“A couple of you brave lads might fill a few more buckets, just in case,” the captain said with a wry grin.
They did so and stood by with them. Tanyth moved back behind the deckhouse but peeped around the corner to watch.
“Jameson, take a peep into the crate before I move this lid any more, if you would?”
Mr. Jameson eased himself closer to the crate and peered into the dimness. “Looks like a lanyard hanging down, blowing in the breeze.”
“Anything else?”
“No, Captain.”
“I’m gonna move the cover. Tell me if that lanyard fetches up.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The captain rotated his upper body to open up the crate to inspection.
“Nothing yet, sir...all right, you’re clear.”
The captain leaned the cover against the hatch coaming and looked down into the crate. As he leaned over, it clicked again. With the lid off, the click sounded more like a clank and was loud enough to make everybody jump.
Jameson and the captain peered down into the crate and mumbled together for a few minutes. When they stood, Tanyth saw the captain’s face had taken on an angry, red cast so deep it neared purple. Mr. Jameson seemed very gray, and perhaps just a little sick to his stomach.
“It’s all right,” the captain called. “You lot, secure the hold, if you please. We won’t be putting this one back down there.”
Three sailors started laying the planks back down, tapping them into place with the heels of their hands, and then stretching the oiled canvas back over the opening, lashing it down securely.
Tanyth came out from behind the deckhouse and joined the throng of sailors who clustered around the captain. “It’s safe now,” he said. “Thanks, again, to Mother Fairport for noticing.”
He shared a pointed look with her and she nodded. “Quite welcome, Captain.”
“Now, you’ve all got work to do, I wager. If not, I’m sure the bosun can find something...?” He didn’t need to say any more as men started disappearing like soap bubbles in a high wind. The captain turned to the bosun and pointed to the crate and the mess on the deck. “Wrap that in canvas, if you please, Harcourt? Gently. Try not to bump it around too much.”
The bosun nodded. “Wrapped, not bumped. Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
“And then get a couple of the lads to scrub that lamp oil off the deck. No need to tempt fate, eh?”
The bosun knuckled his forehead and nodded. “Aye, aye, Cap’n. We’ll take care of it.”
“Mr. Jameson? Mother Fairport? Would you join me in the cabin again, please?”
They followed the captain back down the passageway and took up their regular seats at his table. Captain Groves sat back in his chair, one arm slug over the back and squinted at Tanyth. “That was good timing, mum.”
“Why’s that, Captain?”
“Inside that crate was a clockwork drum that slowly wound a bit of rope around and around. When the rope ran out, there was some mechanism inside that would break a jar of oil and then tilt a burning wick into it.”
She glanced at Jameson who nodded in agreement.
“And why was that good timing, Captain?”
“Because the rope was almost all wound up.”
“Is that why the oil spilled when you took the lid off?”
His mouth screwed into a bitter grimace. “No, that was a bit of luck there. A second lanyard was tied to the lid. Anybody prying the lid off, like I did, released the mechanism that broke the glass. The lanyard on the lid was apparently supposed to tip the lantern.”
She cocked her head trying to follow what he was saying. “So, it was trapped in case somebody noticed and opened the crate?”
He nodded and rubbed a hand across his mouth. “That would have been me going up like a human torch if it had worked.”
Jameson’s brow crinkled in puzzlement. “I saw the lamp in there, skipper. Salt water doused it, but why didn’t it tip over?”
He glanced at him before turning an amused look back to Tanyth. “It seems, Mr. Jameson, that a rat chewed through the cord.”
The two men looked at Tanyth for a long, long moment before the captain asked, “Do you know who shipped that particular crate, Jameson?”
“Yes, Captain. That was the crate that Peter Robertson was so anxious that we bring aboard at the last minute.”
The captain nodded. “I thought as much. It only makes sense.”
Jameson asked, “Why’s that, Captain?”
The captain leaned an elbow on the table and held up his fist. He raised one finger. “First, it had to have come aboard close to when we were leaving. That’s not the kind of thing you can have sitting in a ship that might be tied to the pier for a week.”
Jameson nodded.
The captain raised a second finger. “Second, I refused to pay the insurance premiums that the syndicate wanted. It’s gone up every year, and I put my foot down. Apparently they felt it was time to make an example of me.”
Jameson nodded a second time.
The captain raised a third finger. “Robertson’s one of my investors. He’s not been happy with that decision. He’s concerned that if we lose the ship, then he’ll be out a lot of money.”
Jameson nodded again.
“Isn’t that a reasonable fear, Captain,” Tanyth asked.
He pulled his hand down and nodded. “Yes, mum, it is. But it ignores the reality that while he loses money, we lose our lives.”
Jameson snorted. “And the syndicate is happy to insure a sailor’s life and only charge him three times the amount he’d make in pay.”
Tanyth squinted her eyes and cocked her head. “That doesn’t sound like a good deal to me.”
The captain barked a single laugh. “Even a landlubber can see it. They try to make out like it’s a great bargain. Buy the insurance, and if you get killed at sea, then your wife and kiddies get a hundred times your pay in settlement.”
Tanyth blinked at the sum. “That’s a lot of money. How often have they paid it?”
The captain shook his head. “Never as far as I know.”
“But...? I don’t understand.”
Jameson leaned into the table. “Most sailors have their pay spent before the ship gets underway. Really, the only people who could afford the premiums are mates and captains.”
“All right, so no mate or captain has ever been lost?”
The captain nodded. “Oh, aye, and some of them even had an insurance policy.”
“Then, why hasn’t the syndicate ever paid.”
“Because the only ones who’ve been lost have been on ships that never came back,” Jameson said.
The captain added the missing piece to the puzzle for her. “Without an officer like captain or mate to file the claim, there’s nothing to pay. The wife and kiddies have no standing. If the ship doesn’t come back, then the syndicate doesn’t know if the corpse in question is really dead or just sailed off into the hazy distance, absconding with ship and cargo.”
Jameson nodded. “So they don’t need to pay.”
The captain scowled and looked at Tanyth. “Some of the other captains and I have long been convinced that the syndicate was sinking ships that didn’t pay the cargo premiums.”
“And even some that did,” Jameson added. “Nothing like a fat payout to sobbing investors to convince folks they provide a valuable service.”
“But not the families?” Rebecca asked. “If the ship is lost...?”
The captain’s mouth twisted into a grim parody of a smile. “Because investors don’t insure the ship. They insure the cargo. If the cargo doesn’t arrive, doesn’t matter why. Failure to deliver is grounds for payment.”
“So, some cargoes get paid for a couple of times,” Jameson muttered darkly. “Send it out in an insured vessel. Ship disappears and the syndicate pays with a lot of fanfare. Meanwhile, the cargo gets off-loaded someplace quiet and the crews just evaporate into the sea fog. Voluntarily, if they know what’s good
for ’em.”
The captain nodded, a wry smile curling his lips. “More truth than fiction in that story, too, I’m thinking.” He sighed. “I shoulda paid closer attention. I knew there was something wrong with Robertson insisting we take that crate.”
“Well, we got proof now, sir. That crate is tied directly to Mr. Peter Robertson and a lot of people saw him loading it. That was a big hullabaloo in the middle of the evening, skipper. He won’t find it easy to wiggle off this hook.”
“I hope you’re right, Jameson. That bit of clockwork and oil is pretty damning, but tying it to the syndicate could be a lot tougher.”
“Well, Robertson’s head on the block would probably get him to speak up right, quick, I’d wager.”
The captain turned a jaundiced eye to his young subordinate.
“You don’t think so, Skipper?”
He shook his head. “I think I’ll have an opening on my board of investors by the time I get back, assuming I don’t already.”
Jameson looked startled, but Tanyth thought the captain had the right of it.
“Let me guess,” she said. “Your Mr. Robertson had some financial set back that prevented him actually investin’ in this voyage.”
“Big loss on a corn crop last fall,” the captain said. “He didn’t have time to recover his fortune and the rest had to dig a little deeper to underwrite this trip.”
Jameson scowled. “Does that mean they’ve been planning to set us up all winter?”
The captain shrugged. “Could be. Or it could be that Robertson had a handy lever for them to press on. In return for not investing in a trip he couldn’t afford, and for pressuring me to buy insurance on the trip, he gets a nice little paycheck from the syndicate. When he couldn’t convince me, they gave him this little present to get included on the voyage.”
“You don’t think he knew what was in it, Captain?” Tanyth asked.
“Oh, he probably knew, but he didn’t build it. At most he had to light the wick and make sure it was on board at the last minute.” The captain shook his head. “No, that’s a damned clever design, right down to the artful splashes of black paint that got applied after they bored the holes. That deadman’s lanyard in the top in case somebody got too nosy?” The captain shook his head. “That was just too subtle a touch for Peter Robertson. I’ve seen broken bottles with more subtlety than he’s ever shown.”
Jameson frowned. “How do you know it was painted after the holes were bored?”
“Paint on the inside of the hole. If the board had been painted before, the drill would have left nice fresh wood, like our friend the rat did with her gnawing. Somebody mighta seen that and wondered why there were air holes in a cargo crate.” He sighed. “I didn’t even spot the holes along the top edge until I had the cover off.”
“Wait, Captain? You think there are rats on the ship?” Jameson asked, his eyes wide.
“It’s a ship, isn’t it? Every ship worth havin’ has rats aboard. They’re too smart to sail on a crappy vessel.”
“All this time, and you knew?”
The captain laughed. “You’d be surprised what I know, Mr. Jameson.” He winked at Mother Fairport.
The ships bell rang eight times.
“And that is lunch, I think. Mother Fairport is probably ready to pass out again from hunger, Jameson. Why don’t you make sure she gets something to eat and bring me back a bowl of whatever foul concoction our poisoner has created today.”
“Skipper? I thought you liked Cook’s food.” Jameson looked aghast.
The captain barked a laugh and clapped Jameson on the shoulder. “Sometimes you take me way too seriously, my lad.”
Tanyth giggled when the captain shot her a wink while Jameson wasn’t looking.
Chapter Twenty-Seven:
Halfway Does Not A Voyage Make
Tanyth settled into the rhythm of the ship. She came to enjoy the regular routine. She rose with the sun and, instead of packing her gear and walking until sunset, she had a comfortable breakfast with Cook and helped him serve the crew. Sometimes she’d make biscuits and once helped with the bread.
After breakfast clean up she retired to her cabin and worked on sorting out the heavy bundle of materials that she’d collected over her many years of travel. In many ways she relived her long trek in miniature as she explored the pile, each new layer of notes and artifacts unfolding a fragile page from the book of her memory. Notes from the earliest days were the hardest to decipher. The pressure and friction of page against page had erased portions, and faded others to near illegibility. Still there was enough to amuse and entertain them for day upon day.
At midday she returned to the deckhouse to help Cook once more. Usually lunch was a hearty affair with bread and a hearty stew or fish soup. By the end of the eighth day at sea, all the food was tinned, salted, or smoked—except for those things like potatoes, carrots, and onions which held up well in storage or foods that could be created from scratch. Tanyth felt satisfied with the arrangement, having some experience with food that had gone past its prime and no desire to deal with it ever again. To make up for the lack of fresh produce, Cook made a series of fruit pasties—small crusty turnovers with a helping of cooked fruit inside. He had a barrel of apples and another of pears that he alternated with some regularity.
After lunch cleanup she returned to her compartment and the seemingly bottomless pile of notes and scribbles. Just peeling them apart could take several minutes because of their age and brittleness. More than once Tanyth found herself muttering, “Good thing I didn’t wait much longer.”
Rebecca smiled and offered sharp young eyes and slender fingers to aid in the process when she wasn’t busy on deck or scampering about in the rigging.
In the evening, she joined the captain and one of the mates for dinner in the captain’s cabin. All three men were delightful dinner companions, and Tanyth could often get them to tell stories of life at sea or along the coast. They took great pleasure in telling stories about each other and took great pains to exaggerate the stories to humorous effect. At times they’d trade off, trying to egg one into telling a more outrageous tale about the other. The two younger men took great delight in this game. Tanyth admired the way the captain managed and directed the talk, always finding a humorous note that was funny but not cruel.
As the voyage progressed, the days became chillier. Tanyth was glad for her warm trousers, heavy coat, and knit cap. The trip from companionway to deckhouse could be very raw early in the morning, although she found occasion to stroll several times around the deck for exercise when the frustration of peeling thin, delicate layers apart became overwhelming.
On the tenth night underway, Tanyth knocked on the door but failed to receive the customary “Enter!” as response. She could hear their voices as a low rumble, but couldn’t make out the words through the door. After knocking again, a bit louder, she poked her head in, and found the two Groves men in heated discussion over a chart pinned down to the captain’s charting table.
“Am I interruptin’?” she asked. “Cook will be here with dinner soon.”
They looked up, the captain with a look of consternation on his face, the younger Groves with a look of jubilation.
“No, no, mum. Come in,” the captain said. “Sorry for that. We were just discussing the navigation.”
They took seats just before Cook bustled in with a pair of sailors in tow. He performed his customary delivery and, with a nod and a wink, closed the door on his way out.
“And is there somethin’ wrong with the navigation?” Tanyth asked after they’d broken biscuits and addressed a bit of Cook’s stew.
The younger Mr. Groves kept giving his father little looks, nudges with his eyes as if encouraging him to bring up a subject. The captain steadfastly addressed his stew with uncharacteristic single-mindedness.
Finally, with a sour look at his son, the captain tossed his spoon down. “It’s our position, mum. According to the fixes we’ve been getting, we??
?ve been moving along quite smartly.”
“Is that a problem?” Tanyth asked.
The captain shook his head, and bit his bottom lip. “The Call is a grand vessel, mum, but she’s no sea hound. She gets us there in comfort and with a goodly-sized cargo to make getting there worthwhile.” He paused to peer at her.
“But there’s a problem, isn’t there, Captain?” Tanyth said, more statement than question.
He gave a half shrug. “In a manner of speaking, mum.”
He looked so glum, she jumped to the obvious conclusion. “Oh, no, don’t tell me we’ve slowed down.”
The captain sighed even though Tanyth thought that the younger Groves might pop a seam in his excitement. “No, mum,” the captain said, “we’ve actually sped up.”
Tanyth took a bite of her biscuit and considered the captain’s expression. “You don’t look pleased by this, Captain.”
“Under normal circumstances, mum, I’d be delighted.”
Tanyth looked across the table but young Mr. Groves wouldn’t meet her eyes. “But...?” she prompted.
“But it’s too much,” the captain said. “According to our daily fixes, we’re going almost twice as fast as we should be.”
“Is that bad?”
The captain shot another sour look at his son. “Well, mum, this one thinks we’ve found a new current. That would explain the difference in position. We can’t explain it with winds. We’re not moving through the water that fast, so the water must be carrying us.”
“You don’t sound convinced, Captain.”
He shook his head. “That’s a very far-fetched explanation, mum.”
“What else could it be?”
He shook his head. “All I can think of is the tables we use to translate our position from a sun sighting to an actual chart location. If the tables have some kind of consistent error, we have no way to know where we might really be.”
“But, Father, what if it is a new current? We’ve never been in this particular part of the ocean this early in the season. It could be a winter current that hasn’t subsided.” His enthusiasm had him almost bouncing in his chair.