Ship of Fire by Michael Cadnum Page A

with a few unfortunate scholars in London. Sir Robert’s condition was the result of quicksilver poisoning.
    The mercury that learned men used in their studies seeped into their flesh over months and years. In unlucky instances, it turned them this unholy tint, and in some star-crossed cases it even drove them mad. Many philosophers dabbled in alchemy, believing that base metals could be turned to gold by using quicksilver and other rare elements. Sir Robert’s condition was striking, but one shared by other seekers.
    â€œCaptain Foxcroft whispered a word in my ear,” said Sir Robert. “Something about taking you under my wing, if you seemed in need of my help.”
    I bridled inwardly. The admiral had chosen me to be one of the ship’s officers, and I was determined to live up to Drake’s faith in me.
    â€œNot that I suspect you’ll need any special advice, good Thomas,” said Sir Robert with polite haste.
    â€œWe are lucky to have such a spirited shipmate,” I offered, liking him despite my stung pride. “You are a well-famed playwright and poet, as I hear.”
    Gentlemen scholars were often carried on a ship, and were expected to work the vessel and to fight, when the occasion rose. Such men of letters helped fund the voyage with fat donations, and with any luck would survive to write a glorious history of the vessel.
    He gave a quiet chuckle. “The truth is, I wrote my heroic poem ‘The Liver in Her Glory’ when I was but twenty years of age, and I am much fallen from my former knowledge.”
    â€œI regret I did not attend a performance of your play,” I heard myself say smoothly, like any gentleman in a London wine-shop. I appreciated Sir Robert’s honesty, and relished a chance to talk with such a learned man. In my sadness, I remembered to converse as my master had taught me, trying to be both kind and truthful. “I’ve heard little but praise for it,” I said. It was nearly true.
    â€œOh, I can’t pen a good line of ten-syllable verse to save my life,” he said. “The play was all speeches and sallies. Sword fights, you know, actors running on and off stage in red stockings.”
    â€œI do wish I’d seen it,” I said, sincerely.
    â€œLook, Captain Foxcroft is watching us.”
    The ship’s master was indeed looking on, his arms folded as he stood in a corner of the quarterdeck. The strong wind stirred his mantle.
    â€œLet us pretend that I shall act as your advisor,” said Sir Robert in a gentle tone, “just to deceive our worthy captain.”
    Perhaps I hesitated, because Sir Robert added with a smile, “Good Thomas, I shall do nothing to offend you. I am dying from the elements I have brewed and bubbled in my study, as you see. I hope to be killed after I’ve sent a hundred enemy to the Devil.”

Chapter 24
    â€œDo not set a cup down, sir,” Hercules instructed me patiently, “unless you have finished drinking from it.”
    I would forget, and my cider would spill, knocked over by the plunging of the ship. In weather so heavy we ate in our own quarters, stock-fish—mummified cod—and ship’s bread of rye and wheat, along with apples and pears, and all the beer or cider we could pour into our bellies.
    Every knife seemed alive, and nothing remained where I had put it down. Jars lost their pewter lids, and flasks tossed on their shelf.
    â€œHave you been to sea before, Hercules?” I asked.
    â€œOh, yes, sir, on the Mountjoy , which sank.”
    â€œShe was shipwrecked?”
    â€œShe was a much used wine-ship and rotten, and off Ostend she went down.”
    This was a great tale to be offered in one breath, but it certainly increased my respect for Hercules.
    â€œYou will tell me next,” I said, “that you sank to the bottom and drowned, except some hero saved you.”
    â€œNo, sir,” he said in a matter-of-fact sing-song,