Son of Fortune (28 page)

“It would be taken away from him,” Fish said. “And he would be put back to the digging, poor as ever.”

That was awfully true.

“Well, what if a coolie had relatives, let's say, who came and offered Koster the price of the contract to buy his freedom?”

“Has someone approached you about this?” Fish said suspiciously.

“I was just wondering,” Aiden said.

“Whatever you're thinking—don't.”

“They aren't slaves. Supposedly.”

“What happened on the island? Did a coolie speak to you?”

“All I asked was if you know whether one can buy out their indenture. If you don't know, just say so,” Aiden said, more snappish than he intended. He wasn't exactly sure why he didn't want to tell Fish more. “I thought you might know. That's all.”

“Fine. Then the answer is, I don't know.”

“Fine. That's it, then.”

“No, it isn't.” Fish glanced around to be sure no one was nearby to hear them, then leaned in close. “You know I abhor this business,” he said quietly. “And I will never sail this trade again. But these aren't just rich men with a stake here—these are governments. This is the wealth of nations. Peru would go bankrupt without the guano. The economy of Europe could collapse.” Fish wiped the sweat from his face with both hands in a scoop, like a monk in supplication. “I know something of you by now,” he said.

“Of course you do,” Aiden said. “We've been on a small ship for three months. We know every man by the smell of his farts by now.”

“I know what happened in Seattle,” Fish said seriously. “The Swedish Navy is a small world. News travels fast between the logging camps and ports.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'm talking about smallpox vaccine stolen for some Indians. About a man killed in the theft and his killer on the run. And about you arriving in Seattle the day after it all happened, desperate to leave and wounded from a fight.”

“Seattle is always full of busted men desperate to leave,” Aiden said.

“You were well known from Napoleon Gilivrey's fight circuit.”

Aiden looked out over the messy ocean and wished to be any other creature but a man.

“Don't worry,” Fish went on quietly. “None of us have said a thing and no one will. You are our shipmate—and friend.”

“It wasn't murder,” Aiden said. “It was just a man getting dead in a fight.”

“I wouldn't have sailed with a murderer. But right now I think I might be better off with a murderer than a man who has shown a dangerous heart.”

“Dangerous?”

“A tender heart is dangerous.”

“My heart is not tender—it's angry.”

“I might agree with what you did for the Indians,” Fish went on. “But listen to me carefully now. I am not a missionary. I am a practical man. And this much I do know: any ship trying to help a coolie escape will be found out. You know what they do to the coolie—but there is punishment for the ship as well. They will take back the guano and revoke the license. A guano ship can never carry another cargo; the smell is sunk forever in the timbers. You've smelled it—you know it never goes away. So you have no cargo, no profit—plus the debt you took on—no license and a useless ship. And besides that, I would be blacklisted as a captain. Who will pay off the crew? Not Mr. Worthington. This endeavor is yours and Christopher's alone. He made that very clear, in writing, with two lawyers and lots of signatures.”

“What if it were your brother trapped here?”

“Every man on this ship is a brother to me, and I will not risk their futures. They have their children and the children of the dead to care for. They have the old and the cripples. We came on this voyage prepared to die in a storm or shipwreck like any sailor. But we are not ready to risk everything for a wrongheaded action, no matter how honorable it might seem.”

“Captain, sir?” Gustav stood at the gangway. “The launch is ready.”

Fish nodded. “Yes. One minute.” He turned back to Aiden. “We are caught up in an ugly business. Promise me you will not be foolish.”

“You don't trust me?”

“I do trust you. That is the problem. I trust you to be how you are.”

“Very well. I promise you,” Aiden said, “I will not save any coolies.” It was a cruel way to say it, and Aiden knew it and felt bad. But the blow had been struck. Fish stiffened, stood up and turned away.

“Forgive me,” Aiden said. “I've had too much time to think this afternoon, sitting around idle.”

Aiden watched the boat row away. Nothing was solved, but how could it ever be? It seemed everything he touched turned foul.

ll the next day the sound of hammers and saws drowned out the birds and sea lions as everyone worked to repair their industry. Broken masts were salvaged from the shores of the islands, and lumber was scooped from the sea, where random bits floated in the filthy waves. Besides the obvious physical damage to the ships, the wave had left behind a thousand small catastrophes. Chickens and livestock had all been washed off the decks. Water barrels were smashed. In this eternally rainless anchorage, hatches had been left open to keep away the damp, so the wave had flooded the holds and soaked tons of food.

Even with all the damaged ships, repairing the wharf was the main priority. The guano was already piling up in the corral, and one new ship had already arrived just that morning, with more certainly on the way. Every carpenter and sailor who could be spared was put to work on the wharf. Sailors who were used to mending sails made quick work of repairing the canvas chutes. Even some of the coolies were lent to the effort, mostly to fetch and carry and haul.

Since the
Raven
's damage had been only to the rudder and only a few men were needed to work on that, Fish sent six men ashore in the morning to help work on the wharf, and Aiden rode along with them. He had promised Jian that he would say nothing to Koster, but he thought he might still talk to the man without telling him the particulars. What was a coolie actually worth? There had to be a price. There was always a price. The
Raven
's launch dropped him off at the dock. It had been thoroughly smashed by the wave but was already rebuilt enough to walk on, if one took very big steps over the missing planks. The stairs to Koster's compound had also been shattered, and a carpenter was at work on them.

“Mr. Koster's not here,” he told Aiden as he drove a huge nail down with three powerful blows. “He's moved aboard one of the ships until things are settled.” His accent was Irish, his complexion pale, but the back of his neck was dark and charred to turtle skin.

“His house was damaged?” Aiden asked. “All the way up there?”

“No,” the man laughed. “He's just fearful to be stuck up there on his cliff with no escape.” The carpenter waved toward the broken steps. “Coolies are meek little men for the most part, but when they come up a madness, they can't be stopped. There've been mutinies on the ships, you know, on the way from China. I've heard it firsthand. You can put a sword through their hearts, an axe in their skulls, and still they'll keep coming when they're in the madness. Even with those big blackie drivers, I suspect a mad enough pack of coolies could pull them down, whip or no whip. This is the truth.” He held a board against the others, measuring the length with just a practiced eye. “Though why the buggers don't rampage and come murdering every day, I don't know,” he said as he began to saw. “They know soon enough how it is here. They know they'll none ever leave. None but those who jump.” He fitted the board into place. “Those ones we do respect.”

“What do you mean, respect?”

The carpenter looked Aiden up and down, then ducked his head and turned back to his work. “Sorry, sir, speaking out of turn.”

How was he suddenly a “sir”? Aiden wondered. He wore a cotton shirt and canvas trousers—not a common sailor's garb, but nothing fine either. His hands were brown and roughened—not beaten as a sailor's hands, but not a gentleman's either. What had marked him as a “sir” to this man?

“Please speak freely,” Aiden said.

The carpenter glanced around to see if anyone else was within hearing. “It's just—a man oughtn't to take it,” he said. “No other race of man would work and live this way. They tried here with the natives, the blackies, even the Irish. Think on that, eh! Even the Irish! It would be one thing if there was some hope to come away at the end. Even your slaves in America had some kind of hope. Or at least women. But this place…” The carpenter looked away and shook his head. “A man who's any kind of a man ought to die instead. 'Tisn't a godly way to think, sir.” He shrugged and picked up his hammer. “But it's the way most feel.”

“But some do leave in the end,” Aiden said. “Some do finish the time and come away.”

“If you say so, sir.” The carpenter pounded down another nail. “I'm sure Mr. Koster will come ashore sometime this morning,” he went on, clearly wanting to get off the topic.

“Yes. Thank you.” Aiden limped along the rocky shoreline toward the wharf. Would I slave or would I jump? When he and Maddy had been starving on the prairie at the end of winter, with no hope in sight, he had thought about ending their lives. It was the difficulty of actually doing it that had stopped him, more than courage or hope. There was no cliff nearby to jump from, nor enough water in the creek to drown in; no bullets for the gun, and he was too weak to trust a knife. Women on the prairie sometimes drank lye, but that was a slow and horrible death. And they had no lye anyway. There were no trees tall or sturdy enough to hang from. He shuddered and pushed away the memory.

At the wharf, repairs were under way at a furious pace. Sailors dangled from boatswain's chairs on either side, prying off broken boards and hammering on new ones. On top of the wharf, a few coolies were helping to get the canvas chute back into the braces. Aiden looked around for Jian but didn't see him.

“You're with the
Raven,
aren't you?” the harbormaster said brusquely as he appeared suddenly beside Aiden. “She's a small ship?”

“Yes.” Aiden offered his hand. “I'm Aiden Madison. I'm one of the owners—”

“Yes, yes.” The man gave his hand a quick shake, then took out a small notebook and pencil from his pocket.

“What's her draft, fully loaded?”

“I don't know.”

“Sound?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is she sound?” he said impatiently. “Was she damaged in the wave? Is she able to load?”

“Load the guano?”

“No, the gold dust,” he said sarcastically. “The wharf will be repaired enough to load a small ship tomorrow. I can't risk a bigger ship yet. I don't know what the bottom is like. The wave could have dredged up sand and muck. My men are sounding the depth now, but I can't risk a ship being grounded. You're high up the list anyway—certainly have some well-placed friends. Can you be ready?”

“Yes,” Aiden said eagerly. “I will ask our captain, but I'm quite sure we would be ready. I will go now and send back word immediately. Thank you!”

The stressed harbormaster turned away, scribbling in his little book as he strode off. When Aiden got back to the
Raven,
the sailors were all lying about the deck, napping in hammocks or on beds of coiled rope, crowded close in the scant squares of shade from the canopies. Two new kittens were sleeping peacefully atop two of them. They were a gift from Alice, who had departed that morning. Fish was on the quarterdeck.

“How is our ship?” Aiden asked excitedly. “Could we be ready tomorrow, do you think? Strong enough for a voyage home?”

Fish's eyes grew wide. “Tomorrow? What do you mean?”

Aiden grinned. “The harbormaster asked if we could be ready to load tomorrow.”

“Are you serious?”

“The wharf can only handle a small ship. Could we be ready?”

“Yes—oh, shoot me, yes! The rudder is fixed. There are some small things left, but the men would work with broken legs and bloody stumps to be gone from here.”

“Then send word to the harbormaster.”

Fish sprang to his feet. “Gustav! Muster the crew—everybody!”

Aiden got up clumsily, his knee stiff now after all the walking. “Where is Christopher?”

Fish's smile vanished. “In the cabin. He hasn't come out all day. He's in one of his moods.”

“I'll see to him,” Aiden said, but did not immediately get up. After months together on a small ship, everyone was used to Christopher's moods, but Fish's frown and tone told Aiden that it was more than ordinary melancholy.

Christopher lay on his bunk, curled on his side, facing the wall. Sweat had bloomed in the hollow of his back between the shoulder blades, then drifted down as he lay, making a stain the shape of India. The bottle of brandy and the bottle of laudanum sat on the little table beside his bed. Aiden had marked both with scratches in the glass, and both were at the same level they had been last night. It was both a good and a bad sign. Although he had taken it yesterday for his pains, Christopher generally scorned laudanum as a woman's medicine. And despite his fondness for the drink, he did not use it in his melancholy moods. In those times, he could sink without assistance.

“What are you doing?” Aiden poked him hard in his damp shoulder. “It's stinking hot down here.”

“Go away.”

“No.”

Christopher did not move. Aiden sat down on his own bunk. He looked around the little cabin, trying to imagine what it must have been like in here when the wave hit. Something like being in a packing crate rolling down a hill. Besides the swollen nose and black eye, most of Christopher's bruises were deep purple lines, from slamming into edges.

“No one is in the mood for your moods,” Aiden said. “Everyone has had a time of it. You're being a baby.”

“You're a bastard—go away.”

“No.”

“I mean it.”

“No. And I mean it too.”

“Shut up.” Christopher buried his face into the pillow. “I can't bear another day in this place.”

“Then we will leave tomorrow,” Aiden said without fanfare.

“Don't tease.”

“Barring unforeseen complications—but we are on the docket.”

“I will nail myself to the mast to make it so!” Christopher moaned. “Or do the keelhauling thing. Whatever is required. I will do anything to escape this place.”

“Good of you to offer,” Aiden said. “But you won't have to. If any ship can load tomorrow, it will be ours.” Christopher sat up, and Aiden explained their good fortune.