The Vanishing Island (17 page)

T
hey crossed the equator, and true to maps ancient and modern, the wind died and the humidity rose. It was too hot to enjoy even the few hours of sleep you were allowed. The admiral had tried at first to keep the men from knowing they were off course, but as one stifling day passed into another, that became impossible. To make matters worse, with a food and water shortage weighing on his mind, the admiral cut daily rations in half to conserve supplies. Men's tempers grew short.

On days when there was no wind, the sea had no
swells—the clear sky was perfectly reflected in the water, erasing the horizon, making it difficult even to measure the sun's height with the backstaff. At night, it was as if the ship were floating in space . . . eerily alone, in a dark, endless void. Were it not for Mr. Tybert turning his sandglass and the ringing of the bells during watch, Bren would have had no sense of time moving whatsoever on calm days. He began to understand Mr. Black's warnings about losing your mind at sea. And the more days that passed, the more men became convinced there was a real chance they would run out of food and water.

Sean had predicted that Bren would eventually come to depend on spirits as much as the next man, and one night, after checking the schedule to make sure Otto would be above on duty, he decided he would pass the time as the other hobs did—drinking and talking of better days. The men had been much more accepting of Bren ever since the fight, but it wasn't merriment he overheard as he approached the crew's saloon.

“He'll push us hard to make up for this delay,” said one man.

“In league with the Devil, that one,” said another. “He claims to have made it from Amsterdam to Batavia in three months once!”

“Aye, three months, ten days to be exact,” said the first man. Bren recognized Sean's Eirish brogue. “I was on
that trip. Bowman delivered a stack of sealed letters to the colony's governor to prove his time. And a speedy trip is nothing to gripe about.”

“Lot of good it does us,” came another voice. “We don't get paid for how fast we go. Even if it is the
lost treasure of Marco Polo
we're aiming for.”

Bren realized the last voice was Otto's, and he froze outside the saloon door. It was the last place he wanted to be now. Had the schedule been wrong? Or did he not know what day it was anymore? He knew he should leave immediately, but he couldn't make his legs work. From what little more he heard, it was obvious Mr. Tybert wasn't the only man who had doubts about the admiral's “special” mission. And that their first goal now should be to make sure they could port safely somewhere—anywhere.

Suddenly there was the scrape of a chair on the floor and the door opened, with Sean coming out.

“Bren?”

“I was just . . . jenny,” he managed to say, before seeing Otto's hateful eyes behind Sean.

“Did you catch a rat?” said Otto. A few other men, curious now, leaned over to see who Sean was talking to.

“It's nothing,” said Sean. “Get back to the grog.” He shut the door and put his hand on Bren's shoulder. “Come on, I'll walk you back to the caboose.”

They walked through the ship without speaking until
they reached Bren's cabin door. “I wasn't spying, honest,” said Bren.

“I know,” said Sean. “Grumbling about the admiral is normal, you know. Just something the men do. Hobs get only ten guilders a month. And you don't get paid until your five-year commission is over—after all you've eaten, drunk, and worn has been deducted by the purser. That's what the bloke meant by saying we don't get paid by how fast we go.”

Bren had never even thought about whether he was expected to earn wages. In Map his father or Black provided everything he needed, and on the ship he had been given his bed and his clothes, and Cook provided his meals. He didn't realize he was being charged for it all! Besides, weren't they all going to be paid a hundred times over in treasure? Isn't that what the admiral had promised him? Or was it something Bren had invented in his childish imagination?

“Sean, I did overhear something . . . something Mr. Tybert said, too . . . about why we're doing this. The lost treasure not being worth it, I mean.”

Sean let out a deep sigh and looked around, to make sure they were alone. “Just between you and me, lad, I've seen the account statements of the Dutch Bicycle and Tulip Company. Marco Polo couldn't have had enough ships in the thirteenth century to carry everything the company makes today.”

When Bren's face betrayed all the confusion he was feeling, Sean added, “A story like that gains a sort of legendary status. It's no ordinary lost voyage, for sure. Marco Polo? Solving an age-old mystery? Getting there first when so many have tried, or dreamt of it? I suppose in Bowman's mind there's a fame that comes with such a discovery that can't be bought with gold and silver.”

Bren nodded. “If you get the chance,” he said, “will you please tell the men I wasn't spying? Otto already hates me.”

He was expecting Sean to reassure him, to tell him not to worry, but he didn't. He just patted Bren's shoulder and turned to go. Bren stopped him.

“Sean, do you believe the admiral is . . .”

“In league with the Devil?” said Sean, laughing. “I think he wants
us
to believe it. He's taken a strong interest over the years in Eastern magic, if you consider that deviltry.” He shrugged. “I don't see as it matters. Admiral can kill me with a dagger or hang me from the yardarm as easily as he can magick me to death. Now—off to bed. I've duties elsewhere.”

Bren said good night, and when he lit his candle he saw that
The Book of Songs
had been left open on his pillow, turned to a different page from what Bren was last reading. It was a poem called “Cold Mountain,” and it began,

A curtain of pearls hangs before the hall of jade

And within is a lovely lady

Fairer in form than the gods and immortals

Her face like a blossom of peach or plum

Spring mists will cover the eastern mansion

Autumn winds blow from the western lodge

And after many years have passed . . .

He looked at Mouse's empty cot, wanting to ask if she had left this here, or the admiral. She should have been in bed, by his reckoning, so he decided to dress and go look for her. Maybe because he had learned she was a girl, he felt like he should try and protect her. Then he laughed at his own “chivalry.” Mouse was about the last person who needed protecting.

It was amidships, on the storage deck, that he saw them—Otto and Mouse, with Otto grabbing Mouse by the collar, dragging her toward the hatch leading below. Bren started to shout at him, but kept quiet and followed instead.

Otto dragged Mouse to the hatch leading down to the hold.

“Open it,” he snarled, pointing to the padlock. Bren could see the effects of his half rations, even though it had only been a couple of weeks. Otto was still a powerful-looking man, but leaner. Less like a wolf now than a wild dog.

“I don't have a key,” said Mouse. “Honest.”

“I've seen you!” said Otto, bending over to put his unshaven face near hers. “Coming out of the hold.”

Bren's first instinct was to run away. Otto had already caught him lurking once, and Sean wasn't here to protect him. But the terrified look on Mouse's face changed his mind. He bent down and touched his boot, then cursed himself for leaving Mr. Tybert's knife under his bed.

“Otto! Mouse doesn't have a key,” said Bren, forcing himself to step forward, keeping his voice and his knees steady. “You know that.”

Otto spat at him. “I know what I've seen . . . he's a lock-pick or something. Aren't you, little one? A little orphan thief.” He grabbed Mouse's hair and threw her down against the floor. “Open it!”

“Otto, I don't know what you saw,” said Bren. “Maybe Cook sent him down for something. Is that what happened, Mouse? And you gave the key right back?”

She nodded.

Otto stepped toward Bren, his marble-dark eyes reflecting the glow from the paddy lamps. “Where's yer loggerhead,
jongen
? You think you can take me man to man?”

His face was on top of Bren's, his breath fetid with drink. Bren could only imagine how much Otto wanted to tear him apart, to avenge his humiliation, and all he could hope for was that the paiza would protect him.

“We're bound to get more wind soon,” said Bren, speaking softly, the way you would to try to calm an animal. “We'll be at Cape Colony in no time . . . everything will be better.”

Otto didn't move, daring Bren to look away. It was all he could do to stand his ground and not run, and it helped to remember Mouse was there. He could pretend he was doing this to show he was as courageous as she was.

Finally Otto blinked. “
If
we get wind,” he said, his voice as hard as a holystone.

Bren was still too scared to speak. He felt every muscle in his body knot up, ready for Otto to attack. But after a few more agonizing moments, Otto walked away, knocking Bren sideways with his shoulder as he stormed off. It was another minute or two before Bren was calm enough to move.

As they labored in the doldrums, Sean and Mr. van Decken kept everyone busy cleaning and recaulking the deck, scraping the hull, pumping the bilge, repainting the figurehead and the transom. At least it kept the men above, away from the stifling conditions below. Still, morale went as limp as the ship's sails.

To make matters worse, some of Mr. Black's warnings to Bren began to come true. At least a half-dozen men were suffering from terrific tropical fevers or brain swelling. Another
man had suffered a fractured skull during the battle with the Iberians, and the damage had gotten progressively worse. Typical of seamen, none wanted help from Mr. Leiden. Surgeons were associated with amputation and not much else. “Yer not cuttin' off my head, quacksalver!” one of the afflicted men screamed at the poor surgeon when he came to check on him. The man died shortly thereafter.

It was only after all but three of the fevered men were dead that the survivors agreed to entertain Mr. Leiden's suggestion that he try something called trepanning. He produced a strange tool that looked like an auger—a tool for drilling holes into wood—and explained that he was going to drill into the men's skulls.

“You might be interested in this, Bren,” said the surgeon. “A Londoner pioneered it.”

Bren joined the other curious men around the mess table as Mr. Leiden laid the first man down and shaved his head to the scalp. He then rubbed a dram of jenny on the bald spot and began drilling a small hole through the skull.

“The trephine allows me to drill precisely to the bottom of the skull without damaging the brain,” he said, as small shavings of skin and bone corkscrewed away from the man's head. “It will release pressure from the swelling. And notice he barely feels a thing.”

“Sort of tickles,” said the patient, although Bren noted that in addition to the small amount of jenny rubbed on the
man's head, a much larger amount had been ingested orally.

After treating the second fevered man, Mr. Leiden operated on the man with the fractured skull. “Now I use a larger drill bit, and remove any splintered bone, which could get lodged in the brain. A nice clean hole will heal brilliantly.”

Mouse was the first one to press forward for a look at the wrinkled grey matter visible through the large opening. “I want to touch his brain,” she said, but Bren held her arm. “I don't think Mr. Leiden would approve.”

After the afternoon of surgery, the saloon table was wiped down and the men regathered for the evening meal, all still with healthy appetites. And oddly enough, their spirits had been lifted somewhat.

“I have a taste for calves' brains,” joked one man, to much laughter.

“Wouldn't know the difference between brains and stamp-pot,” said another.

“We'll be lucky to get something easier to chew than that fellow's skull!”

Mr. Leiden's heroics seemed to heal the weather, too, as the wind picked up enough to cool your brow and the sails showed signs of life. But the sense of brighter days ahead was not to last.

“How many knots?”

“Three,” said Bren.

Mr. Tybert rewound the log line, grumbling with every turn of the reel. “Barely more than half what we want.” He read the compass and Bren pegged the traverse board.

“Mr. Tybert, do you believe in the Angels of the Four Winds?”

“The what now?”

“Tramontana, Ostro, Maestro . . .”

“What are you going on about,
jongen
? What do they teach you in those English schools?”

“Do you believe in the Devil?”

“Do I look like a faithless heathen?” barked the navigator. “'Course I do! Now get yer mind back to business.”

At this point, Bren didn't care if it was the Devil or the Angels of the Four Winds, as long as they made it to Cape Colony alive. But the men they had just buried at sea were a harsh reminder that there were no guarantees.

Bren told himself he had to remain positive. They
would
make Cape Colony eventually, and once they had fresh supplies, Fortune awaited them. Or at least, fortune with a little “f.” He ran his finger over the smooth black stone again, and thought of the time Mr. Black had explained to him that
fortune
was a fickle word, shifting meanings from great wealth to good luck to blind chance. Fortune could be a friend or an enemy.

Well, I can make sure it's my friend
, thought Bren,
by helping decode the treasure map.
He returned to
The Book
of Songs
, reading and rereading “The Cloud Maiden and the Plowman,” as well as other passages, looking for more clues. The songs, or poems, were some of the most beautiful things Bren had ever read, tales of jade emperors and one-legged mountain demons, of heavenly mansions, pillars of destiny, dragon palaces, and armies of clay soldiers. But everything in them—the symbolism, the imagery—was part of a culture he had no knowledge of. It frustrated him.