Chapter Two - The Voyage to Ile Sainte Marie

Hours after the carousing died down the ship was steadily rolling southwest through calm seas. Several crew were passed out in a stupor on deck. Most were below decks in their quarters. Fraser, the ship's carpenter, was at the helm on watch. In his newly acquired cabin, Captain Caldwell was still up talking with his mate and confidant, Hendrickson. As the two passed the late hours, talk turned from the day's events to their new itinerary.

"Ile Sainte Marie is about a week away given these winds," said Hendrickson. "We've got wood and water enough with what the moors had stocked, but they stocked no beer or rum and ours has fallen short"

"Mmmn, they'll be craving an holiday when they touch land again, I'll warrant. We can't waste time, though. She's a cursed slow beast. Needs a good careening, and that's risky if we dawdle..."

"What kind of crew you want to put on that job? Gilliam's gone, and his lot's a useless litter of pups without him to prod em' along. I can take a cat to them, but we'll wind up having to make an example and we've no men to spare."

"Look, the Lascars are the men for most of the work. I don't wan't Gilliam's crew running them, though, because they'll be at each others throats before the ship's on it's side. I don't need more dead bodies to run my rigging. What if we put Fraser and the boy over them, they're scared o' that one already and he won't abuse 'em. If they do act up Fraser'll know to stand clear and the boy ain't much of a loss."

"Careful there, Morogue, you were singin' the boy's praises in your cups this evening."

"Aye, he did damn well today. I thought those devils were going to jump in the sea for fright when they saw him waving that bloody head through the air, grinning like Goliath's giant skull. I'd give two crowns to know whatever possessed him to do such a thing, but God save him it worked. Still, if he's as strong as he seemed today he'll do fine, and if not we don't need him."

It was a clear, calm night. Ben lay flat on the quarter deck, watching the stars pass slowly between the dark shadows of the sails above. He smelled the cinnamon, cloves, oranges and tea down in the holds below. A coil of rope made a pillow for his head. Not far away, to the stern, a short but rather ornate set of wooden stairs led up to the poop deck, where the evening’s watch officer, a scottish carpenter named Fraser, manned the helm. Earlier, the great stern lanterns which adorned the taffrail of this uppermost deck had been lit in celebration, but the lights were out now for safety and to conserve the oil. In the opposite direction another set of stairs led down from the quarter deck to the waist, where several other crew were laid out for the night. As the beer and the ceaseless roll of the ship took their toll on his fatigued body, he wandered off into a fitful sleep.

He dreamt of home, but of odd, unconnected and trivial things. First, he was minding a fire. Then, he was counting some unspecified items to distribute amongst his brothers. There was idle chatter as neighbors wandered in and out of the scenes. Curiously, a ball of string kept working its way into his field of vision. It struck him that he wanted that string, as it was a useful item, but it kept eluding his grasp and he kept getting distracted.

For the longest time he kept repeating parts of the dream, waking and wandering back into it. He began to speak with his mother, who coddled him like he was a young child again. They spoke about supper, and she gave him some small tasks to do. As he started to turn over her garden, he carefully chose a small spade and began to work the soil. He broke piles of new soil, turning them over and depositing the loose loam back upon itself. Then he knelt down to work the soil by hand: breaking up the clumps, shaking out the fine, dark earth. He smelled the rich, wet soil and recognized the familiar scent of spring. Earthworms stretched out of small holes and lolled back into the rills and crevices of the garden. He leaned side to side as he reached to make sure the whole area had been properly prepared, and in so doing discovered that he had apparently filled a shallop with the soil and sat now in the middle as it lapped in the waters of the bay. He looked up from within the vessel, wondering if his mother had noticed, and watched the stars brighten into the darkening sky. The sky and the soft cloud of the milky-way stretched on forever, till he lost himself in it and remembered no more. He woke up to the motion of the ship and the sound of birds chattering with the dawn.

Now, it was well known aboard the Conception that, although all sailors were by nature superstitious, there was none so afflicted by the trait than Captain Morogh Caldwell. A big, barrel-chested man marked as much by his physical strength as his sense of purpose, it was odd to see one so strong bent so easily by his idiosyncratic fears. Nevertheless, it was well known that Morogh put great faith in fortune-tellers, feared the curse of a Jonah and clung to anything that brought him a positive turn in fortune. And so, it was natural that the man would treat young Ben as somewhat of a good luck charm in the days to come.

For Ben, this was a welcome turn of events. The crew had changed their estimation of the boy overnight. The sentiment was instinctive and uniform across the crew, but had they not done so of their own will, they would have soon followed the example of their Captain when they saw his new appreciation of the boy. It was evident the evening after the battle in his drunken toasts to the lad, as it was in the way he gave him simple jobs to do here and there, where he would have ignored him in the past. Moreover, with Gilliam gone, Ben lost his one great tormentor. Life aboard the ship became quite passable as they made their way south towards Madagascar and its smaller, outlying islands.

On the morning that they spied Ile Sainte Marie, Ben witnessed first-hand another spectacle of the Captain’s superstitious nature. The cargo they had taken from the Moors had contained a number of bamboo crates filled with exotic birds. There were golden pheasants and a number of peacocks, as well as several species of quail and white doves. The pirates were not accustomed to caring for the animals, and the noise and smell had brought a communal decision to house the makeshift cages up on deck. They hoped to make it to port before they lost too many of them, as some speculated that they might bear a fair price, although none really knew for sure.

On this morning it happened that a few of the doves had died in the night, so a sailor from the Carolinas named John Buck decided to have them for breakfast. Buck had his hand in the cage when one bird suddenly flapped about and scared him out of his wits. Quick as lighting he drew his hand from the cage and out flew the dove, who made a bee-line to the open door of the Captain’s cabin.

The outburst that followed from within caused poor Buck to go pale as new sail. The Captain, first in fear and then rage, roared and railed about the place trying to expel the bird. “By God and the devil who let that bird out of it’s cage! I’ll have his skin for an omen like this!” the Captain fumed. “Damn bird flew right in the door. Who was it? You, Buck? By hell there better be no deaths aboard this ship excepting yours or I’ll kill you myself!”

“I swear, sir, ‘e was dead as stone when I drew him out and ‘e was resurrected in my hand. Like as to raise the dead, it were, and it frightened me awful!”

Grabbing a water pail the captain beat the man until he ran from him. Morogh’s dander was up. With a look on his face which Ben had heard referred to as “the Caldwell snarl”, the Captain proceeded to chase Buck below deck with a flurry of blows to the head, shoulders and anything else unlucky enough to remain in reach.

“Goddamn Carolina cane farmer no better than a Jonah! Get those birds off of this ship before we’re all doomed! It’s no good, I say, a bird flying in my doorway. Get ‘em all off before I get my pistols.”

With that every man on the weather decks began a hurried, chaotic effort to open the cages and release the birds. It was comical, to say the least, as the birds themselves screeched, squawked and flapped about; a mix of white, gold and rainbow colored feathers flying loose and fluttering about the ropes and sail. In a few moments there was an awkward avian host rising from the ship and clumsily forming small flocks which ranged towards the now visible island of Ile Sainte Marie.

The Captain returned to his cabin to fume in silence. Buck nursed his wounds below. The rest of the crew had a good laugh, though careful to keep the sound of it down. It was true that a bird in the room was an ill omen, and as much they laughed about it they quietly wondered if he might, indeed, have just cause for concern. But the channel leading into the harbor was coming into view. They had a rich prize and a good luck token of their own on board.

Ben laughed with the rest of the men and gazed out at the sandy white beach that skirted the shoreline. Beyond it lie a lush green swath of jungle, some hilly outcroppings and distant mountains. Along the beach, though far-off, he thought he could make out one or two figures walking and some type of hut. It was on the east side, though, and as they came up to the southern shore to ride into the harbor he lost the beach from view.

On the eastern beach of Ile Sainte Marie, Jabir al-Sahaar, known locally as Petre-the-aged, collected palm fronds from their carefully laid out positions on the beach. He was dressed in white, as was his companion, a small Malagasy boy who assisted in gathering the palm branches. Arranging them in bundles, they carried them to one of several small barrels by the hut. One by one, Petre held them over the open vessel and brushed the salty residue off of each, focusing on each measured action like a ritual. The fine, white powder had almost filled the cask.

“Kintana, take this and seal it,” he muttered, gesticulating to the boy. Kintana carefully lifted the open container and trudged off through the sand towards the forest edge. Here the light colors of sand met the rich green hues of the island flora, interspersed with the darker stone of the volcanic hills which rose slowly towards the center of the island. Kintana switched shoulders as he entered under the canopy, listening to the frogs as they quieted down for the morning. It was a short trip to the cave. A well-worn path followed one rocky outcropping for a spell, then cut around a shoulder of rock which rose like a pillar from the jungle floor. Beyond this, climbing a bit and bearing to the right, he arrived at the vaulted entrance of a small grotto.

Nothing could hold back the jungle from its natural expansion into every crack and crevice of the stone, but the ground directly outside the cave had been cleared. What’s more, the rock face rising directly above the entrance was charred and black with a mass of soot and ash that permanently marked the stone and colored any plant hardy enough to grow here. From within, a thin yet steady stream of smoke issued forth almost every day, today bringing no exception.

The boy, who had lived here many years now, paid no mind to the outward appearance of the grotto. As he carried his cargo inside, he passed the cryptic figures etched in the stone by his Master. Up and down the arch of the entryway, scrawled figures adorned the rock. Some were latin inscriptions, while others seemed to be occult symbols. At the very top of the archway was a great snake, circling back upon itself and devouring its own tail in a figure eight. Down either side were a menagerie of birds, basilisks, dragons and creatures which combined the parts of many animals into one. Kintana ignored it all as he stepped inside the cavern.

To the right was a small living space. On the floor lay several large oriental rugs. A small bed was accompanied by several ornate asian furnishings, all of which were stacked high with books and manuscripts. A telescope stood on a teak and brass tripod in the corner. Other mysterious devices and contraptions glinted out of their dark hiding places, but this was not where Kintana was headed.

He bore to the left as he entered the place, crossing through a less furnished but equally cluttered area to reach a small work bench. On the way he passed long tables stacked with glass. There were bottles, jars and tubes of every size. Some were filled with unnamed liquids, others were empty and lined up in racks. There were alembics and cucurbits, retorts and kerotakis, as well as numerous other types of distillation equipment. On one table a mortar and pestel had been left out, next to a plain earthen container. A small cast iron furnace sat between these tables and a large workbench. Over the workbench hung a myriad of tongs, bellows, hammers, pokers, planes, chisels and clamps. From these tools he chose a mallett and went to work on sealing the cask. The furnace kept it hot in here, so he worked quickly. When he was done he stacked it with several like it, checked on the fire and ran back to find his Master.

There was a breeze blowing on the shore today, which Petre stopped to enjoy as he waited for Kintana to return. Gazing out at the morning sea, Petre didn’t see the ship at first, coming out of the horizon with the rising sun behind it. But the movement eventually caught his eye. As he stared at the craft which was approaching the island he saw it silhouetted against the dawn sky. The lines of the craft were familiar to him, though the memory was distant. Closer to him he beheld birds, many birds painting a living rainbow in the sky, and a single white dove sailing out of the heavens. It came down as if to light upon him, but it passed him and landed on a small, square rock near his shelter. Turning, he approached the bird and held out his hand. It mounted his cupped fingers and gently cooed as he brought it inside. “A sign, indeed,” he thought, “but of what?”