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  Copyright © 2021, Nicholas McAuliff

  Sea of Two Suns by Nicholas McAuliff

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  This novel is a work of fiction. References to historical events, real people or places are used in a fictitious manner. Other names, characters, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Books by Nicholas McAuliff:

  Heracles the Return (2016)

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  Chief Panuk said that the sea is the blood of the earth. Men once drank of her blood to live. Alas men drank too much so she poisoned her own blood, leaving us the streams and rivers and icy mountain springs. Yet we found other ways to violate her. Thus she responds yet again. Now the gulls sing a choir of terror. Now the sea, the destiny of my youth, has henceforth become my dungeon and my undoing. God save the Queen.

  Last log of Captain J. Hildale - The Queen’s Destiny - The year of our lord, eighteen and twenty-nine.

  Table of Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  I

  On the horizon glimmered a red spark, surrounded by a green oasis. Another spark rose, then another as the braziers were lit about the trade post. The fleeing sun fell like golden stars over the peak, then finally all was night.

  Fort Cognac rose like a monolith toward the heavens. All of timber save for three stone chimneys billowing smoke into the black. Horses neighed from their hitches while the ring of a blacksmith’s hammer was ceaseless. The evergreens brushed its roof as they swayed, and great moose antlers sat above solid oaken doors.

  Through those evergreens, icy gales sent drifts of powdered snow over the four hundred men’s furs and skins as they stood mustered in neat rows of formation. All was quiet, save for a cardinal’s call as it flew in front of the men. A red streak in the night.

  An ogre of a man reeled open the oaken doors and they groaned as he did so. A row of Frenchmen wielding long muskets stepped out from behind him. Behind them trailed a lone man who was slight in demeanor and appearance.

  The slight man wore stark white furs and high boots and a tawny Ushanka atop his head. “The snows shall be thick as bramble soon,” said he with a coarse French accent. He shed his hat and long grey curls spilled out over a lined face.

  “The Ordained shall show the way!” screamed the black bearded ogre.

  The mustered men below repeated the chant.

  “Fur and Pine will rise as Christ once did, in that infinite past on the Holy Hill,” said the Ordained. “Now suffering shall be our lot, indeed. As the chief trader of this great post, it is my duty to see that you attend to yours, and that you will, make no mistake gentlemen.”

  Weary men stood like statues of silence below the chief trader, he who called himself the Ordained. Bearded, skeletal faces waited in anticipation. They wore overcoats of wrinkled leather and tattered furs and beaten tarp hats and some bore tarnished insignias of the last war fought for the spoils of fur and timber in these dying northern woods. There were Huron and Inuit from the islands north of Hudson Bay. There were Cree and Hessians working lonesome and weary of those beside them. There were American stragglers who never found a footing in the populous worlds of more civilized trades bustling southward.

  Mostly there were the French.

  The cardinal swooped through the formation again, singing its song though the morning was far off. It landed atop the moose antlers jutting proudly from the architrave upon high. It stood red and regal glowing in the brazier’s fire.

  “Now,” said the Ordained as he looked at the bird, “some of you are tempted by the prospect of whaling. More disturbing is word of those who flee for this notion of a silver island resting north of this place. Men who chase treasure are destined to be consumed by it.”

  “Vive la France!” came a scream from behind the formation.

  Soldiers in mismatched furs and covers led a dozen men like a train of prisoners. They were bound by long rope about their waists and wrists.

  “Vive la France, my friend,” said the Ordained. “Dupan,” he said.

  The black bearded ogre unsheathed a long rapier from his girdle, pacing toward the bounded men. Clean and quick he speared them and as they dropped a scream loosed from the last who stood alive, until he too was hushed.

  The cardinal called from above.

  “Chase not this golden calf,” said the Ordained. “To work, all of you, for work conquers all. And God bless Fur and Pine.”

  II

  The New York Messenger was printed in bold freesia letters on a signpost above the door. Those letters came and went as the signpost swung in the gusts of the coming storm.

  The place was surrounded by green shrubbery and willows waving in the tempest. It was short and squat like a cabin. Colored in bright yellows and pinks and had all crimson doors. A courtyard led to it, in the center of which sat a towering alabaster fountain flanked by ivory white angels grasping golden horns. There was a manicured garden and honeysuckles visited by bees at regular intervals even as the winds shook both insect and plant.

  Outside the courtyard was the rising chaos of the day’s near end. Hooves atop cobblestone, the hoarse shout of a rider to make way. Newsmen rang their bells and doors opened and closed with haste. Men and women the same longed for their hearths and wines.

  Inside the place sat a man. He wore a fine tailcoat of black velvet and was bathed by a dim gold glow, like the last few minutes of dusk.

  That gold radiated more widely as a window lamp was filled with oil by a woman all in blue.

  The man’s mane was a tousled black and his eyes a deep brown. He set down his nib pen and pushed up his glasses, rubbing his eyes underneath. He was lean in demeanor and stature. In front of him was a heavy desk of mahogany. It was covered in manilla papers and a bottle of brandy sat unopened at the edge.

  From a drawer the man pulled a map: New France it said. He set it upon the lectern in front of him. And from that drawer he pulled a parchment, which when unrolled revealed a long letter written cross ways, at the end of which was signed: Francisco-write back, you bastard.

  The man grinned. Light radiated less widely from the lamp, carriages rolled by; the sound of laughter and horses was deafening. He felt a hand light on his shoulder and the smell of lavender sudden.

  “Shall I add more oil?” came the voice near his ear.

  “No, no Julia,” said the man. “Thank you,” he said, looking at her apologetically as if he forgot his manner. “I’ll lock and shutter. Have a good evening.”

  “As you, Isaac,” said Julia. Over her gown of blue she t
hrew a black and brown peppered fur as she slipped out the door.

  “That’s Caribou,” said a fat man from an adjacent desk. “Ain’t cheap,” he said.

  Isaac peered up over his glasses. “Caribou?” he said. “Thought Julia would always be more a beaver type of woman.”

  The fat man laughed. “Well you would know better than I Isaac. In any case beaver may be hard to come by soon.”

  “That is already the present situation,” said Isaac. He rose his pen and started a letter. “South, West and East of Quebec is a mess,” he said. “Even for the French. Coat and parchment beaver the same, now.”

  “The French will make do I think,” said the fat man. “I cannot say the same for all who nip at their heels. Had Napoleon lived to see this day.”

  “Timber will be the new fur in less than a decade,” replied Isaac. “Even Fur and Pine cannot best nature. And yesterday’s trappers become tomorrow’s whalers bound for San Francisco or New Bedford or Nantucket.”

  “Not this drivel again. We are newsmen Isaac. Not exploratory reporters.”

  Isaac ignored him and continued scribbling. A music box started to play a slow, rising tune.

  The writer’s eyes shot up again. “You and that damned box,” he said.

  The fat man laughed as he admired the golden and bronze box. “From Switzerland. I never tire of this. Me and my wife. A fine brandy to start, a fine roast of some sort, a few reds, and there be music for the night. Astonishing Isaac.”

  “Aye,” said Isaac, admiring the box from afar. It glowed a fierce metallic shine, its tiny parts ebbing and flowing with purpose as a ship’s parts do on agreeable waters. “The Swiss did well in closing their shores,” he said. “No trade, save for gold and furs and those contraptions.”

  The fat man laughed again and rose. His footsteps seemed to sink into the floor as he took a heavy fur from the coatrack. He leered down at the writer.

  “What?” snapped Isaac.

  “The goings-on of fur trappers. Politics of the French and the Brits. We do not delve into these things. People want American news. Real news, not cartoons and theatrics.”

  “More and more agencies every year,” replied Isaac. “All of whom provide identical news to every borough in the city. We must be set apart. Lest you and I will be working in a mill come summer.”

  “The New York Messenger shall not chase tall tales!” yelled the fat man.

  “Fur and Pine is fast losing revenue and their grip on New France,” Isaac replied calmly as he sealed and stamped the letter with a heavy thud.

  “That is known!” said the fat man as he opened the door, betraying the sound of rain and wind.

  “Trade routes are dry,” said Isaac over the rain. “The Cree did not show at the annual rendezvous in Montreal last year. Men are desperate. Whalers from both coasts now speak of the silver gleam shining from the frozen sea. Just south of where those poor souls fell looking for the great passage to the Orient.”

  “Ah yes. The Barbary Pirates left their loot on the frozen seas. Add me in that case to the manifest come sail. And your southern friend, the Mexican.”

  “Francisco is his name. I can trust him. This will lead to a story.”

  “Very well Isaac,” said the fat man. “Very well. I’ll not utter another word against your wishes then, just see that your work is not pushed unto me or Julia.”

  “I shall not.”

  “I bid you a good evening, then. May you dream of the frozen forests and the rolling sea or whatever else it is that you dream of. I would rather not know, if I may speak plainly.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Isaac. I shall see you on the morrow.”

  “Aye, on the morrow. Now go get drunk. I’ll shutter.”

  And as the door closed, Isaac heard the fat man greet someone on the street with a rising laugh.

  Rain fell now in torrents and assaulted the shaking Messenger from above. The lamp finally ceased its glow, and the writer peered out the window, where now all was black as the dark office in which he sat.

  A passerby with a lantern sheltered under the overhang and gazed into the window. He would have seen a man’s silhouette sitting in darkness, where only the nameplate of Isaac Isaacson- Editor seemed to glow in any sparse light that remained.

  III

  Two figures trotted lonely through the darkness, their heads down. It was as if they were asleep atop their horses, who too looked like they walked in a trance through the wet nightly firs. When light came, the pitter-patter of rain atop heavy leaves and needles finally ceased. And hoods came off, exposing faces. Horses perked up with the coming sun, and the men’s breaths shot out in funnels toward the tree line.

  The leader donned all rusty red. Furs, hair and beard the same. He was bigger than the other and even his horse, it would seem. He motioned to halt his companion.

  The leader and other man dismounted, tethering their horses to steady timbers. Red beams shot eastward through the slender trees as they rocked. They darted from the horses, to the men’s faces, to the pine-needle bedded earth.

  Three other horses were tethered near a water trough just yonder. One neighed and reared up as if disturbed, water dripping from its bared teeth.

  The men crossed into a patchy field, more like a garden run amuck. A farmhouse was there, bright red in the form of cracked, clay-brick walls. A chimney billowing a black smoke that hinted life within.

  And life there was. The two riders looked at three ragged men, these ones red-eyed from exhaustion. They sat around a tiny table with cups of whiskey in hand. Nothing else occupied the room, save a pail in the corner and a salted ham hanging from the ceiling by a wire. Only that made a sound as it creaked and spun as if it were half suspended in time.

  “I don’t know your damned name so I’ll just call you the ruffian,” said one of the men. He was old and frail, bald and grey eyed. “You look like a ruffian,” he said. He was flanked by two young men who looked like they could be twins.

  The red-haired leader stood at the door while his Inuk companion helped himself to whiskey and relieved his load unto the nearby countertop: cracked and rotted oak devoid of any ornamentation or accoutrements.

  “Easy riders,” said the bald old man. “You’ve had a long journey, have you not? Too much of the drink will put you to sleep before dusk. Then you shall wake far before dawn. Stay awake for some time. Your damned mares riled up the stallion. Look at him,” he said, eyes narrowed as he craned his neck toward the far kitchen window.

  The disturbed horse danced in circles, kicking its legs high, while the strangers’ horses stood steady and tethered near an adjacent tree.

  “When our horse settles,” said the old man, “so shall you.”

  “I sleep when I please,” spoke the red-haired ruffian. His voice was high-pitched and light and was unbecoming for his frame.

  The Inuk took shot after shot while the eyes of all at the table watched the bottle shrink before their eyes. His face was still and young and his brown eyes burned through the two brutes.

  “Hoy!” yelped one of the men from the table. “Drink ain’t easy to come by in these woods, that’s enough!”

  “Let him drink,” said the old man. He downed a single sip. “You are not the first to inquire about the silver island. But Boston is a long ride south.”

  “These lands offer no bounty,” muttered the Inuk. “Not anymore, you have pillaged it. You and your white brothers.” He took another shot.

  “And this is your ally!” said the old man to the ruffian, ignoring the Inuk.

  “Fur has been had, has it not?” asked the ruffian. “How many other trappers came through here before us?” he asked. “Whalers?”

  His Irish voice narrowed the eyes of the two brutes surrounding the old man.

  “Irish,” said the old man, as if just noticing the accent. “The lowest of the white man. Alas, we must work together, else we all die as paupers. What is your name Irish?”

  “How m
any other trappers have passed through here?” the ruffian asked again.

  “Don’t worry about others,” replied the old man. “I’ve been down this road.”

  “You’ve been down many roads, aye old man?”

  “Aye. Roads that promised golden rivers in the far west where savages still ride. In the frozen north past Quebec, where fur used to carry its weight in silver. In the great American Desert, where those western mountains were said to hold rocks that luster like the sun and sky, the same.”

  “How many of those roads led to riches?” asked the ruffian.

  “None. But what else is a man to do? And our new bounty shall be the sea.”

  “Man has gorged itself on the bounty of the sea,” snapped the Inuk.

  “Aye, albeit not as much,” said the old man. “And not this bounty. Following a map from Crimea. A bit like treasure hunting, is it not? Treasure hunting is precarious, but I will take it. I will take that before I ever step foot in a mill again. And to hell with the Fur and Pine Company,” he said, swallowing down another shot.

  “Does the Limey drunk have the map?” the ruffian asked. “The one they call Jerimiah?”

  “When last I sailed with him, he said so,” said the old man. “What is your name?”

  “Good,” replied the ruffian.

  “We met here to join forces. We’ve waited days for your coming, and more are coming too. Over the Great Lake Ontario and then unto Boston. The damned newspapers out of New York City have made that the focal point of this journey. These forest force kinship where none exists. So let us be kin, if for a while.”

  “No kin of mine,” said the Inuk.

  “Fine by me Eskimo,” muttered the old man. “An Eskimo and an Irish beggar, quite the site I say!” he shouted.

  The Irishman and Inuk were all silence while the two brutes let out a chuckle. One poured a whiskey and started to fill the cup of his ally beside him.

  Without warning the Irishman drew a broad Bowie knife and drove it two-handed into the old man’s chest, down to the brass hilt, while the two seated brutes rose with fury and reached for their pistols.

  But that commotion and a brief, shrill scream was silenced as two shots rang out. The Inuk looked down the barrel of his pepperbox pistol, still smoking, and three dead men pooled in darkening blood atop a cracked wooden floor.