Cinnamon and Gunpowder Read Online Free PDF

twisted in the air to land facedown, sprawled like a scarecrow.
    Pitching his voice so all hands could hear, Mr. Apples said, “That’s just a kiss. If a gun kicks you, we’ll scrape you into a snuffbox to bury you.”
    With that he freed his crew to line up for their grog. I was relieved to see the scarecrow pull himself up and weave his way back to his fellows, who seemed to forgive him for forgetting the oakum.
    I found myself gazing at the cannon and considering the many shapes of violence. The hollowed sockets of those guns brought to mind the Cyclops staring blind with rage at the horizon after Odysseus had gone.
    Mr. Apples broke my reverie. “You could cook meat with that scowl alone,” he said, pulling yarn from his ditty bag. “What’s the matter, Spoons? I didn’t hit you .”
    “It seems to me,” I said, “strength like that is a gift that could go to a better use.”
    “That swat’ll save his life.” He held up the gourds of his fists. “I was a pugilist. Is that the better use you’re thinking of? I stood in a ring and crushed heads for the pleasure of a crowd. A bear can do that. That’s what I was when Mabbot found me. These sailors could sign with any other crew, get monthly pay and chocolate to drink for the holidays, but here they eat mush and go months with no prizes. They hunt the Brass Fox, which is like trying to catch smoke in your hat. Why do they put up with it?”
    “Why indeed?”
    “Once you meet Mabbot, you can hardly go back to being a bear. You have two choices: fight her or fight for her.”

    A full week aboard and I’ve made no progress toward the meal that will save my life. I have a better chance of building a cathedral out of vermicelli. In my despair, I can hardly lift myself from the sack of sawdust I sleep on and which I have grown alarmingly fond of. I try to imagine recipes, but my mind has the tinny echo of an empty flour bin.
    I will spare myself the needles of remembrance. My survival depends on being present, focusing all of my energies on dodging the captain’s threat. I must not linger on the sweet memories of my beloved Elizabeth, rest her, laughing with a jasmine candy in her cheek, nor of good men sharing a glass of port; nor will I linger on the softness of my down pillow back in London, nor on clean undergarments, nor on the view of the orchard from my kitchen window, nor on eggs—oh, eggs! Nor on the reassuring firmness and eager weight of my knife whistling so cleanly through a head of cabbage. I will not let myself catalogue the other friends I took for granted: my slim whisk, copper-bottomed pots, marble pastry table, and rows of yeast batters in various states of arousal. I shall not think once of my Rumford stove, my cast-iron castle, my coal-fed kingdom. For now I shall attempt to pretend that the things on hand here are the only tools that have ever existed. I must become like Adam, taking what is offered and inventing the rest.

    The Flying Rose is modified, I’ve learned, in a few mischievous ways. For one, her stern is reinforced to support the two sleek black cannon, which the gunners have affectionately named the Twa Corbies. These long-range stern chasers are poised to destroy anyone in pursuit. Further, a good portion of the lower deck has been divided into small chambers, the better to hold stolen goods or prisoners like myself.
    The vessel is always abustle. A seaman stands near the mizzenmast, ready to strike a large gong emblazoned with white enamel cranes. It is his job to generate the various rhythms by which the crew know their time and duty. While the sailors do indeed work hard and the ship is polished to a sheen, they also spend a stunning amount of time playing music, wrestling, whittling, or simply lolling about the deck, laughing and joking in a pidgin language that sounds like the bark of a sea lion. The ship’s surgeon is a shameless drunk who refuses to rise from his hammock until he has had two liters of straight wine