HE COULD SMELL THE ISLANDS BEFORE HE SAW THEM. The stench of excrement, rank and acrid, caught in the back of his throat. Dry-dust bird shit blowing in the wind, slushed and processed bird shit mixed with water and sieved, it blew on the breeze and Edward heaved over the side of the ship, feeling sorry for himself, and wishing he had never come. Then the islands came into view, one after the other: three lone, miserable-looking heaps of volcanic rock thrusting out of the ocean like obscene gestures, a dark cloud of birds weaving above them like a storm: gannets and petrels, pelicans and Inca terns.
And all around the islands were the ships.
He had not appreciated the scale of it until then: barks and packets, clippers and frigates, and one small kettle-bottomed boat that, Guido told him, dated back to Wolfe’s expedition to Quebec in 1759. She now served as transport for the fleet. Nearly a hundred ships floated there on the sea.
He saw the Calhoun and the Intrepid, the Webster and the Nyack. Some of those ships had been in those waters for months, Guido told him. Waiting their turn at the loading docks, their sailors growing restless and idle in turns. Which is where their own vessel, the Liberty, came in. This barge was laden with supplies, from fishing line and tackle to cards, board games, bottles of pisco, books and other reading materials, needle and thread, razors and mirrors, fresh meat and produce, and everything else the stranded ships might need. The owner of this vessel, a wiry young Irishman, was named William Grace, of Cork; as he explained it, he had come to Peru to work in agriculture, but soon discovered a more lucrative form of employment.
‘There she is,’ he said now, pointing to a curious-looking wreck that lay between the North and Central Islands. ‘Home.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Edward said.
‘The shop!’ Grace said. ‘We’re set up there with supplies, me and the missus. It’s a captive market, what with all the ships. And the margins are huge. In a few years I hope to make enough to go to New York.’
‘Why New York?’ Edward said, bemused.
‘It’s Ireland,’ Grace said simply. ‘Just without the bullshit.’
It wasn’t anything Edward could argue with, so he didn’t. He threw up his lunch overboard, and watched enormous shoals of sardines dart below the surface of the water. They fought over his lunch and it made him retch again but there was nothing left. He breathed more laudanum and saw a pod of whales in the distance, rising enormous out of the calm sea of the Bay of Pisco, then descend back to the depths. The Liberty sailed on, serenely, and the islands grew close, and the sailors from the nearby ships shouted greetings at Grace, who waved back cheerfully.
As they came closer, Edward began to discern features on the barren islands. Houses, bamboo shacks and tents were dotted around, and the tiny figures of men who toiled in the intolerable heat on heaps of dung. Their destination was North Island, and the little barge cut slowly through the water towards that inhospitable grey rock from which the unlikely fortunes of the House of Feebes were made.
They made a landing on a small pebbly beach, the Liberty discharging Edward, Guido and supplies. Grace waved them off and sailed towards his wreck; Edward watched as the Liberty moored there and began to offload supplies.
He turned with a sigh and regarded his present home. The cliffs towered above him, and the air was choked with dust. Huge canvas pipes ran down from the top of the cliffs and onto the docks, where a ship called the Wasp was currently stationed. Chinese workers overhead sent down bags of guano. They slid from on high and down the chutes, making an almighty racket, and piped on to the top of the deck of the Wasp, where the sailors cursed and carried them into the hold. The ship sank slowly, slowly, down, bowed by the weight of the tonnes of guano, the waterline rising until the ship could hold no more. Edward watched the sacks slide down; he watched them piled high; he watched them carted. Each sack with a value attached, each ship a floating treasure chest of birdshit gold. And like the Spanish treasure fleet of old, these ships, too, bound for Europe, were beset by dangers on all sides. There were pirates out there, Edward knew, who would rob guano ships as happily as anything to command the waves. Then there were storms; reefs; negligence and acts of God. In all of this, the ledgers dictated that some ships and some cargo were destined to be lost, and that loss had to be calculated and accounted for on the balance sheets. This Edward understood, but it was good to have it confirmed, and the fleet that awaited the loading and departure reassured him. Say twenty-five ships drowned, then still seventy-five made it through. And even on the ones that were to be inevitably written off, the House of Feebes was insured, so it was no real loss bar the lives of the sailors.
Lives, after all, were the cheapest commodity: and he saw evidence of that in the coolies that slaved on top of the dung heaps, encouraged by the overseers with their whips if they stepped out of line. These men were promised pay to come here. Their transportation and housing and feeding all cost. If they died before fulfilling their contract, then that was regrettable. But there was no shortage of coolies. And more would be brought.
As he thought this, he saw a commotion above. One man, starvation thin, had roused himself in a desperate bid for freedom. He yelled as he ran, clutching a shovel. He saw Edward on the beach below. Something maddened came into his eyes then. He threw the shovel. It arced in the air, tracing a short parabola before beginning its descent. Edward watched in horrified numbness as the shovel shot through the air towards him. He took a hurried step back and the shovel stung the sand harmlessly a mere foot away from him and stood there, vertical. The man high above screamed in despair and ran to the edge of the cliff just as two gunshots rang out. The man’s scream cut short and his body fell like a sack of guano and hit the ocean with a splash.
‘Ah, Mr Feebes,’ a man said. He came down to the shore. A dapper little man, in a good suit, and a sportsman’s tan, and a rifle slung casually over his shoulder. ‘Apologies for that, sir. I hope you are not greatly inconvenienced.’
Edward, still shaken, gestured helplessly. He held on to the shovel for support.
‘No,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Not at all.’ He attempted a smile. ‘Makes a handy walking aid, what?’ he said, lifting and planting the shovel in demonstration.
‘Quite, sir,’ the other man said, smiling. He extended his hand for a shake. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance. It has been a long time since a Feebes honoured us with his presence.’
Edward shook the proffered hand warmly.
‘Major Boyd, I presume?’ he said.
‘Indeed, sir. Was your journey pleasant?’
‘It was – is – enlightening,’ Edward said, and Major Boyd laughed.
‘I am sure,’ he said. ‘Come. Let me settle you, then I’ll show you around. I hope this unfortunate incident won’t deter your otherwise good opinion of us. We run a tight operation, but these suicides are a constant problem. Do keep this shovel as a memento if you wish. We are all eager for a good report back to Mr Henry. ’
‘You know my uncle?’ Edward said.
‘He hired me, sir,’ Major Boyd said. ‘A fine man, and a fair one.’ He whistled. Two emaciated men appeared. They looked beaten by life and overseers. Major Boyd barked orders. The men, uncomplaining, went to pick up Edward’s bags, as more men appeared to carry the supplies. Major Boyd lit a pipe and escorted Edward up the slope. Edward moved slowly, leaning on the shovel like a walking stick. He had taken quite a liking to it.
‘How do you control them?’ Edward said.
‘The carrot and the stick, sir,’ Major Boyd said. ‘Opium if they behave themselves, and the whip if they don’t.’
This made sense to Edward; and his heart began to beat faster when he heard opium mentioned. It was what the old shopkeeper back in Lima had told him, too: that the drug was brought in to control the coolies.
He saw them everywhere now. Small, bent men, mostly young, insect-thin and coughing. Many wore dirty scarves over their faces to protect themselves from the ever-present guano dust. There were angry red welts on their naked backs, and they moved lethargically, helplessly, with a sense, Edward felt, of the absurd. These men had come here in search of a life that they were destined not to get. The very act of coming here had robbed them of a future. They would die here, and they knew it, but there was no escape, the sea around their prison holding them in, and their masters working for higher powers: the Peruvian government and the House of Feebes. They were the true source of Edward’s would-be fortune. The workers Sofia Salazar was so fond of referencing. They were the means to an end: to dig guano out of the mountainous layers where it lay, to dig through the centuries of that dark gold, to process it and to ship it elsewhere.
He followed Major Boyd to the small settlement on the peak, the hotel and staff quarters, and watched the workers below and their bamboo tenements, and the ships all around the island awaiting their turn at the dock.
The hotel was small and basic, but adequate. Major Boyd poured them both a drink.
‘It is a beautiful view,’ he said.
It really was. Edward could see for miles, to the mainland and the strange Inca inscription on the hill, which did indeed look a little like a candelabra. He saw Central and South Islands and the mining operations there, and the coolies crawling like ants. He sipped his drink. He mopped his brow. He said, ‘I need to see your account books, Major Boyd.’
‘Of course,’ Major Boyd said. He studied Edward. ‘This is why you came?’ he said.
‘Partly.’
‘We send copies on the regular to the office in Lima,’ Major Boyd said.
‘I saw.’
‘You suspect a discrepancy, Mr Feebes?’
Edward examined his glass. It was empty. He poured himself another.
‘Should I be suspicious, Major Boyd?’ he said.
The major examined his hands. He had very clean nails, Edward saw.
‘Well,’ Major Boyd said slowly. ‘It depends, I suppose.’
‘Depends on what?’
‘On what numbers you have.’
Edward smiled. ‘You record the number of sacks, tonnage and so on, I assume,’ he said.
‘Of course.’
‘Mr Boyd,’ Edward said. ‘May I be frank?’
‘I would like that,’ the major said.
‘You can’t steal anything here but shit,’ Edward said. ‘No money changes hands. You could, however, under-report a certain percentage of production to be sold locally, on the side. To someone with a boat?’
‘I suppose.’
‘And you could make money selling the coolies their medicine or luxuries, on which you could levy a tax, on top of a healthy margin—’
‘I suppose.’
‘Even run whores, on occasion, for the sailors, or what workers aren’t already too ill or dying.’
‘All of these things are possible,’ Major Boyd said.
Edward shrugged. ‘You’d need a partner, though,’ he said. ‘Moens? No, don’t answer. All this is a fraction of a percentage at best. Part of the—’
‘The profits and the loss,’ Major Boyd said. ‘Yes. Your Uncle Henry was clear on this from the beginning.’
Edward nodded.
‘Is production down?’ he said.
‘No, sir. Not for now.’
‘Show me the operation.’
They rose. It was hot and dusty outside. Birds circled overhead. Major Boyd handed him an umbrella.
‘For the shitting birds, sir,’ he said.
Edward watched this mountain of guano, and the men digging it, and he thought it could go on forever. He said, ‘How long?’
‘Sir?’
‘How long?’
The major hesitated. ‘Maybe five years at full capacity,’ he said. ‘Ten good years overall. Maybe ten more bad years after that.’
‘How many men?’
‘We have around three thousand at a time,’ the major said. ‘But there’s a lot of… turnover, as you saw. We spend ten thousand men a year, perhaps?’
Edward considered. Ten good years. A hundred thousand workers had to die before the profits slackened. He wondered what Sofia Salazar would say. His head spun, from the heat and the drink. He needed air. He took a step and then another, to the edge of the cliff. Something churned in the sea below. His vision swam, then focused, and he saw the corpse of the man who had earlier jumped, bobbing in a water dark with his blood. Creatures were feeding on him, ripping the body apart, maddened by the blood.
Edward turned away from the sight.
He said, ‘Show me where you give them the opium.’
*
He lay on the cot in the shade of the bamboo roof, his muscles relaxed and heavy and his mouth slack, the shit shovel leaning against the wall.
The pipe sat beside him. A doctor had gently administered the medicine, the flame heating up the precious resin so that Edward could inhale its bitter fumes. His mind felt sharp. His body felt like it was floating.
He could see it all then. The numbers made sense at last. Moens’ greedy little scheme, no doubt with the help of the Salazars. Skimming money off the top and making extra on the workers – no doubt he had a hand, too, in procuring the coolies in the first place, and collecting a fee on that. It hardly mattered. Edward would submit his report and Moens would be replaced, perhaps with someone more trustworthy, perhaps not. A margin of loss for corruption was always factored in.
More important was the question of the future. He had learned something on this journey. The guano wouldn’t last. The House of Feebes must make arrangements, divest some of its assets – into banking or insurance, perhaps, or extend its stake in the munitions business, which was already flourishing.
The question he faced, Edward supposed, was a moral one. To terminate the arrangements now would leave the House of Feebes exposed. Moreover, the Peruvians would merely hand over the brokerage to another firm. So nothing he could do would stop the mining operations on the island, or the usage of the indentured workers who were little more than slaves. And what would Sofia Salazar say of that? Would she harangue him, and speak of the rights of those who do the labour? He suspected that, deep down, she was more clear-headed than that. She must know her own fortunes rose and fell with the price of guano. What would she do, when the mines ran out of shit? What would they all do, Castillos and Salazars, when the well of their wealth ran dry?
It was not on his conscience. He lay back. The doctor applied the pipe to his lips again and Edward inhaled. He thought of his future, and was carried aloft into a wonderful and well-deserved dream.