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seadog – A veteran sailor or old pirate.
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THE LETTER FROM Woodes Rogers’s uncle confirmed what the man had long thought inevitable: his wife Jessica was dead, likely by her own doing. There was an investigation by the constabulary but the long and short of it was that she had been found in their home in Bristol, with her wrists opened and the knife not far from her hand. Rogers knew of his wife’s lifelong melancholy and often chastised her to show more cheer around the home, and she had said more than once that what little joy she got came from Elana. With their daughter gone it was no surprise Jessica chose this path.
He sat before the fire, letter in hand, tapping his chin with forefinger and watching as his own thoughts vacillated between his family that had now been utterly wiped out, the imprisonment of his friend Vhingfrith, the terrifying ordeal with the boy named Swanson, and the greater problem of the World ending. He had read more on the matter, from books he gathered from an erudite away in Kingston, an anthropologist of some repute who came to the Caribbean to study its natives. The books he’d lent Rogers on past worldwide cataclysms had not been very helpful, mostly they were collections of myths from various religions around the globe.
Rogers thought again of Jessica, her hair done up on their wedding day, the calm words of the priest, Jessica’s nervous demeanor but brave smile—
He heard Swanson’s voice. Could practically smell the breath even now—
Then his mind flitted back to the one story that caught his interest from all the anthropologist’s books. It was the story of a Scandinavian monk who recorded a tragic famine brought on by years of complete darkness. Somewhere in the 6th century this took place. Could it have been the same years as recorded by Procopius and Cassiodorus?
The smell of Jessica’s perfume came to him, roses and jasmine—
There came an image of Benjamin Vhingfrith, an old friend, locked up in the dungeon, all along and freezing on this Long Night—
He glanced at the letter, reading the last few lines from his uncle: No appearance of suffering. The blood was such that all agree she went to sleep Peacefully and her last breath came quick. You should know that in her last days, your Wife spoke fondly of you. She also spoke of strange Apparitions in the Long Night, and she was known to go on and on about the firmament, even sought counsel in séances with benandanti. She surrendered her Faith, and ceased all prayer. Her Towne particularly was besieged with the Disease, its population ravaged. The Disease took all her Neighbours, all the important people to her. Bristol is a lonely place now. You do not know what it is like here, dear Nephew, pray you never come home. Godspeed to you. And God grant you Peace. They say the King himself may be ill. Stay in the Caribbean. Never come home.
Rogers sighed and tossed the letter into the fire, to join the ashes of the letter concerning his dead daughter, along with all the letters he’d received concerning the problems of failing crops, old fort defences that needed shoring up, and a drop in morale among the King’s Militia. He supposed that was where all letters wound up, sooner or later, in the fire. And though one or two tears were spilled he felt they were about as useless and as transient as the words on paper.
The story of the Scandinavian monk tore at his mind. Stories of famine, even cannibalism in the villages that had surrounded his monastery.
Stay in the Caribbean. Never come home.
He saw Benjamin Vhingfrith lying on a dungeon floor. Perhaps I was too harsh.
Rogers saw Jessica as she was in the ballroom the first time they met—
The messenger is not important.
Never come home.
A knock at his door.
“Come in.”
It was James. His servant nodded curtly upon entering and said, “Sir, are you all right? You look ill.”
“Word from home.”
“Oh? And how is Mrs. Rogers?”
Woodes sighed and looked into the flames. “I’m afraid it’s bad news, James. She’s dead. Killed herself.” He held up a hand to stop James right there. “No. No need to bother with it. I know that I have your condolences and I thank you. Now let’s move on. Are they here yet?”
“Erm, yes sir, they are.” James looked a bit awkward about not having a chance to grieve with him.
But why should we grieve? I haven’t seen my wife or daughter in years, and she miscarried enough to make this all seem rather routine. I know the whores in Port Royal better than I ever knew Jessica or…ah, well, why even revisit all that? It’s in the past. People are dying all over and the firmament may end us all. “Let’s go and meet them, James.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rogers checked his sangfroid expression in the mirror and headed downstairs. He often slept inside his office at Fort Carlisle and had his appointments waiting for him at the main entrance. It was a Long Night when he emerged out in the area filled with scribes at their tables. It was truly ten o’clock in the morning, and they were writing letters for all the illiterate sailors to send back home.
The brothers Trenton and Thornton Clement were waiting for him just outside, both gazing up at three harsh moons—one full, one gibbous, one crescent. “There they are, the old seadogs,” he said, shaking their hands. “And how was the long voyage? Not too dangerous, I hope. Thornton, looks like you got some colour.”
“The African sun is harsh, Captain,” answered Trenton. “We spent almost three weeks in that blistering heat. We would have killed for a Long Night then.”
“I’m sure, I’m sure. Well, it appears you survived your time among the savages. Hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
“We lost two good men,” said Thornton. The younger brother looked grimly over at Rogers. “Two men who had been with us for years.”
“Good heavens.”
“Men with families.”
“Was it a storm?”
“Natives,” said Trenton, taking back over. He waved Rogers down the lane that was lit by dozens of torches and lamps. Some folk had taken to calling it Fire Lane, and it was the man thoroughfare leading to and from the docks. As they walked, Trenton explained, “We used the same tactics as last time, inviting the tribal chiefs onto our ship for dinner, convincing them we were pirates and that there was treasure to be had in the bilge, then pulling up anchor and sailing away before they knew what was happening. For the most part it worked, but there was one fearsome tribal elder who fought back against our crew. He led the attack and the African bastards slew two men and gravely injured six others before we detained them all below.”
“My dear friends, you are heroes for facing such trials and keeping it from turning into calamity. You are to be commended.”
“You are to be commended, Captain,” said Trenton. “I understand you had quite the hunt out on the sea. Brought the León Coronado finally to justice. But what’s this scuttlebutt I hear? You and Captain Vhingfrith in some sort of argument? The Devil’s Son locked away in a dungeon? And I hear he’s accused of somehow being in communion with devils?”
“I wouldn’t concern yourselves with all that, my friends. We took the Coronado a prize and that is victory enough for the Admiralty. I should be much more interested in your adventures.” Rogers put on a brave smile and nodded to two officers coming up from the docks. Their names were Merrick and Dobson, and they had orders to follow him down to the docks. The Clement brothers did not know this, and was unaware when Merrick and Dobson spun around and shadowed them from a distance. “Was there any trouble in Tortuga? I spoke with the lieutenant-governor, and he and I came to an understanding.”
“His people relayed that understanding,” Trenton sighed irritably. “I was none too happy that he got first pick of our stock, Captain. None too happy.”
“But you see why it must be done. It was either that or René may have taken them all instead.”
“I see that, and I understand, Captain. Still…” Trenton let it go, and went silent a moment.
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They walked through crowds that grew thicker every day, people now used to the Long Nights and adapting, making frequent trips to the Fish Market. Fishermen were working round the clock to keep up supply.
They passed in front of the pillories, where three pirates had their arms and heads stuck through wooden planks, bent over, and were bleeding from the lashes they had received. Beside the pillories were the platforms where two empty nooses were being prepared to receive their next customers. The hangman was checking the mechanism on the trapdoors.
“And how has law and order gone here?” said Trenton, nodding towards the hangman. “Are your methods bearing fruit?”
“They are. Slowly. But the firmament business has tossed us all into a tizzy. More people arrive daily from Kingston, telling us of deadly natives that ritually attack them. Port Royal has become a sanctuary of sorts. It will need increased defences, though, and soon. More fighting men, and more workers to repair the forts. That is why I am glad you brought your stock here.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed. While I was in Tortuga, the lieutenant-governor told me of the natives becoming violent there, and how he was responding, since his government, like ours, has largely withdrawn support for the Caribbean. His idea is to use African slaves as a fighting force, promising them their freedom after several years of leal service. I thought that a cunning idea.”
Trenton stopped in his tracks. “Africans? Enforcers of law?”
“Yes. I share your astonishment, Trenton,” Rogers said, resuming their walk, “but I would point you to our lack of food, the post-Cataclysm panic, the sightings of monsters that are reported daily, both at sea and on land.”
“Yes,” said Trenton in a low voice, his eyes searching around to make sure no one could hear. “And…not to start a panic, sir, but can you tell me…what is the current situation with food stores? I have been told in Africa, in Tortuga, and in England itself that crops have continued to fail. There were attempts to increase the use of dung as fertilizer, I understand, but as plants die, animals grow hungry, and sick, and then die, so there is not animal dung enough to—”
“I hear all your fears, Trenton, and to answer them, I will only ask if you brought what I asked from St. Lucia.”
Trenton stepped around a mother and her young daughter who were bickering, and said in a low voice, “I did, sir. The mushrooms, the spore samples, the materials to create a mushroom farm, all of it.”
“And the drawings from the mushroom farmers? The instructions on how to make a mushroom farm grow and flourish over years? Because it is difficult to keep such a farm going in certain soils and without the exact proper conditions.”
“As I say, we have it all, sir.”
“Then there you have it.”
“Is this really the only way forward?” asked Thornton. The younger brother now looked almost chilled to the bone. “Are we all truly to become mushroom-eaters? Are we to subsist off of—”
“Only until this Firmament Crisis passes, which I’m told many learned men believe will happen soon.”
“How soon? How can anyone know when it’ll end when this phenomenon is completely unprecedented—”
“Not completely.”
“What?”
“I said it is not completely unprecedented.”
“What do you mean?” asked Trenton.
Now Rogers kept his voice low. “In 536 A.D., most major civilizations on Earth report a total darkness that blanketed the Earth. It is a total mystery. It lasted eighteen months. That is a year and a half, gentlemen.”
Trenton appeared mystified. “I’ve never heard of this. But then, I am not a scholar. How did this happen?”
“It started when a mysterious fog rolled over Europe, the Middle East, and most of Asia. This caused temperatures to drop, and they stayed that way the entire eighteen months. It was, you might say, a literal Dark Age. And even after this Dark Age had passed, years of famine still followed as crops struggled to recover.” Rogers didn’t know why he was sharing this, but what could it hurt? He had been reading further into the histories and come to the conclusion that some such phenomenon was taking place now, and with Vhingfrith in custody, there were few true intellectuals to converse with. “Our ancestors were not prepared for it, but thanks to their historical records we have the gift of foresight—we know what’s coming. At least, most intellectuals do. And it is time to prepare for it.” He smiled at the Clements. “Which is why I am so happy to see you two heroes returned. Now, show me what you’ve brought us.”
At the dock they came to the three ships the Clement brothers had used to get their venture underway. Three brigantines, all with battered sails and with timbers looking the worse for wear, but by God they had made it. The slaves were just being brought up from the bilge, and the offloading was being overseen by the King’s Militia. The Africans they had in chains were fine specimens, tall and sturdy-looking, if a little thin.
“They look underfed,” Rogers said.
“It was a long journey, Captain,” Trenton reminded.
“I can see that now. Excellent job, my friends,” Rogers said, watching the slaves being marched up the hill to the Admiralty Office. Their chains rattled and clacked and their big white eyes gazed around at Port Royal, which Rogers imagined must appear as strange as the three alien moons hovering above them. “Just a splendid job, indeed. Cunningly done. And have you what we agreed upon? For our arrangement?”
The Clements exchanged a tired glance, but they waved him over to where a net filled with chests was being hauled down from the yardarm. “We already sold half our stock to the auctioneers, even before we got off the boat,” Trenton laughed, opening one of the chests to remove a large, jingling purse. “They all rushed down here to have a look, they could hardly wait.”
Rogers accepted his payment, and it disappeared inside his coat. “Excellent. So you’re already paid up?”
“Almost. As we agreed, the rest of them will be sold at a discounted price to any local farmers currently suffering collapse of their farms. Those that don’t sell…well, my brother and I reserve the right to re-auction them.”
“I see. And where did you take these slaves from?”
“I already told you, from off the coast of the Dutch encampment.”
“So…not your own property? Not any lands you own?”
“Er, we don’t have any property in Senegal, Captain,” he chuckled. “You know that.”
“So, to be clear, you took these slaves off Dutch land. Land that England has a shared interest in. The colony in Yof Bay, in Senegal.”
Trenton shrugged. “Yes.”
“Excellent, excellent. And where is your commission statement?”
Trenton smiled awkwardly. “Our…?”
“Your commission. The paper that says you had a right to conduct this operation on Dutch and English territory.”
Trenton looked over at Thornton, and then the two of them laughed. When they saw Woodes was not laughing, they both stopped. “Captain Rogers, whatever are you—?”
“Serjeant Merrick, Serjeant Dobson, have you heard enough?”
“We have, Captain,” said one of the militiaman stepping out from the shadows. They had been hiding away from the torches, standing behind the Clements, who swung around to face the redcoats and their sabres. Suddenly the docks were swarmed by men carrying rifles, and a dozen men pointing their weapons at the Clements, who both frowned and looked around at the trap in wide-eyed fear.
“What is this?” said Trenton.
“Serjeant Merrick, bind and gag them,” said Rogers. “I don’t want them shouting foul and declamatory lies as they’re dragged to the pillory.”
“The pillory?!” Thorton said.
“What is the meaning of—” said Trenton.
“Rogers, you snake! You said we’d—”
Rogers drew his pistol and said, “Now, Serjeant Merrick! I said bind and gag them now!”
Thorton tried to run but was tackled to the dock and quickly gagged and bound. Trenton, seeing how they had been duped, tried at least to retain some of his dignity as he was bound and gagged and then hauled away from the dock. The other redcoats stormed onto their three ships, arresting the Clement brothers’ crew and seizing all cargo, including any unsold slaves.
A crowd of onlookers had gathered around the dock and were gazing at the two well-dressed men being hauled away.
Rogers stepped off the boat and walked off to the dock, giving Serjeant Merrick his last instructions. “You have enough to forego a trial, you heard them both confess.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the Clement brothers were shoved past Rogers, Thornton lunged at him. Serjeant Merrick clubbed him with the hilt of his sabre.
“The pillories are your first stop, gentlemen!” Rogers shouted, loud enough for all at the docks to hear. “And I trust you saw Jack Ketch getting those nooses ready? Aye, he’s got everything all set for you, after your penance is paid!”
The crowds seemed to catch on and cheered that a hanging would soon take place. While they followed the militiamen and the Clements, Rogers went aboard each of the three ships he’d confiscated, which would make great new prizes for Port Royal’s defences. Their cannons were all in order and the decks seemed well-maintained. He would offer pardons to any of the Clements’ crew who testified that they had been tricked into thinking they were sent to Senegal on a legitimate slaver’s raid, and in return they would be allowed to man these three ships to defend Royal.
Satisfied the ships would work out, Woodes went to inspect the slaves. He had a translator present, an African boy who worked in the Admiralty Office. Rogers told them, “Every man here may earn his freedom, if he defends this island and its shores for the entirety of his three-year service, remains in good standing with the Admiralty Office there,” he pointed up to the castle on the hill, “and all its lords within.”
He smiled at some of their confused and awed looks as they looked upon the castle.
“You are all men of the Yoffoi tribe, I take it, down in the bay on Senegal. You committed crimes by trespassing on Dutch and English land. The penalty for that is death or slavery for life, but I am offering you this one mercy.” He stood in front of them, hands clasped behind him, the glow of three moons allowing him to see all their faces. A cold wind caused them all to shiver. “You now begin to repay your debt to England. Be grateful. Few others ever get this chance. Not even those men.”
Rogers pointed so that they could look up Fire Lane, away from the docks, at the Clement brothers being stripped naked, still bound and gagged, and their heads shoved through the holes of the pillories.
“Now,” Rogers said. “Tell me now. What is your position?”
The Africans all looked dumbly around at each other. Some of the women wept. Some of the men, too. After they were led away Rogers went aboard the ships again to inspect their holds. He found the apparatuses and materials needed to grow mushrooms, the large lattices and collections of spores, the schematics of the large mushroom farms, the instructions the Clements had written down from the farmers on what kind of soil worked best and how often to cultivate.
It wasn’t enough to simply grow mushrooms. Farms had to be converted, the environment had to be just right to grow enough to matter. Anyone might grow a few mushrooms here and there, but to reliably do it in the Caribbean, on islands where only certain kinds could grow, and to make them grow in enough numbers to actually matter…This will require a whole new paradigm shift, from cattle to spores.
A paradigm shift that will need to last us months.
Maybe years.
Maybe decades.
Forever?
He dared not think of the possibility.
The messenger is not important.
Those words plagued him day and night. For if the messenger was not important, who then did he speak for? Perhaps Benjamin knew. Perhaps he ought to stay the order of execution and go ask.