Son of Fortune (18 page)

Alice was not beautiful, and nothing would ever make her so, though Aiden had learned a little about what powders and styling and luxurious clothing could do for a plain woman. The mousy hair could be burned into curls, the hands covered with gloves and the thin lips colored crimson, but her face was a bit too long, her features a bit too strong and her shape too straight to ever be a beauty, no matter the assistance. But she did have startling green eyes, a lovely voice and a graceful way of moving. A woman could be attractive, he had learned, without being a beauty. She was around twenty-five, he guessed, though it was hard to tell. She had clearly spent more time outdoors without a parasol than most women, but unlike poor women, who could look fifty at twenty, she had the good health to stave off the worst effects. Her cheeks were naturally pink, her face unlined.

“Will you rest awhile in our shade?” She waved a weathered hand toward the tent.

“Thank you, but I won't impose.”

“We would be glad of the company and eager to hear about San Francisco,” Nicholas said. “It is one of the places we are thinking about visiting after this. Please.”

Gilbert sat up cross-legged to make room, and Nicholas opened up the other two little camp stools. By their accents, Aiden knew they were English, and despite the ordinary clothing and peculiar occupation, he sensed an air of aristocracy.

“And how are you finding our little dung heap so far?” Gilbert asked, tucking the cards away in a box.

“I've never seen anything like it,” Aiden replied. “Or even imagined.”

“Why would you?” Gilbert said. “It's the last place on earth anyone would ever imagine. In fact, it was really rather cruel of God to think it up in the first place.”

“The birds seem to like it,” Aiden said diplomatically.

“Oh yes. You're on a nature walk,” Gilbert said. Aiden wasn't sure if he was teasing. There was a sketchbook with some excellent pictures of a cormorant and a sea lion open on the blanket beside him, so the man had to like something of nature.

“I wanted to see something more of the island,” Aiden said. “And stretch my legs. We only just arrived and I'm tired of being aboard ship. Does this path go all the way across the island?”

“Not really,” Alice said. “People from the ships come up this far sometimes, to enjoy the view and the birds, but there is no real reason to go on much further. We have made a path with our own walking, but there is nothing different to see beyond here. Will you have some water?” she offered, taking a bottle out of a canvas knapsack.

“Thank you, but I'm quite all right.” He was in fact very thirsty, but it was his own fault and he wasn't about to take their water.

“We always bring too much and would rather not have to carry it back,” Alice said as she poured some in a tin cup. Aiden smelled oranges. “We won't be working much longer—it gets far too hot by afternoon.”

“Thank you.” Aiden took a grateful sip. “It's delicious!”

“Just a bit of orange oil twisted from the peels,” Alice said. “Ship's water is always so stale.”

“What ship are you with?” Aiden asked.

“The
Lady
May,
” Nicholas said. “Of the Brockleton Line. We arrived a week ago.”

“Are you surveying for them?” Aiden asked.

The three exchanged glances.

“There are many parties with an interest in the future of guano,” Nicholas said simply.

“With millions of dollars at stake, I'd say so,” Gilbert added, less diplomatically.

Even after his months with the Worthingtons, Aiden didn't really know what a million dollars was. In Kansas, his family's one good crop had brought in three hundred eighty-nine dollars, and they had felt rich. Mr. Worthington had recently bought a chandelier from Europe, the size of a shed, for two thousand four hundred ninety-one dollars, including shipping. One year ago, Aiden would have sold the whole farm for one dollar's worth of cornmeal and a bit of stringy meat.

He changed the subject. “How exactly do you measure guano? Is it like surveying land?”

“Basically,” Nicholas said. “The North Island has already been stripped bare, and there are plenty of shipping records to get a good estimate of the total tonnage mined there over the years. So once we figure out the area of this island and the average depth of the guano, we can calculate the volume. It's pretty simple math.”

Aiden had never found math all that simple, but he did know how to estimate the amount of wheat a field could produce, or how many tons of coal could be chipped from a seam.

“The topography of all these islands is similar,” Alice added. “And I don't imagine the birds have been favoring one island over another in deciding where to leave their gifts.”

Nicholas went on explaining the basics of surveying, which involved a lot of angles and triangulation. Alice said nothing during the lecture, but Aiden noticed that there was a notebook sticking out of her pocket, not Nicholas's, and a pencil poked through her plain hair, not his glossy mane.

“Oh, enough,” Gilbert finally said, putting an end to Nicholas's windy explanation. “We're helping rich men understand the depth of their riches. That is really all of it.”

“Shut up, Gilly,” Nicholas chastised. He looked back at Aiden and gave a little shrug. “He's right, but crass. Tell us about San Francisco.”

“Yes. Have you felt an earthquake?” Alice asked excitedly.

“There have been four since I arrived there in January,” Aiden said. “But little ones. The plates on the table shook, but the ones in the cupboards didn't fall out. There were nineteen last year.”

“Nineteen earthquakes?” Alice's green eyes shone, and he thought she might clap with delight, like one of the ducklings upon finding an exceptional beetle.

“People take it as ordinary,” Aiden said. “Like blizzards if you live in the north.”

“Nicholas,” she said, clutching her husband's hand. “That is surely where we must go next!”

Nicholas laughed. “Besides the geological thrills, what is the city itself like? The talk in London is that it's become very cosmopolitan and worth a visit. They call it the Paris of the West!”

Aiden wasn't sure what “cosmopolitan” meant, but he had certainly heard of Paris.

“It is a grand city. I like it very much.”

“Then stay and tell us all about it,” Gilbert said. “We're always desperate for smart new people to talk with. Come, join us for lunch.”

Aiden hardly thought of himself as smart, but he was equally happy for the new company.

“Please do,” Alice said. “It's just some bread and cheese. It's too hot to do any work in the afternoon, but we always spend the whole day here,” she explained. “Even with the heat, it's much nicer up here with the ocean breeze than on the ship. Do you have a launch waiting for you?”

“I hoped to catch a ride back with one of the supply boats. Otherwise, they will come for me at four.”

“Perfect,” Alice said as she opened a basket and unfolded the cloth inside. “Our launch returns for us at three and can take you back to your ship as well.”

The morning that had started with a scene from Dante's
Inferno
now turned into an afternoon of blithe picnicking. They sat in the shade and ate soft bread, crumbly white cheese, a sort of pickled vegetable relish and some dried figs. The conversation was bright and easy. He told them all about the city that he now considered home, describing the elaborate houses and society of the fashionable neighborhoods, the crowded lanes of downtown boardinghouses, the opulent hotels and the busy docks. He told them about Blind Sally and the Barbary Coast. Nicholas and Gilbert were very keen on operas, theater and music halls; Aiden felt he was letting them down by not having gone to a performance every night of the week.

They told him about Rome and London and Venice. They had even been to Egypt. Aiden was fascinated by these exotic people. They had such a different way of thinking and talking, and such different things to talk about: science and philosophy and art and all the new ideas of Europe and England. Sometimes they bickered, sounding more like annoyed siblings than scientists.

When it finally came time to fold up the stools and take down the canopy, it was a shock to step back into the reality of the place. The sun had baked the top layer of guano into a crispy stink. Two sailors from the
Lady
May
came up the path to help carry the equipment down. The day was frantically hot by now, and the blizzard of birds was starting to feel oppressive—like a swarm of locusts. When they passed Koster's office compound, there was no one in sight and all the louvered shutters were closed against the dust. Yet in the mine below, the work was still going on as vigorously as it had been that morning. The ant men working their ant labors. Watery shimmers of heat rippled above the guano, and the sun reflected brightly, causing Aiden's eyes to burn.

“No good to think about it,” Nicholas said, pausing beside him. “It will just depress you.”

“Why are they all Chinese?” Aiden asked.

“Because China's a bigger dung heap than here,” Gilbert said. “The poor buggers are glad for any chance to escape.”

“Gilly!” Alice chastised him.

Gilbert shrugged. “It's true. Sad but true.”

“It's complicated,” Nicholas said. “Peru ended slavery ten, twelve years ago. But the Negroes, after they were freed, mostly stayed. They had nowhere else to go. So they had first pick of the jobs.”

“Of the horrible jobs,” Alice added pointedly.

“Yes, well,” Nicholas went on. “The Negroes preferred the plantations. But someone has to work the guano. Guano finances the entire nation of Peru—it would collapse without it. They tried shipping in convicts, but there's only so much you can make a convict do. Even the Irish won't do this work! But China is teeming with people, half of them starving, all of them desperate. It's harsh, to be sure, but they sign up for it. Civilized men just aren't suited to this kind of work.”

“From what I've read, China does actually have some civilization,” Aiden said.

“Oh, of course,” Nicholas said. “But you know what I mean.”

Aiden did know, and it angered him, this casual racism. Gilbert started back down the path, clearly tired of hearing this discussion. Aiden thought it best to drop the subject for now.

The
Lady
May
's launch was a sleek, light boat, freshly painted red with gold trim. It was twice the size of the
Raven
's, but much faster, though rowed by only six men. The launch stopped first at the
Lady
May
to let off the surveyors and their equipment; the men then rowed Aiden over to his own ship. It was nearly four and the
Raven
was quiet. The sailors had rigged canopies all over the deck, beneath which they now dozed, except for the one man on watch. Fish was sitting in a canvas chair on the quarterdeck, reading a British magazine called
Punch.
There was a stack on the chair beside him, the top one dated only five months ago, and Aiden felt a sharp thrill of anticipation to have something new to read.

“Watch out,” Fish said as Aiden climbed aboard. “The deck is slick with the guano dust. We washed it down this morning, but it settles again almost immediately.”

The railings were also slippery. Aiden wiped his hands on his trousers. “Is every day like this, do you think?”

“With the dust, you mean? That's what I hear. There is clear seawater in the forward cask to wash with,” Fish said. “The trick is to pull it up first thing in the morning, after the night has settled the ship's filth and before the dust starts to fall again.”

“You've learned a lot in one day,” Aiden said.

“It's like a small town here. A thousand sailors sitting around with little to do but talk. Christopher asked to see you as soon as you got back. He's in the cabin. He is not cheerful.”

“Are you?”

“Cheerful?” Fish shrugged. “No. Of course not. Who could be?”

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“This place. I had no idea.”

“I guess that's part of sailing off into the unknown, isn't it?”

The cabin was stiflingly hot, but only the porthole was open, not the overhead hatch. Christopher sat at his desk, his face shiny with sweat and his shirt soaked through. He was writing notes and needed a towel on the blotter beneath his right hand to keep the sweat from soiling the paper.

“We're invited by Captain Nickerly of the
Lady
May
for supper tonight,” he said without preamble. “It's a very important engagement.”

“The
Lady
May
?”

“She's the premier ship in the Brockleton Line.”

“Yes, I've seen her. How did we come to be invited so soon?”

“I sent our card over this morning, announcing our arrival. I sent our card to everyone of importance here.”

“I didn't know we had a card,” Aiden said.

“I've been working here for hours on our business,” Christopher snapped, clearly annoyed. “While you were out—bird-watching! I've had seven invitations in reply already and had to write back to each and every one.”

“In your own blood?”

“Very funny.” Christopher jabbed the pen in the inkwell, dabbed his sweaty wrist on the towel and painstakingly wrote a few more words. At home, of course, there were secretaries for writing, and the careful penmanship required of him now was laborious.

“I'm sorry.” Aiden sat down on the edge of his bed, as there was only the one chair. “I can help you if you tell me what to say. My script is passable. I've copied some letters for your father.”

“It's the last one,” Christopher said indignantly. He blotted the paper and blew on it. “There is a mail boat that comes around every morning and afternoon, carrying letters between ships.” He folded the letter, addressed the outside with the name of the captain and ship, then tucked all the notes into an oiled-canvas bag.