Chapter 192: Luck Runs Out Same as Rum
Fenwick’s boots brought him the last few steps onto the speakers platform.
"Aye, I know what half of ye are thinkin’ already."
He said it before anybody could say it for him. "There’s the farmer, come to tell ye he wants more shite to farm. Save yer breath, I’ve had that shouted at my back all week."
That got a laugh, and Fenwick let it wash past without any more attention than a fly. "So I’ll say it myself and save the rest of ye the trouble of thinking ye’ve been clever. Do the job right and the ground that’s giving us thin, sour corn now’ll grow it near twice the size. And there’s still room for more cane, more cassava, more yams, whatever."
He folded his arms, his part done. "That’s my whole piece. Ground don’t lie to a man, whatever bloody nonsense the rest of ye might."
From there, one freedman came shouldering forward from Isaiah’s end of the benches.
He was built like a fellow who wrestled hogs for pleasure, and the hogs generally regretted taking part.
He called, loud enough to reach the far end of the hall. "Cuffee. Why in the devil does any man need to break his back digging a ditch, when the bush is crawling with more meat than this whole town could eat in a season?"
He spread his arms wide, and then wider still, as though the animals might be standing there listening. "Last hog I brought down, I had him by the tusks with my bare hands, out in open ground, with nothing between us but dirt and his bad temper."
He went on from there, and the hog grew a hand’s width larger with every telling. The tusks stretched longer than his forearm, the fight lasted three days instead of one, and by the time the beast had nearly doubled in size out of spite at being beaten, the hall was laughing outright.
Cuffee looked as pleased as a preacher who had just discovered the congregation enjoyed his sermon.
He enjoyed himself up until a sharp-tongued woman shoved between two men twice her size and planted herself squarely in front of him.
"Deborah Yates. I keep this town’s count, since apparently one has to."
Her voice was plain and direct. "By my tally, what reaches the storehouse most weeks is closer to four smoked hog haunches, six barrels of salt fish, and whatever corn the marsh hasn’t already drowned that season. Four haunches, Cuffee."
One more freedman shouted from near the back. "Ye’ll have to forgive him, Deborah! The hogs get bigger every time there’s a woman close enough to hear him tell it!"
More started to join, taking their opportunity to take the piss on their friend. Then Cudjoe stepped out from the knot of Rose sailors, with no trouble to hurry himself, and the hall went silent just to watch him cross the floor.
"The lass numbers are sound enough."
He nodded toward Deborah, no argument in his voice.
"Town eats well today, I’ll nae dispute that."
He let that stand for a moment, his voice taking the laughter out of the room. "I’ve watched a whole season’s harvest go under a storm surge afore the corn was even cut. I’ve sailed wi’ a crew reduced tae gnawin’ hardtack gone hard as a gun barrel and boiled shoe leather besides, on a voyage that went worse than any man aboard had planned."
The quartermaster voice was simple and direct. "Dinnae fool yourselves intae thinkin’ the sea can’t take ’em abundance. Once she’s made up her mind, she cannae be reasoned with."
He folded his arms and left it there.
"The old man’s got the right of it."
Mutters came from near the back, and for a moment nobody in the hall seemed to have much interest in laughing at anything.
Before that mood could properly take hold, Doyle came shoving through the crowd with a look in his eye that had, on more than one occasion, sent grown men hunting for the nearest bucket.
He proclaimed without care. "More cane means more rum, and I’ll not apologize for bein’ the only frank man in this town willing to say it plain."
He rubbed his hands together. "But more corn besides, and I’ve a notion what a corn mash might do once it’s had time to work. And cassava, now, there’s a plant nobody’s had the stomach to ferment yet, as the last fellow who ate it raw near dropped dead where he stood. Which only makes me more curious what she’d do boiled down and left to sit a fortnight."
A ripple of genuine alarm passed through part of the crowd.
"Remember that green batch I brought back from Florida?"
He grinned as if recalling an especially pleasant afternoon instead of a near disaster. "Pete here still can’t feel the left half of his face of a morning, and I’d call that a fair trade for what it taught us about wet-season storage."
Greasy Pete’s voice cracked out somewhere in the crowd, indignant as a rooster disturbed at breakfast. "I can feel it fine! It’s just slower than the right half, is all, and I’ll thank ye not to bring it up in front of the whole bloody town!"
That earned the biggest laugh the hall had all morning.
More sailors hollered over the noise. "Aye, put it to a separate vote then! Who wants Doyle experimenting on the whole town, and who wants to keep their faces working?"
More laughter washed through the hall.
The hall didn’t so much return to calm as break apart into a dozen smaller arguments.
James let them carry on, watching the town argue in circles with more interest than he’d expected. He’d once figured the platform was useful mostly for making a man look important from far enough away.
Then, when enough was enough, he raised a hand for silence, and this time the hall took considerably longer to obey.
"Right then. The marsh had its say, and it’ll stand for the vote."
He looked over the crowd, grinning. "Christ, I knew this town could argue. I didn’t reckon it could argue with itself in six directions at once."
He raised his voice again. "That leaves the last of the three roads. Whoever wants to speak for the forge and the workshop district, this is your turn."
The crowd didn’t have to wait much.
A broad shadow broke away from the Rose crewmembers.
Bert was walking up alone.
James nodded him forward with the same short, plain gesture. "Floor’s yours."