The Vanishing Island (14 page)

E
verything went quiet in the few minutes before the battle began. It was as if the three ships would simply drift past one another and go on their way. Each Iberian vessel had two cannons on the bow of the ship and two more on the stern, much heavier caliber than the Dutch falcon guns. A command in a foreign tongue broke the silence, and then Bren was almost knocked backward by the percussive force of the enemy cannon firing. The
Albatross
had begun tacking away, and the cannonballs sailed across the ship's beam or missed it entirely, falling harmlessly into the water.

Bren expected to hear the Dutch fire next, but the admiral ordered them to turn full circle, to come up behind the Iberian ships. “Normally the faster ship would want to get downwind of the more powerful one,” the admiral explained. “They'll think we've blundered. But we're going to disable them first, so they can't pursue. They can't hurt us if we stay broadside.”

Bren marveled at how agile their ship was compared to the massive warships. As they continued their orbit, they swept into a position where the ships were parallel to each other, but going in opposite directions. That's when Mr. van Decken called out, “Guns on the rigging! We're going to drag those Spanish bulls down by the horns.”

The gunners on the
Albatross
trained the falcon guns on the masts and the sails of the galleons, and the first mate gave the order to fire. Two loads of chain shot went wobbling like wounded birds toward the warships, tearing through the sails. They reloaded quickly and sent two more loads into the enemy rigging, shredding canvas and severing ropes.

“Rake them with scatter shot!”

“Aye, sir,” said Mr. van Decken, and as
Albatross
loaded its guns, the admiral turned to Bren and said, “This will have them running for cover so they can't go above to make repairs. Then we'll finish circling them and sail aloof.”

The falcon guns fired the sacks of loose shot, which
rained iron down over the decks of the galleons and tore even more holes in their canvas.

“Now,” said the admiral, “when we make our move, they will fire on us as we go by, be sure of that. I suggest you get below. You'll be safer down there.”

But safety was the farthest thing from Bren's mind. He was in the thick of the action now, just like in his favorite adventure books, and the last thing he wanted to do was miss the excitement. He started down the companionway from the quarterdeck to the ship's waist, where most of the crew was, just as the Iberians fired again. The blast made him stumble and fall face-first. He heard someone scream, and when he looked up, he saw a man standing there on one leg, his other leg lying on the deck near the cannonball that had taken it off.

Bren ran belowdecks as fast as he could, telling himself he was obeying the admiral's orders, but feeling like a coward. On the gangway he met Otto, who laid a shoulder into him, knocking him off the ladder to the deck below. He stared down at Bren for a few terrifying seconds before disappearing through the hatch.

Was it an accident? Or could Otto tell Bren was running away? He didn't know, but he refused to go hide in his hammock after that. He could help with the wounded. Or at least try.

On deck, the surgeon, Mr. Leiden, was kneeling next
to the man who had lost his leg, tying a tourniquet. The wounded man kept saying, over and over, “Don't take my leg, quacksalver. Don't take my leg!”

“He's in shock,” said Mr. Leiden, when Bren came over to help. “Thinks his leg is still there. Phantom pain, we call it. Here, fetch some water for him.”

Bren just knelt there at first, unable to move. He'd never seen a wound like that up close.

“Go!” the surgeon barked, and this time Bren snapped out of it. As he was getting water, he ran into Sean, whose face told him there was a problem.

“What's wrong?” said Bren. “Have we sailed past them yet?”

“Later, lad,” he said, brushing by.

Bren gave Mr. Leiden the water and then helped the surgeon carry the man below. “First of many, I'm sure,” said Mr. Leiden, and Bren's stomach turned when he noticed the knives and pliers and saws spread out on a nearby table.

But for the moment the firing had stopped, and Bren ran back up to the poop deck, where Mr. Tybert was looking through his own spyglass at the enemy ships.

“What's going on?”

“See for yourself,
jongen
,” said the navigator, and he handed Bren his glass. Bren looked at the two Iberian galleons, which had repositioned themselves so that they were turned broadside again toward the
Albatross
, blocking their
escape. He watched as rows of hatches began to open along the length of their hulls. Through each one, the unmistakable muzzle of a cannon pushed through, like some great hound sticking its nose through a fence to sniff an intruder.

“Looks like they've figured out a way to add more guns,” said Mr. Tybert, taking the glass back from Bren.

“We can't still outrun them?”

“Not if we're full of holes.”

Just then the admiral noticed that Bren was standing above him. “I thought I told you to go below?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bren, and he went, but once he was down on the goblin deck he couldn't resist opening one of the air portals and looking out at the enemy ships. He began to count . . . one, two, three . . . until he reached a dozen cannon, and that was just the top row. A second row of cannon opened beneath the first. Forty-eight heavy cannon between the two ships. They were going to blow the
Albatross
to splinters.

Bren saw the flashes of light, quickly obscured by plumes of smoke. He turned and dove forward onto the floor as the sound of the cannons chased the light, and he covered his head with his hands just as the hull behind him exploded. A shower of splinters fell over him, and the cannonballs cratered through the deck or bounced through the other side of the ship. In seconds Bren was surrounded by sloshing water and sea spray, with shafts of light angling
through the compartment like light in a cathedral.

Above him orders were being shouted and he could feel the boat turning. Footsteps clattered down the ladder and soon Bren was surrounded by the carpenter and a small crew of assistants, going to work on the holes.

“What are you doing down here?” brayed the carpenter.

“I . . . to help?” said Bren, who then saw the carpenter stare wide-eyed at Bren's arms and legs. He had large splinters sticking out of him like a porcupine.

“Go to the surgeon,” said the carpenter, who then turned away and went to work.

Definitely not
, thought Bren. He liked his arms and legs too much. Instead, he gritted his teeth and pulled the splinters out himself, pretending it was someone else's blood dripping from the ends.

The Iberians fired again, and the whole ship rocked. Bren was knocked facedown, and his head nearly went through a hole in the decking. With the shafts of light coming through, he could see that he was looking down into the hold.

That gave him an idea.

He ran back up above, looking for Mouse. The deck was slick with blood and seawater, and torn canvas had been draped over what he assumed were dead bodies. The mainmast was so badly damaged, it was threatening to fall, so a group of men were cutting it down in segments and
tossing the wood overboard. That's when Bren noticed the sharks that had gathered alongside the ship, eager for any casualties.

He spotted the ship's boy carrying water to Mr. Leiden.

“Mouse! I need your help. You have access to the hold, right?”

Mouse looked at him doubtfully, glancing over his shoulder at the chaos on deck as if to remind Bren there were more critical things to do.

“Mouse, this is important,” said Bren. “It could save all our lives.”

Mouse knelt down beside the hatch and held the padlock in his small hands.

“I thought you had a key,” said Bren.

“No one is supposed to go down here except the purser, Cook, and the admiral,” said Mouse.

Before Bren could say anything else, the lock was off.

“How did you . . .”

“Do you need to go down there or not?” said Mouse, holding the hatch open.

They descended into the hold and Mouse lit a lantern. Bren led him to where the brig was, describing what they were looking for. He prayed the paiza hadn't slipped through the decking.

He grabbed at everything he saw lying on the floor,
picking up stray pieces of food, odd hardware, bits of wood, and what he guessed was a pile of rat droppings. He nearly impaled his hand with a nail and at least once touched something that moved.

“I think I found it!” said Mouse, and he held up the object in his hand. It was the paiza. Bren felt the air return to his lungs.

But their celebration was short—another explosion rocked the ship, a hole opened in the planking above, and suddenly a large cannonball was rolling right at them as if they were a pair of bowling pins.

“Duck!”

Mouse dove one way and Bren the other, and the shot passed between them, close enough for Bren to feel the heat radiating from the recently fired ball.

“Mouse, you okay? Did you hold on to the pai—the coin?”

“Got it!” said Mouse, and they ran as fast as they could to find the admiral.

Bowman noticed the paiza in Bren's hand immediately and gave him a hard look.

“I wasn't hiding it on purpose,” said Bren. “I promise. I lost it in the hold. But there's something you need to know.”

The admiral reluctantly handed his spyglass to Mr. van Decken. “Take over here until I come back. You two,” he
said to Bren and Mouse, “in the chart room.”

The room was a mess—a cannonball had come through the gallery of windows, and there were shards of glass and splinters everywhere.

“How bad is it?” said Bren, surveying the damage.

“We're seaworthy,” said the admiral, “but crippled. So this better be good.”

Bren was so nervous he nearly dropped the paiza again. He held it up with both hands. “It supposedly gave safe passage to ambassadors of Kublai Khan,” he said.

“I know what a paiza is,” the admiral said harshly.

“I was wearing it when two men attacked me in an alley,” said Bren. “Something happened . . . I'm not sure what . . .”

His courage faltered. He realized he was trying to convince an admiral of the Dutch Bicycle & Tulip Company that this amulet had some sort of mysterious power. But to Bren's surprise, Bowman took the paiza, studying it thoughtfully.

“You're telling me the truth?”

Bren nodded.

He handed it back to Bren. “Then put it on. Maybe you're even more valuable than I realized.”

Bren struggled to thread the paiza onto his mother's necklace; his hands were shaking badly.

“I don't like surprises,” said the admiral as he and Bren
and Mouse stood there, waiting for something to happen. “I pride myself on being prepared; I should have known the Iberians were up to something.”

Bren noticed the guns had gone quiet. “Why aren't they firing?”

“They want us to surrender,” said the admiral. “They want to board us, not destroy us.”

There was an urgent knock at the door. It was Mr. van Decken.

“There's a fog come up between us,” he said.

“Gun smoke?” said the admiral, peering through what was left of the windows.

“No,” said the first mate. “A solid curtain, like those thick clouds in the North Sea. I'm afraid by the time it breaks, they'll be right on us.”

“Use the time to repair the mast and pump the bilge.” The admiral looked at Bren. “I think we're praying for the same thing, Bren. In the meantime, go to your bunk. I mean it this time.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bren, and he descended into the bowels of the ship, past men working the huge bilge pump, forcing water up from the bottom of the boat and out a port at the rear of the hull, and the carpenter and his aides repairing holes, and the caulker and joiner sealing up any cracks and gaps.

He lay in his hammock, clutching the paiza, reciting the inscription over and over in his head:
Beware evil-doers, beware evil-doers
.

“Just get us out of here,” he said, and as he was clutching the paiza, his fingers touched the black stone next to it. He thought of the map and the lost treasure of Marco Polo, and the so-called vanishing island, and felt foolish again for thinking there might be a real Fortune out there. Not only would he never see his mother again, he likely would never see his father, or Mr. Black, either.

As night fell he closed his eyes but couldn't sleep. No one could. They all expected the fog to lift and the Iberians to be upon them, their army swarming the
Albatross
like ants on a carcass.

When day broke, the fog was still there, crouched above the water. But as the sun rose higher, it peeled away the layers of white vapor to reveal a glorious sight—an empty ocean as far as the eye could see.

The enemy ships were gone.

M
r. Richter was on the sofa, on his knees, sticking his face through the broken starboard windows. “Where did they go?” he fretted. “Is this some sort of trick?”

“It's magic,” said the admiral. “Abracadabra—and
poof
! They're gone.” He looked at Bren and laughed as he said it.

“Very funny,” said Mr. Richter. “Are we out of danger or not?”

“Unless they've become invisible, I'd say we're safe,” said the admiral. “Who really understands the mysterious
ways of the olive-eaters? Perhaps it was just a warning, and they plan to meet us on our way back with a full armada.”

“Britannia had better hold up her end of the bargain!” the company man screamed at Bren, as if he had any say in the matter.

“Have a drink, Mr. Richter,” said the admiral. “In your cabin. Mouse, let's celebrate with coffee and breakfast, shall we? We need to be fortified to make our repairs and get going without further delay. Bren, wait here with me a moment, will you?”

Once they were alone, the admiral instructed him to sit.

“I wanted to be alone to discuss what happened.” He pointed toward Bren's necklace. “Tell me—what happened to you back in Map, when you were wearing that?”

“I'm really not sure,” said Bren. “I was attacked by two men who had seen me at the pub and thought I had a gold piece on me. When the first man grabbed the paiza, he drew back, as if it hurt him. The other man put a knife to my throat, hard enough to draw blood, and then it was as if he just disappeared.”

“Abracadabra,” said the admiral.

“So did we disappear, or did they?”

Bowman shook his head. “I'm not sure yet.”

“You didn't know the paiza was . . .
powerful
?” said Bren. He had only just caught himself before using the word
magical
.

“No, I was being honest with your bookseller friend,” said the admiral. “I told you, I am a man of my word. The Great Khans issued thousands of these during the various Mongol empires. I was after the map, as you guessed. But perhaps I should have known . . .”

He trailed off, looking at Bren as if trying to decide whether to share a secret. “It's not important right now. What's important is this,” he said, nodding toward the sheet of parchment where Bren had duplicated the hidden images. And then he handed Bren
The Book of Songs
. “I'm going to let you take this to your cabin—your new cabin. I want you to bunk in the caboose with the officers. You'll share a small room with Mouse, and take mess in the officers' saloon.”

“You're not still worried the men will think you're coddling me?”

“I can't worry about that now,” said the admiral. “Besides, most of the men barely know you exist, and the ones that do already have little respect for you.”

“Oh,” said Bren. “Okay.”

“Good. You start now. Catch up to Mouse and help him bring our victory feast.”

“Aye, sir,” said Bren, who despite himself felt his head
swelling from the trust the admiral was placing in him. After a choppy start, he finally felt he might belong here.

Mouse was still in the galley, waiting for Cook, who was preparing both breakfast and lunch. The small kitchen reeked of dried herring, and Cook was using a large wooden pestle to mash a pile of root vegetables into a dish the Dutch called stamp-pot. When Mouse and Bren walked up to him, he put down the pestle and picked up a butcher knife.

“Watch your hands,” he said, cleaving a slab of
porknokker
in half. “And that's what's in store for you,” he added, waving the knife at Mouse, “if I catch you sneaking in or out of the hold.”

“Me?” said Mouse.

Bang!
went the cleaver again, causing Bren to jump. He knew that plenty of seamen were ex-criminals. He wondered if Cook had been an ax-murderer.

“Waffles and coffee are ready,” he said, nodding at the trays. “Be gone.”

“Sorry if I got you in trouble,” said Bren as they took breakfast back to the officers' saloon. He assumed Cook had seen them when they went looking for the paiza. There was a good reason the hold was kept locked. All the food and drink was kept below, and their supplies had to last at least until they reached Cape Colony.

“I go down there all the time,” said Mouse.

“Was I imagining things?” said Bren. “I mean, you
did
pick the lock?”

The boy said nothing at first, then: “Where I come from I had to learn to do things to survive. And Admiral Bowman knows, in case you're wondering. He needs me to help him . . . find things sometimes.”

Bren remembered the sense of being followed back in Map. And then the break-in at Black's . . .

But he decided it wasn't his place to pry. Instead he asked, “Where are you from?”

“China,” said Mouse, which nearly made Bren drop his tray. He knew no one was allowed into China, and he had assumed no one was allowed out, either. Suddenly Bren wanted the ship to be ten times as long, so they could have more time to talk, but they had reached the caboose.

He helped deliver breakfast but then joined his old mess one last time in the crew's saloon, hungrier than he had been in a while. Nearly getting blown to bits had given him an appetite—and a greater appreciation for ship's food. But once he sat down to eat, he barely tasted his food. He could tell there were men missing from the table, injured or dead. No one was much for celebrating.

Otto was there, unfortunately, hunkered over his plate and cramming his mouth with syrupy waffle and pork, staring at Bren with his black eyes. He knew what Otto was
thinking—Bren was a coward, he'd seen him running away from battle; he was nothing but another mouth to feed; even Mouse could move powder and cut fuses.

In his mind, Bren argued back:
I saved the ship! I don't know how but I'm sure I did!
He could just imagine Otto's reaction to such a claim. Bren had hoped he'd left bullies like Duke behind, that on a ship all men pulled together toward a common goal and a common destination. But he knew that meant he had to learn to pull his own weight, or he would deserve every ounce of scorn Otto could heap on him.

On deck, men were replacing cannonball-shaped gaps in the decking and railings, repairing damaged sails, checking for frayed ropes and replacing as necessary. Most important, the mainmast had been restored to its full height. Where once it had been a single wooden column, it was now three sections pinned and lashed together.

Sean led Bren to the quarterdeck, and then up again to the poop deck, where they found Mr. Tybert leaning over the rail as if he were puking. When he stood back up Bren saw that he had a spool in his hands, with a line of rope running out into the water.

“Mr. Tybert, your apprentice,” said Sean. “Treat him well.”

Mr. Tybert gave him an unfriendly look, but Bren had
decided that was the only look he had. When Bren didn't move, he looked up and said, “You're not going to learn anything standing over there,
jongen
.”

Bren cautiously approached. The navigator's surroundings could have been mistaken for the contents of a child's game room, or perhaps a magician's props—a large trunk next to the cage of birds, various wooden tools that looked like spinning tops and building blocks, and, leaning against the rail, what appeared to be a dartboard.

Mr. Tybert unfolded a bare map of the Atlantic that was crisscrossed with straight lines and spread it out on the lid of the trunk. He then removed a small folding knife from his boot, released the blade, and stabbed the top left corner of the map to keep it from blowing away. He held down the opposite corner with his hand.

“Easiest way to get anywhere is hug the coastline. We sailed almost due south from Map till we sighted the north coast of the Iberian Peninsula, then angled away like so,” he said, tracing the border of Spain and then Portugal. “But sailing along an unfriendly border has its pitfalls, as should be plain enough by now.”

“And taking too wide a path would cost us too much time,” said Bren.

“Admiral Bowman made that clear, did he? Well, it's more than that. Sailing into open sea requires being able to calculate our longitude—how far east or west we are.
Latitude is easy,” he said, holding up a wooden instrument that looked sort of like a crossbow. He demonstrated how you stood with your back to the sun, aligning the sun's shadow with the horizon and reading the angle.

“Used to have to do this looking square at the sun,” said the navigator. “Was called a Jacob's staff. My very first instrument from my first ship. Still have it. Many a navigator went blind usin' the thing. Lucky for me I was still young when the backstaff came along.”

So that didn't explain his missing eye.

“Just figure the sun's distance above the horizon at noon with our backstaff here and it's straight mathematics from there. I can always tell where we are north and south on the map. But east-west? Hope and pray,
jongen
, hope and pray.”

He gazed off toward the horizon, as if something were weighing on his mind.

“I don't understand why one is so easy and the other so difficult,” said Bren.

“Because latitude is fixed by God, boy. The sun, the moon, and the stars told our ancients where the equator was, and the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn. Longitude shifts with the sands in my glass,” he said, nodding at the hourglass he used to mark noon each day. “You calculate longitude by measuring time, and it's a canker telling time on a ship. Instead we make rough measurements using the
traverse board over there.” He pointed to the thing that looked like a dartboard. “Estimate how far east and west we've gone based on our speed and direction. It's called dead reckoning.”

“I see,” said Bren, but he really didn't.

“Problem is, you have to keep careful track of your position each and every step of the way.”

Bren thought about it for a minute, while the navigator stared out to sea again. “Mr. Tybert, is something wrong?”

The navigator turned his head enough to look at Bren with his good eye.

“Something happened at the end of that battle,” he said, “and now I have no idea where we are.”