The Tangerine Merchant's Tale Read online

  “Are you accusing Captain Rynhaut of sodomy?” Smythe asked. Of course, Smythe knew it happened. It happened all the time. Men who had families waiting for them at home frequently took on ‘ship wives’ from among the men. It was another practice frowned upon by the company but again the captains were given free reign when it came to dealing with the problem.

  “Sir this was rape if ever there were a case of it. The man had slipped his gag and managed to get out a distress call,” Masten said.

  “What did Straat do?” Smythe asked.

  “He is, was, insanely loyal to the Captain. I think he would have stepped in front of a musket ball for the man. So Straat being who he is and believing violence is the solution to most problems grabbed the navigator and pinned him against the wall. I don’t know what he told him, I wasn’t close enough to hear, but he was holding his dirk inches from the man’s eye. Shortly thereafter the navigator came stumbling out of the cabin trying to untie himself and pull up his breeches at the same time,” Masten said.

  “What about the woman?” Smythe asked.

  “Well you see that’s the thing, she wasn’t there,” Masten said.

  “Did she leave through another exit?” Smythe asked.

  “Only one door,” Masten said.

  “So can you explain what happened?” Smythe asked.

  “No,” Masten responded. “And neither could the Captain. You see he wasn’t drunk at all and he swore on calm seas and good winds that he had been fucking one of the tangerines. He claimed he didn’t even know how the navigator got into his quarters,”

  Smythe studied Masten. He wasn’t a small man and he wasn’t overgrown either. What was most notable about him was his delicacy. Smythe knew that had he been the sole survivor he would probably have been hailed as some sort of hero. The man could have told any story he wanted to. No one would have believed he was remotely capable of the crime of which he was now accused.

  “So the Captain denied having any knowledge of the rape of his navigator that both you and Straat witnessed?” Smythe asked.

  “Well Straat wasn’t about to betray the captain and leave him to the will of the men who were already upset about being lost, the navigator was too ashamed to speak up, and I certainly wasn’t going to say anything,” Masten explained.

  Food arrived and Masten looked at Smythe for permission. Smythe found a folded letter sealed with wax tucked between the dried fish and watery beer.

  “Take some of the food to Straat, I’ll return later today if I can,” Smythe said collecting his papers and quill while scanning the letter.

  It was an invitation to a meeting of the participanten, the non-managing partners of the Company, but partners nonetheless. They numbered in the hundreds and had twice as many complaints about the company. Many of them had employed Smythe in the past and would again. It would have been a poor business decision not to go. He dashed out of the jail and took a carriage to the Square.

  One of the jailers brought Straat into the room and left. Jailer Mohren eyed the two men. He searched the loop of keys on his belt until he found the one he wanted.

  “Come with me,” Mohren said.

  “Have we given offense?” Straat asked.

  Straat and Masten were aware that the penalties for misbehavior within the jail were severe. They had both seen other captives taken away for disciplinary action only to return beaten unconscious.

  “Quiet now,” Mohren said.

  The men complied as Mohren led them along a different route than the one toward the communal cell they were accustomed to. The three went up a flight of stairs to the upper level of the jail. Three other jailers awaited them. Each had the dreaded hardwood truncheons hanging from their belt and they eyed Masten and Straat with anticipation.

  Straat looked toward Masten for a sign of what was to come. Masten made the slightest gesture reassuring Straat that all would be well. It was a signaling system the two had developed over years while playing games of chance. The two had perfected this form of communication and the sign went unnoticed by the jailers.

  Mohren opened a side door and entered. Masten and Straat followed him in and the other three jailers followed them.

  Inside the room a large table was covered end to end with sweet meats, fresh breads, fish, and fruit. Tankards of beer and bottles of wine sat in the center. Straat and Masten had not seen this much food in one place in all their lives.

  Mohren gestured at the table.

  “Sit, eat, drink,” Mohren said.

  Straat once again looked at Masten for a sign and Masten’s entire posture changed. In an instant he transformed from a meek artist into a man accustomed to being in command.

  Masten walked toward the table and sat at one end. He gestured for Straat to sit on his right side and poured himself a glass of wine. He took a sip and savored the taste it was a quality vintage. Masten sat down and poured himself some beer.

  Mohren took his place at the other end of the table and poured himself a glass of wine as well. The other jailers took seats and began to eat and pour beer for themselves.

  An hour went by and the jailers and Straat feasted in silence. Masten and Mohren nursed their respective glasses of wine in silence while each man sizing up the other. The alcohol kept the tension at bay but the room was thick with it nonetheless.

  Finally Masten leaned back in his chair and put his glass on the table. Straat and the jailers stopped eating and looked from him to Mohren and back at Masten again.

  “I gather you have a ship then?” Masten asked.

  “Yes, we do,” Jailer Mohren said. “And you have a route?”

  “I most assuredly do,” Masten said.

  In the past Jailer Mohren had frequented the same bawdy houses his two captives did and he had recognized them both the day they had been taken into custody.

  Mohren had opted to remain silent on the subject of their identities and now he was glad that he had.

  When he first heard their tale he had dismissed it outright, but after some inquiry he had learned that one, there were purveyors of exotic beauties in Singapore willing to pay extravagant prices and two, the route was short if captained properly and with an experienced crew.

  Mohren had discussed the idea with the other jailers and facing the demise of the company, his three accomplices leapt at the chance. The jailers had then discreetly recruited a crew of thirty from among the other incarcerated men.

  Once that was accomplished the ship would need to be supplied which would be expensive but Mohren had already taken care of that.

  From there it was simply a matter of securing a ship and freeing the captives.

  The Square was bustling with the disgruntled, the terrified and the naïve. Smythe removed his watch and fob placing both in a pocket inside the waistband of his breeches designed for just such an occasion.

  “Counselor!” shouted one of the men. Smythe recognized him as a former client who had a land dispute case some years ago. Smythe had gotten him a favorable ruling and the man had called him friend ever since.

  “Hello, good to see you again,” Smythe lied. He had no idea what the man’s name was.

  The man forced a stein of beer at Smythe who accepted but didn’t partake.

  “Have you heard about the payroll?” the man asked.

  “No,” Smythe said with dread. “What’s happened to payroll?”

  “Someone absconded with it. Hundreds of thousands of duits and personal mail gone!” The man said. He was getting louder and the free-flowing beer increased the urgency of the situation.

  To Smythe’s relief, the man went to relieve himself by forcing his way through several equally outraged members of the participanten. Smythe found a place to sit and contemplate in one of the alcoves surrounding the square. The crowd numbered in the hundreds now. All of the men were in various states of dress, ranging from proper evening attire to the distinctive dress of their trade. What they all had in common was that they were merchants and stakeholders an
d they each had their own payroll to meet. Each of them could afford to skip a month, perhaps two without receiving their salaries because they had company dividends to rely on. Their respective employees on the other part had an entirely different economic outlook; for the most part the laborers, apprentices, and unskilled labor employees barely eked by when they had steady work. The idea of having to face an angry desperate group of subordinates, who outnumbered their employers seven to one, was terrifying.

  Their outrage about the loss of the payroll had begun to lose momentum about the time the second wagonof beer arrived. Smythe looked up from his thoughts to count at least five of the heavy wooden barrels upended or partially destroyed and decided it was time to retire to his home.

  Smythe made it safely back to his housing before midnight. He had seen two fights, and the destruction of the very wagon carrying the beer. The irony was not lost on him as he tried to sleep that night.

  The world he knew was on the brink of change. He wondered what would happen if the company didn’t get the contract renewed. He considered the future of his practice. Smythe had three clerks and two junior partners in his employ. Unlike the men who brawled in the street last night or drank themselves into a stupor, neither he nor his practice was at risk. In truth, although he detested the reality of it, a law practice could benefit from economic chaos. His clients either paid or he didn’t take their case. Granted on occasion he had handled some clients that found themselves without means but as a rule, people paid for his services. Criminal activity increased at the same rate as new enterprises. Land was purchased and sold at the same rate as theft and murder. No matter what happened, he profited and he was uncomfortable with this. He was realistic enough to understand that this was the nature of his chosen career but he still grappled with the moral implications of his personal stability resulting from riding the tide of human nature to his personal advantage. After his mind settled, he slept.

  The following morning Smythe made his way to the Square seeking breakfast. His housekeeper had taken the day due to her husband having been caught up in the previous night’s activities. She was making sure he got medical attention and Smythe was on his own for sustenance. He made his way through the square, avoiding the scavenging dogs and birds that were taking advantage of the nights leavings. Apparently the street vendors had seized the opportunity offering up baked goods, sausages, and of course, more beer.

  “Counselor, how goes your morning?” a voice shouted. It was Jeroen Saxe, another member of the tribunal adjudicating his case.

  “Well, and good day to you sir,” Smythe responded curtly. He was again made uncomfortable by the familiarity of someone adjudicating his case. He knew of colleagues who went out of their way to build relationships with tribunal members but that smacked of impropriety to Goodson’s way of thinking. Smythe made a deliberate effort to appear interested in what appeared to be human vomit on the street. He found this a palatable alternative to engaging the juris in polite chatter. The one advantage was that he wasn’t hungry anymore and hailed a carriage to the jail.

  When Smythe arrived, Jailer Mohren informed him that Straat had been assigned to manual labor this morning but Masten was available. Smythe had no desire to listen to the ravings of a man that was clearly desperate and past his breaking point but having no other options, he requested Masten be brought to the interview area.

  Masten entered the interview room with trepidation and curiosity. Smythe decided at that moment that Masten acted out of weakness and fear. Perhaps he could get this man a reduced sentence, perhaps not. So far the members of the tribunal were behaving in a friendly manner, but perhaps they were looking toward the future; a future where former judges become partners in a successful law practice. It was a repulsive theory and Smythe had a client to address.

  “…I asked if you had any ideas on how to get us out of this.” Masten repeated.

  “I’m certainly not going to destroy my reputation by spinning a tale of men adrift at sea with an angry god am I?” Smythe asked.

  “Well what pray tell are you planning to say?” Masten asked.

  “Your best chance lies in claiming mentale falen…” Smythe started.

  “No! By God I will not be locked up as a man who’s taken leave of his senses. Do you know what sort of animals they keep in those places?” Masten asked.

  “If you’re fortunate, the ship stealing sort, unless you have a better idea,” Smythe said.

  Chapter 3

  ONTSNAPPEN (Escape)

  “This Tribunal does not look kindly upon tardiness counselor,” Justice Jeroen Sax said.

  “Your honor I was quite punctual, early in fact,” Smythe countered.

  The Tribunal and Barrister Smythe had been waiting almost thirty minutes to procede. However the prosecution and the defendants were absent. The courtroom was quiet except for the occassional cough or shuffling of feet. The jurors were bored and frustrated. They were all from the working class and were losing wages. This did not bode well for the defendants.

  “Yes counselor, we are aware of your presence. Where are your clients?” Justice Wittstruck asked.

  “As this body is aware, my clients are at the mercy of their jailers and as such…” Smythe was interrupted by a shouting clerk.

  “Fire! Fire! The jail is burning!” the clerk shouted.

  By the time Smythe reached the crowded roadway to the jail, the barricades had already gone up. Guards were manning the barricades to prevent the throng of onlookers from getting any closer to the spectacle and to prevent any escapees from reaching the city proper.

  Smythe fought his way forward through the throng only to be intercepted by Barent.

  “The prisoners Smythe!” Barent shouted above the den. The crowd was pushing forward to get a better view and the policemen were doing all they could short of physical violence to stop them.

  “What?” Smythe shouted back.

  “They’re rioting! They’ve set the place on fire!” Barent shouted.

  “My clients are in there!” Smythe shouted.

  “Let them burn! They were going to hang anyway!” Barent shouted.

  The first explosion stunned the crowd into silence. Seconds later they felt the concussive blast. Because of its distance from residences and businesses the jail was chosen as the storehouse for surplus black powder. It was also chosen because the structure itself was relatively secure. The second explosion drew everyone’s attention to the bay. One of the ships had turned its cannons on the jail and was loosing every gun it had, intent on razing the structure.

  In previous decades the jail had served as a fort of sorts and its seven, rooftop guns were kept in good working condition. To its credit the structure held up under the barrage for some time. Eventually however, the stone walls gave way and began to crumble into the surf below.

  The gathered crowd began to cheer. The policemen relaxed as only a fool would run toward the killing ground the jail was quickly transforming into. Smythe wondered if this is what the epic sea battles sounded like. He gained a new respect for the men of the sea who risked everything, never knowing when that unimaginable sound might be the last thing they heard.

  “Here they come!” shouted one of the policemen.

  It was the inmates, they were charging toward the barricade. They were battered and bleeding, driven wild with fear and rage. It was a stampede made up of the worst the city had to offer and they were minutes away from the spectators. The effect on the crowd of cheering and belligerent men was instantaneous sobriety.

  There were two schools of thought. One said run. The onslaught of violent criminals with a relatively small group of the gentry between them and freedom would end gruesomely. The second school of thought was that the men at the barricade were the only thing between an onslaught of violent criminals and a port city filled with women, weapons, and whatever else desperate men needed.

  Those on the front line opted for flight. Those in the rear opted to stand their ground. For m
oments longer than Smythe cared to remember he was literally carried aloft by the tide of clashing men. He felt a sharp pain in his arm and saw that he was bleeding. Over the heads of several men, Smythe saw Barent wielding what appeared to be the leg of a chair but for the life of him, Smythe couldn’t figure out where it had come from.

  In the harbor Smythe glimpsed the attacking ship begin to move then he saw the sails being repositioned and the ship heading out to sea.

  A sharp blow to the top of Smythe’s head rendered him unconscious for the remainder of the melee.

  Smythe awoke exactly where he had fallen with no signs of further molestation. He then spent a few days in the care of the company physician. The man had a terrible bedside manner and bemoaned the demise of the Company the entire time. Smythe mused that his physician’s bleak outlook had probably cured a number of ailments that under proper medical supervision would have taken longer to recover from.

  On the fourth day of his convalescence, a policeman came to visit.

  “Counselor Smythe?” the policeman asked.

  “Yes. How can I help you officer?” Smythe asked. He looked at the policeman attempting to gage his intent. The police had already taken a statement from him and Smythe wasn’t taking on any new clients at the moment.

  In the aftermath of the company closing, many previously honest men had found new ways to capitalize on a local economy in free-fall. Smythe had heard of policemen who extorted local people under threat of arrest. Others had become more overt criminals taking over the world of prostitution and gambling and using whatever legal status they still had to impose their will.

  “Something odd was found this morning during the ‘remediation’ of the jail,” the officer began.

  Smythe knew that remediation meant the organized looting of the grounds by the police.

  “I hope it was nothing of mine,” Smythe said calmly.

  “In a manner of speaking it is,” The officer held up a folded sheet of paper bound with a makeshift wax seal.