Son of Fortune (20 page)

“You do not!” Aiden couldn't help laughing. He knew his friend was drunk, but he also knew the raw honesty that drink sometimes let out. “I'm sorry. But I doubt there are many rich painters, and certainly no poets.”

“No, I suppose not,” Christopher sighed. “But I could always find a rich patron.”

“Like who?”

Christopher looked out over the calm black water to the dark heap of their treasure island. “Well, like a guano merchant, I suppose,” he said.

It was funny, but also sad, and Aiden felt a pang of compassion for his friend. Aiden had no real direction in his own life and certainly not a thousandth of Christopher's fortune, but he was freer in many ways.

“All right,” he said. “When we come home rich, I will be your patron and I will commission you to paint my portrait.”

“You'd do much better commissioning the ducklings,” Christopher said. The teasing did not ease his gloom. He got up and slapped his hands against the side of his trousers, brushing off the ever-settling guano dust. “Those surveyors, are they anyone?”

“I don't know.”

“You've got to get better at finding out, dear boy. Connections to the Brockleton Line would be very useful. Their ships never spend more than two or three weeks here. The gossip is that the
Lady
May
would be out even sooner, except that Nickerly buys their ghastly pisco by the barrelful, so they like to milk him for a while.”

“Well, I am going to the island with them tomorrow for their surveying,” Aiden said. “I'm sure you would be welcome to join us.”

“The next time I set foot on that dung heap will be the day we sign our departure papers,” Christopher said. He scrunched up the tie and tucked it into his pocket. “Are you staying up?”

“A little while, I think.”

“I'm spent. Don't clatter about when you come in.” Christopher went off to their cabin.

iden spent the whole next day with Alice, Nicholas and Gilbert, then the day after that and the next and the next. The actual surveying work took up only a few hours in the morning, but it was much nicer to spend the afternoons lounging about beneath the canopy than aboard any ship in the anchorage. Except for the few minutes coming and going each day as they passed by Koster's office, they could neither see nor hear the mining site. Once on the crest, they were upwind of the dust, so it was easy to pretend the awful place didn't really even exist.

By noon, as the sun grew hotter, they retreated to their little camp for lunch and an afternoon of leisurely amusement. It was surprisingly easy to forget they were picnicking atop a mountain of bird shit. They read poetry aloud or played cards, backgammon, chess or word games while the birds skittered across the sky and the occasional whale spouted in the distance. One morning they were rowed around the entire island while Gilbert drew dozens of sketches, capturing details of cliff faces and rocky inlets for the survey. Aiden still wasn't sure if they were “anyone,” as Christopher had so bluntly put it. The surname of Brock certainly hinted at a relationship to the Brockleton Line, but Aiden couldn't ask them outright. The long afternoons began to melt away in their easy friendship. As smart and worldly and exotic as they were, they never made him feel ignorant.

Aiden tried to get Christopher to join them, but Christopher was repulsed by the very idea of walking over the mound of guano, let alone lying around on it for a whole day. He spent his days instead on the North Island, where there was something of a club set up in the abandoned buildings. Most of the captains and officers spent the days there.

“There are awnings and gaming tables—nothing fancy, but it's a place to go,” Christopher said. “There's even a restaurant of sorts for lunch, where the Peruvian fishermen grill their catch and sell some vile stuff they call wine. It's an awful ugly place, of course—but we must make do. The men play cards, and the wives do their needlework or stroll back and forth with their gossip and umbrellas. Cabin boys brush a path clean for them. It's all rather well organized.”

Society in the anchorage was vigorous. There were dinners or parties every night of the week on various ships. After just a few days, Christopher began hosting his own gatherings aboard the
Raven.
He quickly found the few young and interesting people among the hundreds of stranded souls. Nicholas, Alice and Gilbert were at the very top of any ship's guest list, but they actually enjoyed parties on the
Raven,
where everything was lively and fun. Someone always knew a comic recitation, a poem or a song. Christopher found musicians and arranged recitals and dances.

Fish, quite unexpectedly, was an excellent dancer. He certainly hadn't been raised, as Christopher had, with dancing masters and ballroom practice, but growing up on ships had made him nimble. He also had a natural musical sense. And a natural ease with women. His blond hair and Nordic blue eyes captivated them. Alice delighted in teaching him all the dances, and he was a quick student. He easily mastered the waltz. It was still regarded in provincial circles as a scandalous dance, but Fish made it look like pure, innocent fun as he clutched Alice close and spun her around the small deck.

Aiden watched them one night and felt—what? It wasn't jealousy. It couldn't be—Alice was several years older, and married. She was more like a big sister or a teacher to him. So why should it bother him that Fish clutched her so close, his hand covering half her back, fingers spread as if measuring his acreage? He could not be angry with Fish for monopolizing her. But still, he was—something. It wasn't fair for Fish to just step in, swoosh her about, make her laugh and brighten her cheeks so. Aiden knew that the rules of dancing—and friendship—would allow him to cut in, but he would no sooner try to dance than to fly. He did not have to cut in after all, for the next minute all the dancers stopped as a bell began to sound from the island. It was a harsh, flat tone, somber and relentless. The musicians stopped playing. All eyes looked immediately toward the island, then most dropped their gazes downward, the way people did to avoid an ugly scene: horses with broken legs or shamed housemaids. Aiden looked at Christopher, who just shrugged. Alice, Nicholas and Gilbert also seemed puzzled. They were apparently the only ones who didn't know what was going on.

“What does the bell mean, sir?” Christopher asked one of the visitors. “Has there been an accident?”

“No accident.” The man was the son of an experienced captain, on his second voyage here. “It's the punishment bell. Probably a coolie tried to sneak off. A provisioning boat came out from Pisco today. They always guard the boats, of course, and search them before they leave, but these devils can be tricky. The bell reminds all the rest of them what will be done to escapees.”

“And what will be done, sir?” Aiden asked.

“The proper thing,” the young man said vaguely. “Only that. Only what's due. Shall we have a reel? Something merry to finish up the night?”

Christopher waved to the musicians and they began to play again. What could they really do, Aiden wondered, to punish men who already endured such hardships as daily life in this place? He remembered the overseers with their black whips. A whipping was bad but not unusual. Every captain in this fleet had probably had sailors flogged. His own father had raised welts on his sons with his belt. What had made these people look away and shudder? The fiddler played a lively reel, but the dancing seemed forced and artificial. Soon after, the party broke up.

“I will see you tomorrow at dawn, then?” Aiden said to Alice. He had not missed a day with them since their first meeting.

“We'll be collecting guano samples from the mine tomorrow,” she said. “It will be quite different.”

“Oh.” He had been picturing another breezy afternoon of gay talk and companionship up on the ridge. “Well, I do like to see different things.”

“I fear it will be very dusty and unpleasant.”

“I've had dusty and unpleasant times before.”

“Gilbert will not even come.”

Aiden shrugged. “He is an artist.”

Alice laughed. “Yes, he is that. Very well. You will need a scarf or kerchief to cover your face.”

“All right. Tomorrow, then.” Impulsively, he bent over and kissed her on the cheek.

The launches all departed, the merrymakers vanishing into the night. Night sounds drifted over the ship: the lapping of calm water on the anchored hulls, the murmured conversation of sailors, the soft percussion of the cat leaping onto the deck. In the background were all the steady little rattles and tinks of the ship's rigging, and behind that the steady bass drum of surf on the rocks. It was a little while before Aiden picked out the one different sound of this night. From the dark island, he could hear the faint sound of distant screams.

he screams had stopped by morning. The man made no sound at all now, or if he did, it was lost in the waves. It wasn't until the
Lady
May
's launch rowed past the rocky curve of the breakwater that Aiden and the others saw him. Alice gave a little gasp and pressed her hand to her mouth. Nicholas said “What is—” then stopped. It took a few long seconds to realize what they were looking at. A man was chained to a rock. Only his arms were chained; his feet dangled free. There were no marks on the man. There was no visible blood. But there wouldn't be, of course; the waves had crashed over him all night. He probably had kicked for a while, trying to get a heel to rest on some slippery niche, trying to ease the pull on his wrists and to push himself a few inches higher from the choking surf. But now he just dangled. He appeared to have sunk halfway into the rock, like a man lying in soft sand. But it was his flesh that was the soft part.

Aiden just stared in silence. How did they drill the holes to secure those chains? he wondered. The rock face was nearly vertical, and the biggest waves crashed completely over it. How did anyone stand there long enough to drill into the rock? Where would you tie up your boat? And how did you fix chains into a rock anyway? You couldn't use cement. It wouldn't dry, being wet all the time. Even small splashes would wreck the mixture. But someone had figured it out. Someone had figured out a way to drill the holes and sink the bolts and fix the chains. Then they had figured out a way to secure a boat long enough to haul a man up, wrestle his arms into place and clamp the shackles around his frail wrists. Perhaps it was just a matter of having the right tide. At any rate, they had done it. It had been done.

Black vultures perched on nearby bluffs, their tiny claws grabbing for balance, waiting. How did they know to come? Wouldn't the waves keep washing away the smell? Maybe the vultures had learned the punishment rock like crows on the prairie had learned the butchering frame. They began to gather at any activity there, even before blood was let.

The rowers lost their rhythm. One oar rattled in the oarlock, missed the stroke and hit another oar. The clap of blade against blade was loud as a gunshot. The coxswain shouted. The sailors regained their rhythm, and the launch rowed quickly past. It bumped softly against the dock. One of the rowers vomited over the side. Aiden got out, held out a hand for Alice and helped her up. Her face was very pale and her eyes were shiny with tears.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

“No. Of course not. Who could be all right?”

Aiden said nothing. He actually was all right, for he was outside himself in a floating glass ball and nothing was real and he wasn't really there and felt nothing at all but the warm hum of the yellow sun and the strange firmness of solid ground.

Nicholas climbed up, and Alice whirled around to face him. “Did you know?”

“No.” He looked away. “I—I heard something about it last night. But I didn't expect—”

“What did you expect?”

“I don't know—”

“A softer rock?”

“Stop!” Nicholas took her arm and steered her away from the launch. “Please,” he whispered. Aiden couldn't tell if it was from tenderness or embarrassment that the sailors might overhear. “You must go back to the ship. You can't work here today. You know you shouldn't be here at all—not in the mine. And especially not now.”

Alice pulled her arm away.

“There is nothing to do but scrape up bits of guano and put them into envelopes,” Nicholas pleaded. “Your disguise will not fool anyone. I can collect the samples myself. Or you can send Gilbert. Go back and tell him I said he must come or—or I'll fire him.” The threat did not sound convincing. “You must go back, my dear. The coolies will be upset. You would be provocation.”

“We should all go back, then.”

“No,” Nicholas said firmly. “One mustn't appear weak in these circumstances. Go back. I can manage on my own. I will ask Koster for a guard.”

Alice tucked some escaping bits of hair up under her hat. Despite the baggy men's clothing and the wide-brimmed hat, Aiden knew she would be recognized as a woman the moment she stepped into the mining site. On an ordinary day, that might be all right, no more than a bit of curiosity. The sailors in the launch twitched their hands on the oars, eager to be away.

“I will stay,” Aiden offered. Staying on the island was about the last thing in the world he wanted to do right now, but the thought of Alice staying was worse. “If it's just collecting bits of guano into envelopes, I may be capable enough. It seems a waste of your expertise anyway.”

Aiden watched two small sharks cruising in the shallows. One of the vultures landed on the rock. But everything inside his glass ball was very calm.

“Thank you,” Alice said, her voice trembling. Nicholas helped his wife back into the launch, and the sailors began to row away as fast as they could.

“Good chap.” Nicholas patted Aiden on the back. “Koster hasn't liked her being on the island at all since day one, and certainly would not want her mucking about the dig site even on the best of days.” He sighed and looked around nervously. “This won't be the best of days. But I don't suppose the coolies would do anything drastic. I mean, this sort of thing must happen often enough. I'm sure the guards can handle things.”

“There are plenty of guards,” Aiden said.

Nicholas picked up the bag of equipment. “Right. Well, let's soldier on.”

“What exactly am I meant to do?”

“Oh—sorry, yes.” Nicholas stopped, opened the canvas bag and showed Aiden a stack of small paper envelopes, each one already labeled. “We'll take a little sample every three vertical feet, starting from the bare rock, hopefully all the way up to the top. You keep the envelopes in order and hand them to me. I'll also need to do some measuring, so you'll hold the stick. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. We'll be back in time for lunch.”

They started walking up their usual path toward Koster's compound, but then Nicholas led Aiden off onto a smaller path where rough stairs were cut into the bare rock. The guano had been stripped away here, but the scrolls and spatters of fresh bird droppings were already starting to replace it, making for slippery walking. The steps led up to the loading area at the top of the wharf. Aiden had previously seen this area only through the telescope from the ship, and it was always shrouded in a cloud of dust. Now he could see there was a sort of corral, made from canvas and sticks, to hold the deposited guano before it was shoveled into the waiting ships. Loaded carts came in on the track from the quarry area, pulled by men straining in the harnesses. Four shorter sections of track were spiked out at the end, allowing the carts to veer off and dump their loads. Around each of these piles, a few old men sat, picking at the guano.

They looked like no men Aiden had ever seen, unless men could be salamanders. They sat propped upright against bags of guano, their tiny bodies folded up knees to ears, shoulders hunched and heads barely erect, bony feet splayed for balance. With skeleton fingers, they scratched at the piles. Aiden walked closer and saw that they were picking little stones out of the guano. To lighten the load for the ships, he realized. If the stones were only two percent of the weight, it would still matter to a ship carrying twenty tons across long, vicious seas. It was all really math, wasn't it? Tons and miles and profit.

“Gear up, lad,” Nicholas said, tying his kerchief around his nose and mouth. “Let's be done with this as quick as we can.” Aiden tied his bandanna over his nose and mouth, and they set off walking along the rails to the base of the guano mountain. Now the sound of waves was replaced by the chink of picks, the rumble of the carts and the occasional shout of the overseers and the crack of their whips.

What Aiden and Christopher had seen from the path that first day, shocking as it was, had really showed nothing. Now he could see the actual men as they swung their picks and shovels. He could see the stretched sinews of their arms and the rivulets of sweat that ran down their backs, making little curlicues around the poking bones. He could see the yellow dust caking in the hollows of their ankles and the napes of their necks, clinging in ribbons between their ribs, like scalloped lines on a frosted cake. They were so thin and frail it seemed impossible that any one of them could even lift a pick, yet they lifted and swung in a constant motion. Aiden only vaguely remembered the Negro slaves on the plantation in Virginia, but he was sure they had been twice as big as these men, and with flesh and muscle. The cruelest masters still fed them enough, for they were valuable property and needed for work. These men most resembled the coal miners he had worked among, small, wiry men with skeleton cheeks and bony chests. But even in the coal mines, the sickest old men were more robust.

Some of the coolies glanced at them as they passed, but none ever stopped digging. The guano here was different from the spongy surface on the top of the ridge. This was dry, and compacted hard as rock. As the guano was chipped out, men with sledgehammers smashed the bigger chunks into smaller pieces; other men shoveled the pulverized guano into the wheelbarrows, which were hauled to the rail carts. The carts were then dragged to the corral, the piles were dumped, the old men picked out stones, the precious dust was shoveled into sacks, the sacks slid down the chutes, the ships sailed away, crops grew, distant people ate bread. Aiden shuddered. Where was he in this chain?

Nicholas dropped his bag, took out his trowel and scraped out a bit of guano. Aiden opened the first envelope to receive it. Even with the noise and clatter of the mining, he could hear it rustle down through the stiff paper and feel the crumbles settle in the bottom upon his fingertips. He had been here less than ten minutes, and his lungs ached. His eyes burned, and his mouth felt both soapy and dry, like he had eaten a spoonful of lye. But the coolies would work all day feeling this way. One man staggered past him, carrying a basket. Aiden could see the forehead strap digging into his skin. His toes left wide, clear prints in the dust, though his heels made barely a mark. A few of the men wore sandals, but most were barefoot, and the dusty ground was dimpled all over from their toes. Not one of them made a sound, or even looked at them, but Aiden could feel an angry tension in the air.