The Butcher's Daughter, page 8
Hunter leaned across the table and slapped Efendi on the back. “An interesting notion, Mustafa. How can we know one way or the other?”
“I have some knowledge of the art. But there are different inks made with different ingredients and the trick is to know which ink the writer used so one may determine what concoction is needed to render the ink visible. Because the errors on this map are obvious, I suspect the priest used invisible ink to hide a code needed to decipher the random symbols. Because a Roman Catholic priest prepared this map, I have some clue what kind of ink he might have used to draw this map. Of course, I may be wrong. Perhaps this map is nothing more than a hoax as James has said. And this map is old, how many years James?”
“Six or seven years at least I suppose,” Hunter replied. “Perhaps more.”
Efendi shook his head in doubt.
“Well, we should give it a try and see,” I said.
“We’ll only get one chance, Lady Mary. If I apply the wrong emulsion this map will be lost forever. Even if I choose correctly, the document will most likely destroy itself within minutes. So, first we must make a perfect copy. Whatever hidden message or symbols are revealed on the original will need to be quickly transcribed over to the copy. We would need to work very fast.”
“What do you require?”
“To start with, I will need linen, the same texture and quality as this piece, fine writing instruments, vinegar, soda ash from burned seaweed, lemons, distilled water, charcoal, red cabbages and cay tea leaves.
“Red cabbages and cay tea?” I asked.
“Red cabbages, Mary, yes. The pigment in red cabbage has unique properties that can be extracted and used to affect mild changes in other colors.”
“Hm, how remarkable. And the tea?”
“Ah, the cay tea is for me, to calm my nerves.”
It was a peaceful, quiet morning. The morning watch was beginning to stumble up on deck to relieve the night watch as I leisurely strolled up and down the length of the ship to work out the stiffness in my legs. A thick mist had settled over the harbor and I could barely see the other ships around us. There was a chill in the air too, a hint of fall, and I wrapped my shawl tightly around my shoulders.
Like Christopher Columbus, I had decided to take three ships with me to sail into the vast unknown to look for new trade routes, though not for the King of Spain. I had the Phantom and the Falling Star of course and I had found and purchased a large two hundred and fifty ton merchantman, the Godsend, in Westport. I had another dozen smaller ships sailing to different destinations between the east coast of Ireland and France and Spain. But these were mostly galleys and coasters, too fragile for the wild Atlantic and crewed by men who would want no part of the New World. So I released them all from any further obligation to me and sold the ships. I settled all my accounts to fund our new beginning.
“Mornin’, Mary,” Gilley said, walking up behind me.
“And a good morning to you, Tom.”
“Bit nippy out.”
“Aye, how goes it?”
“We’re nearly ready. Three ships, three hundred men give or take, fifty-two great guns, including the merchantman’s eight falconets, and eighty swivels along with enough swords, muskets, pistols, ball and powder to equip a small army. And here are the inventory lists for ammunition, gunpowder, flour, beans, rice, coffee, tea, water, lard, salted fish, beef, pork, etcetera, etcetera, and the bills of lading for the livestock and perishables yet to be brought on board, not to mention all the tools, spare parts and our cargo of manufactured goods. ‘Tis rather an impressive enterprise you’ve put together, Mary, especially without investors. Do you have any money left, or are you broke?”
“The sum of all our wealth is on these three ships, Tom.”
We both looked up when we heard Hunter climbing down the main mast ratlines.
“Watcha you doin’ up there, James?” Gilley asked.
“Checking all the iron fittings one last time before we sail,” Hunter replied as he jumped down from the rail and landed on the deck.
“Ha! Ha! You don’t trust anyone do you, James?” Gilley asked.
“I trust some and some I don’t. Shame on us Tom if we lose a spar or a sail to some seaman’s laxness.”
“And how are we today, James?” I asked.
“Fit as a fiddle, thank you kindly. And you?”
“Well enough. Tom says our preparations are nearly complete.”
“I agree with Tom. The ships are sound and well-stocked. The men are ready. We can sail at your pleasure, Mary.”
“That is well. I must confess though, I am savoring this glorious, cool morning. I shall miss them. I dread the oppressive heat I’ve heard talk of.”
“The New World can be terribly hot to be sure. But then there are the striking sunrises and spectacular sunsets, the likes of which you’ve never seen. The islands are mostly mountainous. There are waterfalls in abundance. Emerald green waters splash up against beaches of pure, white sand. Lush, exotic plants and swaying palm trees blanket the land. You will see startling beauty; you will see unsurpassed splendor to take your breath away.”
“And giant insects that bite and sting too I’ve heard!” Gilley scoffed.
Hunter nodded in agreement. “We aren’t sailing to paradise, but neither is it hell. People throughout Europa, pilgrims and pioneers, by the tens of thousands are flocking to the New World, giving up everything in the Old World to do so. That should tell you something.”
And then we heard Efendi calling down to us from the quarter deck. The mist had thickened and I could barely see him. “Capt’n,” he cried out, leaning over the rail, “all is ready.”
Gilley, Hunter and I hurried back to my great cabin where we found Efendi standing at the table already waiting for us. He had set out candles, ink and pen, three large bowls of colored liquid and one iron pot filled with red hot embers.
“This is the original map,” Efendi said, holding up the frayed piece of cloth Hunter had carried around with him for years. “And this other map on the table is an exact duplicate of the original that James, Tom and I drew last night with meticulous care. All is ready.”
I glanced at both maps and nodded. I could barely tell them apart. “Excellent.”
“Lady Mary, I cannot promise a good result. Perhaps we should wait? Perhaps we should find a priest or monk more knowledgeable in the art than me? Otherwise, I beg you for your pardon if I destroy this map for want of better skills.”
I gave Efendi a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “No matter the result, you will not need my pardon, Mustafa. James, it is your map. I leave it for you to decide.”
Hunter took the original from Efendi and considered the curious map for a moment. “I’m weary of carrying this ragged cloth around with me,” he said and handed the map back to Efendi. “I say we try.”
“Mustafa,” I said, “work your magic if you can.”
“Very well, my lady. James, Tom, you must be quick with your pens and transfer everything revealed on the original over to the copy with great care. You must be precise. We will only have a minute or two. Ready?”
“Ready.”
Efendi took a deep breath and then carefully placed the original linen in a bowl filled with yellow liquid. He counted to ten in Turkish next, set the map on the table and pressed a dry cloth against the material to soak up the excess liquid. Then he counted again. He repeated this process with the second bowl filled with red liquid and then again with the third bowl filled with clear liquid.
“James, Tom, prepare yourselves,” Efendi said nervously. “Pens in hand, lütfen, please, please, be ready.”
I peered over Efendi’s shoulder as he took the map and held it over the pot of burning embers. Once again he counted. I watched in fascination as the linen darkened, as white lines and numbers magically appeared.
“Quickly, my friends, quickly!” he shouted excitedly. “Write! Write!”
Now it was Hunter and Gilley’s turn. They studied the original for a moment or two and then started scribbling lines and numbers on the copy as fast as their fingers would let them, Hunter focusing his attention on the left half of the map and Gilley on the right.
Five minutes later, just as Efendi had predicted, the map began deteriorating. The white lines and numbers began fading and the black ink bled into the cloth, ruining the original map forever. Hunter and Gilley set their pens aside, leaned over the copy and quietly examined their handiwork.
“Well?” I finally asked after some time had passed, annoyed that I even had to ask.
Both men looked up and smiled at me.
“Well,” Hunter said, “Mustafa is a genius. We have ourselves a map, a good map. See here, Mary. The priest used the invisible ink to cross out certain land references. They must be meaningless. And then these numbers next to the rest are degrees, the degrees of a circle or the points on a compass. So this river or stream has been crossed out - it is a decoy meant to confuse. This lake and this small pyramid over here have not been crossed out so they must have value and the priest wrote numbers next to them. Below the pyramid is the number ninety, which I suspect is a reference to ninety degrees. These other numbers along the lines must be miles. So we will draw another map and put the landmarks in their proper order and where the lines intersect, voilà, that will be the place we seek. Simple, but effective.”
“And does the map provide any clue of what we are looking for?” I asked.
“No, not one clue. The map is merely a guide, a guide to bring one to a certain place, a place somewhere in the middle of the wilderness. What is at this place in the wilderness, well, who can say? Nonetheless, the priest went to a great deal of trouble making this map. Whatever is there, if it is still there, the priest at least thought it had great value.”
I embraced Efendi. “Well done, Mustafa, well done!”
“Tesekkür ederim,” Efendi replied and bowed his head.
“I’m goin’ to knock that Turk shit out of you yet, Mustafa,” Gilley scolded. “You’re an Irishman now lad, through and through.”
Clearly quite pleased with himself, and unfazed by Gilley’s playful chiding, Efendi shrugged his shoulders indifferently. As he admired his triumph his eyes sparkled; his lips curled into a wide grin.
Chapter Five
Easing his way down from the mizzen mast, Hunter casually strolled over to my side and we stood together in silence on the quarter deck taking in the beehive of activity going on all around us in preparation to sail. Men were moving barrels and crates filled with perishables and the livestock, chickens, goats, rabbits and small pigs, up from the wharf onto the Star using pallets, nets and hoists. It was a new day, a day full of promise. And then a scrawny young lad of eleven or twelve started hobbling up the gangplank with the help of a crutch propped underneath his arm.
Hunter leaned close to my ear. “Who’s the boy?”
“Why that’s Master William Ferrell of course,” I offered evasively.
“Ah, of course it is. Master William Ferrell. How silly of me. Master William Ferrell from?”
“From Castlebar, from a farm that overlooks the old cairn to be more precise.”
“You don’t say! Master William Ferrell from Castlebar, from a farm that overlooks the old cairn.”
“Quite so.”
“You hired him?”
“Aye, I did.”
“And what, if I may ask, might Master William Ferrell’s skills be?”
“He can read. He can write. And he can sing and play the mandolin.”
“Nooo! Truly? Most impressive! The boy can read and he can write and Master Ferrell from Castlebar can even sing and play the mandolin! How extraordinary. Fine skills to be sure, Mary. A young lad like that with such talents a century ago would have made the great Leonardo da Vinci proud. But I take it then he has no shipboard skills to speak of?”
“None that I know of.”
“Mary! I suppose the fact that he’s a cripple hasn’t escaped your notice?”
“He’s not a cripple, James. He has a broken leg. It will mend.”
“And you took pity on him?”
“His father was killed not long ago in a hunting accident. The boy has no family. He will pull his weight in time, you’ll see.”
Hunter nodded and smiled. “You’re going soft on me, Mary. Not good for a pirate.”
“Well, you best not go soft on me, James.”
“Hmmm, what did Dowlin call you that night at supper? Ah, yes, a “wicked tease” is what I heard him say.”
“Poor, old Dowlin. If memory serves, he didn’t last very long after that thoughtless remark. But perhaps we can discuss this matter with more passion later, after supper?”
Hunter doffed his hat and bowed, as if I were some highborn lady. “I am at your service,” he said, with no lack of chivalry or sincerity in his tone. Then he took my hand and kissed it. “I am your most obedient and humble servant, Madame.”
“Well my prince,” I replied in a low and sultry voice and raised an eyebrow for him. “I can assure you that tonight you’ll find me far, far more than just some wicked tease. I am no amateur. Should you find your way into my bed later, it will be my pleasure to serve you in whatever way you might desire...”
I grinned when Hunter looked at me speechless and blushed. I took pleasure in watching my rugged man fumble.
As varying hues of pink and torques lit up the morning sky in broad streaks, I watched my crews move out smartly, casting off lines and dropping sail to catch the outgoing tide. It was a glorious morning, another hallelujah morning. We eased our ships out into Clew Bay accompanied by flocks of squawking seagulls. Topmen eagerly went aloft and unfurled the larger square sails to give our ships greater purchase against the wind. By noon we were well into the rough and tumbly sea with rugged Ireland slowly sinking into the far horizon behind us. I was not yet twenty years of age as we set out for the New World with a flotilla under my command.
I gave the Falling Star, my flag ship, to Gilley and gave command of the Phantom over to Green. The honor should have gone to Hunter but, selfishly, I wanted Hunter at my side on board the Falling Star. Command of our new freighter, the Godsend, went to Fox.
Weeks of easy sailing passed and the crew settled into a dull, but not unpleasant, routine. A sailor always gives thanks to the god or gods he prays to when his days at sea are filled with boredom. We gracefully plowed the ocean’s gentle swells in close formation. The broad Atlantic had been a most hospitable hostess so far.
“Mustafa,” I called out as I stepped on deck and saw Efendi at the tiller. “What are you doing there? Where’s the helmsman?”
Efendi, sporting a new mustache now, flashed a broad smile at me. “He’s at the privy head. It has been too long since I’ve held the tiller in my hands, my lady. Allah be praised, life is good.”
“Allah be praised indeed my fine Turk. But do you even know how to sail?”
“What’s this?” Gilley interrupted as he climbed the ladder up from the main deck to the quarter deck. “An officer at the helm? ‘Tis plain to see all good order and discipline has been lost aboard this ship.”
But before Efendi could answer Gilley the lookout, perched high up in the main topcastle, or what some like to call the crow’s nest, cried out his warning: “Sail ho!” he shouted down to us in a shrill voice.
“Where away, Master Rodingham?” Gilley called up to the man.
“Fine on our port bow, south, heading due east.”
Gilley and I squinted against the sun’s glare reflecting off the water, scanning the near horizon. I saw only whitecaps.
“There, Mary!” Gilley said and pointed.
“Ah, I see them now. You have a good eye, Tom. Is there more than one ship?”
“Aye.”
“It is,” Hunter said as he bolted up the ladder from the main deck to join Gilley and me, “a fleet of Spanish ships.”
“The flota?” I asked.
“The Flota de Indias? No. The Spanish treasure fleet is far grander and would have sailed months ago in any case. This is nothing more than a small cluster of merchant vessels. Can’t tell if there is a galleon among them running escort, but I’m certain there must be one nearby. The Spanish will not trouble us and we shouldn’t trouble them.”
Then Hunter and Gilley both fell silent, as if they were contemplating something amiss about the ship or the crew. Whatever they were thinking, they were taking their time about it and seemed to be of a like mind.
“Is there some problem you gentlemen wish to share with me?” I finally asked.
“Do you see what I see, James?” Gilley asked, ignoring me.
“I believe I do Captain Gilley, I believe I do,” Hunter replied, ignoring me as well and then started rocking back and forth on his heels as if he was weighing some grave matter.
Gilley let out a long sigh. “I blame myself.”
Hunter shook his head. “No. Nonsense, Tom. The blame is not yours or mine to bear. I blame the feisty owner of this vessel for this sorry state we’re in.”
“In her defense, she is young and inexperienced.”
“You spoil her, Tom.”
“You rascals have had your fun,” I said, a tad annoyed. “What blame would you pin on me now?”
After Hunter and Gilley exchanged playful smiles, they turned together to face me.
“We are, Mary…” Gilley began to say, then looked over at Hunter.
“A warship,” Hunter said, finishing Gilley’s thought. “We must drill the crew, hone their skills at artillery. God forbid we get ourselves into a scrap and aren’t ready. There’s no law out here. And the Star is both a blessing and a curse.”
“How so?” I asked.
“The Star will be one of the more powerful ships in the Caribbean. That’s the blessing. But like a beautiful woman, men will notice her. Many will covet her for themselves and they will kill to have her. That’s the curse.”
