Cinnamon and Gunpowder (8 page)

A hush fell over us. Could we still hear the ominous ticking from inside the cannon, or were we only counting anxious breaths as we waited for the shot? Laroche looked to Ramsey, who nodded. Finally the moment was upon us. We all watched the gun, but Laroche had his eye on the distant, doomed animals.

Though we had been waiting for it all afternoon, the crack of the gun made us jump. Some even screamed, then laughed to cover their embarrassment.

There was a burst of grass as the ball landed two yards short of the startled pigs and sat there in the soil like a dropped meringue.

There was just time enough for snickers from the men, when
WHAM!
the cannonball burst from within, sending shot from its holes. Behind a haze of smoke, the pigs could be seen on the ground—one lay motionless, while the other writhed and screamed like a lost child.

“Explosive shot,” Laroche announced, “is not generally used because of the difficulty of fuses and temperament—it is as likely to destroy your own ship as the enemy’s. But this weapon is different. There is no fuse to break off or fail in the mist. It works wet or dry, as you see. Simply set the spring for as many seconds as you need and fire. A single shot, even poorly aimed, is sufficient to undo fifteen men or punch through the enemy’s magazine.”

Ramsey began the applause and the staff joined him. Then he shouted, “Well—back to business!” But even as we turned toward our various tasks, I heard my name. “Wedgwood! You can do a field dressing, can’t you? I trust you to sort what is fit for the table—the rest to the hounds.”

Before I could object that the slaughtering was usually done by others, he sidled away with Laroche to get a closer look at the carnage. With a sigh, I recruited my sous-chef and a third man, and we set out with knives, saws, buckets, and tarpaulins.

I couldn’t help but let disgust show on my face. It wasn’t only that I had better things to do—the entire scene was offensive. A cleanly butchered pig suffers little, but even after the time we took gathering our implements, one of the pigs still groaned in its puddle of blood and piss. Ribs were shattered, and it was clear that the offal was pierced and leaking into the cavities, rendering much inedible.

Ramsey, though, took no notice of my chagrin, as he was positively fascinated with the effects of the demonstration. He and Laroche had taken up field chairs not ten feet away and were awaiting tea service.
Let them eat yesterday’s biscuits
, I thought. Ramsey kept getting up to inspect the crater the missile had created and to peer at the pigs’ bodies. At one point he even inserted a finger into one of the wounds, like Caravaggio’s Thomas.

Returning to his chair, he placed his feet upon the still-smoldering cannonball and asked Laroche, “Is it safe?”

“As a cricket ball,” answered the sober Frenchman. “Though a secondary charge is possible, perhaps. The basic concept is da Vinci’s—the clockwork, the
susciter
, is entirely mine.”

Even with three of us working at it, the rude task took hours. At several points, as when my footing gave and I landed belly-down in a pile of viscera, I nearly gave up, but Ramsey had given us an order and it would not do to question him in front of the guest. Sense would have dictated that we wheel the carcasses to proper hooks and blocks, but, as I would come to see, Ramsey wanted something of a mess.

He smoked a pipe, and Laroche, who indulged in neither tobacco nor spirits, simply sat upright in his chair and looked toward the quince orchard where the bare trees turned the sky into a crackle glaze.

“After all this time,” began Ramsey, “you must still think about the pirate who sank your ship?”

“She is a blight,” said Laroche. “An
égoïste
—what is the word?—the worst kind of person—seducers, vandals, provocateurs—
égoïstes
. They ambush the passages, terrify travelers and merchants. Like those colonists who threw your tea into the harbor, no? Or the crimson mob cheering the guillotine as it minced glorious France into suet. Mabbot is one of these. I am but a sweeper. My ultimate task is to rid the world of the
égoïstes
. They say the era of the Crown is behind us, but these revolutionaries, they all want to be kings. A million kings? No. Our future comfort lies in the corporation, in the unity of the shared goal.”

Their tea delivered, and our hogs cleaned, finally, of offal, the gentlemen continued their interview as we began to saw off the heads.

Addressing Laroche in somber tones, Ramsey said, “It’s a fine speech to deliver at parties. But if we are to work together, I would need an accounting of your personal motivations. Our arrangement will lack the safeguards of tradition. I must trust you as I trust myself, so I’ll be perfectly blunt—”

“You wish to see my clockwork,” Laroche said. “Are the springs and gears aligned? Are there hidden switches?”

“Just so.”

“My casing is open; fasten your calipers to anything you like.”

“A man of your talents should have his own fortune to rely on by now, I should say.”

“I have not drunk or gambled my prospects away,” said Laroche. “It is no secret that my future, my very name, has been sabotaged by Mabbot. It is no small thing to rescue a reputation, indeed to write oneself twice into history. It may sound like hubris, but would God have given me these gifts if He had intended me to fix clocks? No, tools are made for a particular purpose. It is an offense to heaven to misuse them. Since I left France I have spent all of my energies refining my designs, analyzing tactical methodologies—I am here at last because I am ready.”

“It is this particular confidence that intrigues me so,” said Ramsey. “How would you guarantee results?”

“The losses your company suffers yearly from piracy are a matter of public record. The cost of my expedition is but a fraction of that annual toll. If you had more promising options, you would take them.”

“Don’t mistake me,” said Ramsey. “I’ve looked at the plans, and if they work as well as this toy here, your modifications will make for an impressive ship. But explain to me why should I spend on your one vessel what would buy me three warships?”

Laroche replied without a pause: “Pendleton gunships can blockade a harbor or shell a fortress, but one does not use a lathe to pound a nail. Mabbot defends neither port nor country—she takes her orders from the wind, spits on the rules of engagement. Your navy cannot hope to defeat what it cannot comprehend. If it could, you would not be considering my proposal. You see, I speak not from pride but from the courtesy of clarity. I am no beggar, Lord Ramsey, I am simply the right tool for the task.”

“I’ve learned, though,” said Ramsey, “that matters of the heart are not particularly reliable investments.”

“Heart doesn’t enter into it. If a wolf eats your lambs, it is nonsense to hate the wolf. Only proceed out at once with a gun.”

“But Mabbot robbed you of your reputation, your prospects,” said Ramsey. “And am I mistaken, or did your fiancée leave you for a less disgraced man?”

Laroche sat stock-still, gazing out at the orchard where a flock of magpies suddenly lifted like a veil into the breeze and, with a distant clatter, settled again. He was so rapt in his meditation that for a moment it seemed he hadn’t heard Ramsey’s words.

Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “It is true, once Mabbot is dead, I will move into brighter days, but so will you—so will all civilized men. The wounds Mabbot inflicted are a gift to me. They are a daily spur to keep me from falling into sloth. You will back me not because I am the only man who hates her as much as you do, nor for my ingenuity, but because I am—”

“The right tool. Yes, you’ve said that.”

They were quiet then, listening to the wet work of the butchering. We had been forced to make impromptu cuts to accommodate the shattered limbs and ribs. I had been taught that there is no knuckle too base for a stewpot, but in my ocher-slicked frustration, I sent pounds of good meat to the dogs that day.

Ramsey, knocking his pipe against his boot, said, “You paint the very picture of capability, Laroche. But how does a man poised over the precipice of total ruin sit so composed? Your name is hardly mentioned but a pack of creditors comes baying for your blood. I’ll say it plainly: if I reject you, don’t deny it, your next bed will be in a debtors’ prison. You’re so deeply in arrears that even the patent for this extraordinary weapon would buy you only, perhaps, a high window in your cell. I have seen men with better prospects on their knees, their cheeks shining with tears. You see, I know everything about you, except where your pride comes from.”

Here, at last, I saw the Frenchman’s composure flag—it was only in the tilt of his head and the pitch of his voice, ever so slightly strained. He stretched his neck as if it pained him. “What you call pride is but determination, and not fortune’s caltrops, nor slander’s whip, can slow me in my pursuit—”

“Dying of consumption in a crowded cell would slow you right down, I should say.”

Almost too quietly to be heard, Laroche said, “Then you know my several motivations, my lord. I comprehend my position full well. You humiliate me in front of the servants, demand the details of my ignominy over the sound of the meat cleaver.”

“Should I leave the pigs to rot? I did not acquire my holdings by letting things go to waste. I value a penny as a pound.”

Finally Laroche looked at Ramsey, and in his slate eyes I saw a man whose suffering had become a kind of skeleton holding him upright. “I see the lesson, but it is wasted on me. I never hoped to dictate the terms of our arrangement.” His gaze had returned to the horizon where the thorn of the moon was sinking. “If I am fit for the task, then for God’s sake, use me.”

After a moment, Ramsey stood and shook Laroche’s gloved hand, and they went together to sign papers, or drink champagne or whatever one does to commemorate such an arrangement, leaving us to our disassembly.

This account has, perhaps, painted an uncouth image of my late employer. A man of such responsibilities must occasionally negotiate the darker eddies of life’s tide, and it would take a nimbler hand than mine to describe the ultimate righteousness of it. So I leave the details smeared on the page. He who writes our every story needs no annotation from me.

It is encouraging, nevertheless, to think that rescue may be on its way in the form of this eccentric and capable Laroche. In the light of the sun, I tell myself that my tribulations may soon be over. As the sun sets, though, I shudder.

I write here all I can, yet cannot express the fatigue I collapse under each night, worn to the bone with worry. I feel Hope and Fear beside me all the time, two woodsmen with a saw across my middle. They pull the saw in turns. It is everything I can do not to fall in two.

Wednesday, August 25

Conrad’s verbosity is, at last, of some use. I asked him about the other prisoner and received this response: “’At’s Jeroboam. Cap’m of the
Sinensis
, which is restin’ happy on the bottom. Mabbot thought he had the Fox aboard; we broke her masts. ’At’s why we went to England in the first place, only to find he’d left the Fox on the penal island they call the Fist. But Mabbot didn’t waste the trip, did she? Got Ramsey, she did!”

“And the rest of Jeroboam’s crew?”

“Playing cards with the squid.”

“She’s a monster. Why is he chained even at sea while I am free to roam?” I asked.

“You haven’t fired guns at us. She keeps you without prejudice. But Jeroboam’s earned her spite.”

A captain! Here is an ally who knows battle. Here is a weathered crag on which to build hope. I have narrowed the possible chambers that might contain Captain Jeroboam to two. I shall investigate further.

Why it had not occurred to me before, I cannot say, but after seeing the men hoisting the longboats today on their return from Porto Santo, my head has split with an idea. The boats are always ready, and, if no one saw us, Jeroboam and I could away in one to try our luck for land. Two men upon the deck, by means of davits and muscle, can haul the boats up or down, and this while they are full of cargo. Jeroboam and I could manage this, I’m sure. Even if we were intercepted by strangers on open water, they could scarcely be more villainous than those who hold us now. The trick will be secrecy; the deck is never empty. Even in the dead of the night, I hear the graveyard watch clomping about and the stations calling “All’s well!”