The Tangerine Merchant's Tale Read online

  “As you can see we have taken great care to respect the laws pertaining to communications between criminals and their counsel,” the officer said.

  Smythe knew anyone could have found the papers removed the seal read them and resealed them and even that was based on the premise that they had originally been sealed at all. The seal was a clever way to increase the value and Smythe partly respected the ingenuity behind the scam.

  “I appreciate your troubles,” Smythe said removing a few duit from the pocket of his waistcoat. “Thank you.” He said handing over the coins and taking the papers.

  The officer left without a word. Smythe wasn’t certain what the going rate for mail delivery was and hoped he hadn’t offended the policeman by offering too little. This only occupied his thoughts for a few moments. He withdrew his penknife, cut the binding leaving the seal intact and recognized the handwriting immediately, as belonging to the man he knew as Masten. The letter read:

  Barrister Smythe -

  As we waited in our cell we realized that our sponsor – a Mr. Barent Witbeck by the way - wasn’t going to come to our aid and we were not about to be hanged when we knew where a small fortune was to be made.

  So we have to try again you see? It’s simply too much money not to try again.

  Thanks for your services and safe seas to you.

  - Captain Rynhaut and First Mate Anthony Straat

  Smythe was stunned. The man masquerading as Masten wasn’t Masten was Captain Rynhaut and Barent Witbeck, his long time friend and confidant had been implicated in his crimes. That would explain Barents cavalier disposition toward the jail fire that night. This was far worse than a simple murder or rape; this was a crime against the company. If this were true the penalty would be severe, more severe than his friend would be able to stand.

  Smythe made it his business to call on Barent the next morning and arrived at his lavish home just after breakfast. He rang and got no answer. He knocked and was greeted with more silence. Smythe made his way around the side to the servant’s entrance. It was unlocked and he entered.

  The house was in disarray. Smythe had visited this home on a number of occasions and never seen it in this state. Dust, unclean dishes, and refuse everywhere, something was amiss.

  Upon entering the study he found his friend had hanged himself and Smythe sat for a moment and wept.

  After careful review of the letter, The Tribunal ruled that his clients were dead as were all of the jailers and generously omitted any mention of Barent Witbeck in the official court record.

  Chapter 4

  TERUGKEER (Return)

  It was three months since the collapse of the Dutch East India Trading Company, the jail fire, the escape or death of Captain Rynhaunt and Anthony Straat, the death of his friend, Barent Witbeck and the theft of yet another ship, the Kings Ransom.

  The collapse of the Dutch East India Trading Company had the opposite effect most had anticipated. Once the land, buildings and lots had become available for private ownership a wave of entrepreneurs and families had moved to the area. The population had almost doubled in the past ninety days and the economy was booming. The influx of new people brought new legal matters to address and new clients to defend. Smythe had kept busy and with the help of his new partners - former justices Sax and Wittstruck - grown his practice in proportion to the demand of a revitalized city.

  This morning Goodson was visiting the construction site of the new jail when the bells tolled announcing an incoming vessel. Since the port guns were no longer in place the bell only served to alert the citizenry.

  Smythe stood among the crowd as the ship made its way into port. It was midday and the sun was shining but a light fog enveloped the ship. The ship was listing a little and the rigging appeared to be damaged. Sea birds darted in and around the cargo netting snatching pieces of the indistinct objects suspended there. As it drew closer people began to shout. It was mostly the young with the keenest eyes and most excitable.

  “…plague ship…!”

  “…pirates…!”

  “…this is clearly Oriental mischief if you ask me,” said a voice that sounded older. The ship was steadily making its way into the port and toward the pier.

  The ship was silent and there was no visible movement on deck. There were no shouted orders or affirmations of compliance from the crew. The ship was so quiet that the battered hull could be heard creaking as it swayed on its horizontal axis. It was the Kings Tempest.

  The first scream came from a portly woman in a baker’s garb, and then others joined in. Some moved closer to the edge of the pier for a better view while others backed away. The ship was only two hundred yards out now.

  Smythe’s first concern was that, although the ship was hardly moving in nautical terms it wasn’t slowing down, the second was the rigging. As the mist surrounding the ship thinned it became clear what the gulls and erns were feasting on. There were torsos and limbs, cured by the sun, strung throughout the weathered ropes. What at first appeared to be the tattered remnants of sails in truth were tattooed sections of human skin.

  People gasped and recoiled. Several vomited while others prayed. The police arrived and ordered the crowd to disperse. At first those of greater fortitude argued the point but as the ship drew closer even they began to retreat from the floating carnage.

  Smythe felt it in his gut, the unease of knowing something frightening and horrific but still not believing. The ruined ship, human remains in the riggings; he had heard this tale before. He had dismissed it all as the ravings of a mad man but now here it was bearing down on him and dozens of other witnesses.

  Smythe knew that avarice could drive even the most rational man to the brink, but he couldn’t comprehend this. The story couldn’t have been true, he thought, but the smell of rotting flesh had reached him now and he could not dismiss that. If the story had been true surely those fools would not have gone back, Smythe thought despite what the accusatory letter had said.

  Smythe saw the telltale fins of dozens of sharks as they circled and followed the ship. Smythe detected something else, mingled with the smell of salt, blood and, putrefaction was the faintest hint of jasmine. Smythe’s mind could not comprehend what his senses were telling him and before he could give it any more thought the ship ran into the pier and collapsed in on its self. The bow crumpled and the mast fell forward killing one of the policemen who was directing the crowd to get back.

  Smythe had stayed clear of the crowd and watched from a safe distance. He had learned his lesson regarding a mob in a small space the night of the jail fire.

  One man was found on board. He was dehydrated, malnourished and chained to the ships wheel – it was Jailer Mohren. He later claimed to have been unable to free himself and to have no idea how he had come to be on board the Kings Ransom.

  Smythe was plagued with questions. How had Mohren navigated back to port? Where was the rest of the crew? Smythe dreaded the notion that he probably knew more than most about the fate of those avaricious men but who could he tell?

  Smythe wasn’t himself for several days afterward. He was a logical man who had mastered making arguments without passion. The return of the Kings Ransom had shaken him and he had avoided work for several days.

  Upon returning to his offices Smythe received notice that Mohren had been found dead in his cell with his neck broken and that a letter from Mohren was waiting for him. He didn’t want to read the letter but he felt compelled to. He took the letter to his inner office and stared at the sealed envelope. It was some time before he could muster the courage to open it and the first half of the first sentence read: “Those fucking tangerine whores…”

  Smythe dropped the document as if it were on fire. He left his office in a daze and went home to contemplate retirement.

  - fin -

 

 

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