Kittur whispered, wiping her eyes.

“Quite the reverse,” Mabbot said.

“I’m sorry. We convinced ourselves that we could do it,” Kittur said. “We would own Pendleton or break it. He made me feel it was possible.”

“Well, we still might be able to break it. The blackmail game is over,” said Mabbot. “Ramsey’s shares will be scattered to a thousand stockholders. But we still have this surprise for Pendleton, this little party Leighton organized. No more negotiations, no more schemes. Only deliver the blow … That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To knock them back to England?”

“Braga,” Kittur said, “you must believe me, we were coming for you. We were on our way to the prison when we learned that Mabbot already had you.”

Braga coughed. “Doesn’t matter what I believe. My debt was to the Fox.”

“It matters. He remembered you well,” Kittur said. “Please remember him.”

“Enough,” said Mabbot. “Is there black powder in these caves or no?”

“Tons of it. This was our last resort,” mumbled Kittur. “But the rest of it, the rebellion, without the Fox, what’s the use?” Her eyes gleamed with tears.

“Plans be damned. If any are still loyal to the Fox, tell them it is happening now. We may be able to spread this fire beyond these shores yet. Who knows, it may even spur China to start a war against Pendleton. Other companies will rush in to try to cut their own piece of the pie while Pendleton rallies, but China might try to put a stop to the opium trade altogether.” She offered her hand and Kittur took it. “You must know that Pendleton will send every ship of the English navy to these banks, and they will not stop until they’ve restored their empire. I’d offer asylum on my ship, but after this you’d be safer disappearing in the cities somewhere. Do you have any fight left in you, child?”

Kittur nodded.

“Then rally every man you can. Lie to them if you have to, tell them the Fox is still alive. Tell them the moment has come. It is time to strike.”

“I’ll try.” With that Kittur turned and started down the narrow passageway. She turned back and said from the shadows, “I’m sorry, Hannah Mabbot.”

“I believe you,” sighed the captain. “Now hurry.” Kittur disappeared.

We followed down the gaping maw that had swallowed the lascar, then quickly turned down a short sloping chute that gave way to a gritty channel carved by powder and shovel and reinforced with repurposed spars. Our course alternated between the sinuous channels of the natural cavern and these short stretches of rough-hewn rock where Braga had blasted shortcuts through the maze. The tunnels branched and branched again; we stopped every hundred feet or so to consult the rug.

As Braga held the only lantern, I walked in darkness, finding my way by occasionally reaching out and touching Mabbot’s back—I may have done this more frequently than was necessary. Given the course of my life in recent months, I would not have been surprised if we wandered into Satan’s own court to battle specters and serpents, but as long as I was within arm’s reach of her, I was where I wanted to be.

Very deep in the earth, we entered a cavern with neither ceiling nor floor. We were forced to skirt across a narrow ledge on the very lip of an emptiness I had not seen since I floated alone on the waves. As we overlooked that bottomless grotto, I couldn’t help but clasp her belt tightly. A wind pushed endlessly up through the cavern, the earth itself exhaling. I was much relieved when we found our way again into a man-made hole.

Given the intestinal course, I could not have said whether we walked miles or yards, sometimes passing through natural caves on our hands and knees, sometimes tiptoeing past sloping walls of algae-slicked stone. Not a word was spoken; we might have been on a religious pilgrimage.