“Disgusting,” was Berry’s comment when the tale was done.
“I agree,” Matthew said, and yet he was becoming Nathan Spade and so he felt compelled to add, “But one must admire ambition.” Spoken, he realized, from a knowledge of what it took for a farmer’s son to rise above a mountain of pigshit.
A commotion among a group of sailors snagged the attention of Matthew and Berry as they came around the starboard side, and following the pointed fingers and eager grins of these men brought their view up into the Nightflyer’s intricate rigging. Up there two figures were climbing and leaping amid the jungle of ropes and netting, even as the sails blew wide and tight with captured wind and strained against their masts. Matthew saw, at the deck level, some of the crew coming forward to drop coins into a black box held by a surly-looking seaman and beside him one of studious demeanor marking in a ledger book. Up above, the two figures grasped ropes and swung from mast to mast, and on the deck some of the sailors hollered with glee and some catcalled with derision. Matthew realized he was witnessing not only a race between men in the rigging but also a bet in progress as to who would win, yet it wasn’t clear what finish line one had to cross first in order to claim the prize. He wondered, from the shouts and rather crude encouragements of the gamblers, if several circuits of the masts had to be made, and so it was not only a contest of speed and dexterity but also of endurance.
He was struck with a sudden remembrance.
It had to do with the Iroquois tracker Walker In Two Worlds, who had been so vital in helping him in his hunt for Tyranthus Slaughter. Walker was telling Matthew about an arrangement that had been made, for a group of wealthy Englishmen to—
Pick three children, Walker had said, and see them off on one of the flying canoe clouds that rested on the waters of Philadelphia. Nimble Climber was chosen, Pretty Girl Who Sits Alone was another, and I was the third. We three children, and the tribe, were told we would see the world of England and the city of London for ourselves and when we were returned—within two years—we would be able to explain to our people what we had witnessed. In hopes, the men said, of forming closer ties as brothers.
But Matthew recalled that had only been part of the story.
My soul withers at the memory of that trip, Walker had said.
Watching the men race through the rigging high above his and Berry’s heads, Matthew realized what had lit the fuse on this line of thought.
Nimble Climber did not survive, Walker had told him. The sailors began a wagering game, betting how fast he could get up the rigging to fetch a gull feather fixed to the mast with a leather strap. And they kept putting it higher and higher. They were paying him with peppermint candies. He had one in his mouth when he fell.
The sailors hollered. One of the racers had slipped but had caught himself in the safety netting. He clambered up again to the nearest rope, undaunted by his brush with death.
When we reached England, Matthew remembered Walker saying, Pretty Girl Who Sits Alone was taken away by two men. I held onto her hand as long as I could, but they pulled us apart. They put her in a horse box. A coach. She was carried off, somewhere. I never found out. Some men put me into another coach, and I was not to see my people again for almost ten years.
Matthew recalled the rest of Walker’s story, that the Indian had been put into several plays as the ‘Noble Young Savage,’ and then—as his fortunes had dwindled and the novelty of an American redskin on a London stage had faded—he had found himself as the Demon Indian in a broken-down travelling fair and later returned to his tribe sadder, wiser, and—as he put it—insane.
The racers went around and around. A foot slipped on a mast. A rope was grabbed. The two men, having landed face-to-face on the same beam, wrestled with each other for a moment with no lack of effort. One fell, causing a mighty uproar. He toppled into a safety net ten feet above the deck and so no blood was spilled nor bones broken in this display of rough skill amid the ropes. It seemed also that throwing one’s opponent off the mast was part of the game, as another uproar ascended for the victor and a crowd of men began to gather to claim their payouts from the black box.
“Skylarking,” said a voice behind Matthew and Berry. There was only one voice like that aboard the Nightflyer. “That’s what it’s called,” Captain Falco said when they looked to him for explanation. “A time-honored tradition. We’re close enough to harbor now that I thought they should have a little reward.”
“How close to harbor?” Matthew asked.
“Two days distant.” The amber eyes scanned the sky. “The weather will hold. The wind favors us. Yes, two days.”
“Thank God,” said Berry, with a sigh of relief albeit premature. “I can’t wait to walk on land again!” Though this trip had been nothing like the agony of her journey from England to New York on the ill-fated Sarah Embry last summer.
“Soon enough, miss.” Falco regarded Matthew for a silent moment. Matthew thought he was trying to come to a decision. “Mr. Corbett,” the captain said at last, “would you do me the courtesy of having a drink with me this evening? Say eight bells, in my cabin? I have something to discuss with you.”
“Concerning what, if I might ask?”
“Concerning your presence here. And I would appreciate your not mentioning this visit with any of your other friends.”
“Oh. I see.”
“No, you don’t see,” Falco corrected, in a tone that was becoming a shade harsh. He looked up, as he did more than a hundred times a day, to measure the progress of wind in the sails. “Two days distant,” he repeated. And then, to Matthew: “Eight bells, sharp.” He turned away, and went about his business of managing a sailing ship under the charter of the emperor of crime.
Fourteen
ENTER,” said Captain Falco when eight bells had been struck on the deck above. Matthew had just knocked at the door decorated with the carved face of a lion. He turned the door’s handle and half expected the lion to let out a roar. Then he stepped into the captain’s cabin, where Falco was sitting at a table lighting a clay pipe with a candle’s flame.
“Sit,” came the next invitation, which sounded like a command. Falco blew out a gust of smoke and motioned toward the chair on the other side of the table.
Matthew obeyed. He saw that fish bones littered Falco’s dinner plate, along with the remnants of biscuits and brown gravy. A smaller plate held slices of lime. Also on the table were two wooden cups and a squat “onion”-style bottle of black glass. Matthew had a quick look around at the ship master’s quarters. Situated at the Nightflyer’s stern, it had six shuttered windows that, now opened, gave a view of the sea and star-spangled sky. The cabin, however, was not so very much larger than Matthew’s. There was an oak chest of drawers with a mirror and water basin sitting atop it. A writing desk held a gray blotter and a quill pen and inkpot at the ready. A bed—more of a thin-mattressed cot, really—was made up so tautly its brown fabric covering looked to be in agony. Several lanterns hung from hooks in the overhead beams to give light to the captain’s world. Falco smoked his pipe and Matthew smelled the rich, fragrant tang of Virginia tobacco.
“Pour yourself a drink.”
Matthew again obeyed. What flowed from the black bottle and into his cup was a clear, golden liquor.