Sea of Two Suns

By Nicholas McAuliff

Isaac Isaacson desperately searches for a story to keep his newspaper in print. The reporter sees a glimmer of hope in the wild rumor of a treasure island - a rumor that has erupted a treasure-hunting frenzy among pirates and other misfits.

Isaac still reels from the sudden loss of his wife and unborn child, and buries himself in his work at the New York Messenger. A surprise letter from a long-lost friend strikes a spark in that darkness - and a chance for a story to revitalize Isaac's failing newspaper.

In the frozen north, the Fur and Pine Company is ruled by the iron fist of the crazed Ordained - he who has crowned himself king of the fur trade empire through fear and blood. The king of the dwindling fur trade sends Irish mercenaries after the droves of men who abandon their posts in search of the fabled treasure island - one that is said to appear only once per century.

The Inuit people of the frozen north warn that no such treasure exists without extracting a heavy toll. They warn that something besides shining silver beckons from those frozen northern seas. But as Isaac feels the stinging ocean salts in the wind, the writer turned sailor knows that this may be his last hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicholas McAuliff
• Release date: Jun 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227291196

Nicholas McAuliff

Nicholas McAuliff is the author of the Heracles series. The author lives in the heart of the rockies and he enjoys prospecting and fishing and gardening whenever there is a lull in his work. 

Book preview

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 threw 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 many 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.

Check their persons, growled the Irishman. Check everything, and kill their horses.

IV

The tavern stank of sweat and urine and the air was thick as a summer day, though the late October winds outside hinted at the coming freeze.

Isaac Isaacson shuffled through East River dock workers, their hands and faces browned with soot. He shuffled past a laughing woman. He shuffled past men on their way up the business world but not yet high enough to mingle with those whom they aspired to be.

A man in a white silken shirt nodded to him and Isaac asked for a whiskey and finished it in three sips. He looked around the place and a few pairs of eyes looked back unblinking.

At last he met a pair of emerald-green eyes set on a face that was weathered but not worn. The face smiled and the man raised a glass.

Isaac raised his empty glass and walked toward the man.

The man sat with arms crossed, his feet up on the table before him. He pushed at the table with his long boots, balancing precariously on two back legs of his stool. He had locks of black that hinted brown and lines around dark eyes. He was broad-shouldered but lean and wore a heavy fur despite the heat of the place.

Look at you! said the man, standing and pushing and pulling Isaac like a toy and towering over him. The two embraced and then sat facing one another.

Francisco my friend, said Isaac. How is Maria?

Francisco’s smile faded. She is well for now, Isaac. Thank you for asking.

Well for now? replied Isaac.

Sí! That is what I said, said Francisco. The man downed a dark liquor and beckoned Isaac to do the same as he refilled his own cup.

Forgive me, said Isaac. He took his shot and pursed his lips. That’s not whiskey, he whispered.

Grog, muttered Francisco. Rum and lemon juice, not your fine whiskey from Tribeca, I imagine.

Tribeca is not so great, Isaac said. Some have tastes even too fine for me.

Thought I’d give you a taste of what whalers drink at sea. Since you will soon be upon the waters, aye?

May soon be upon the waters, Francisco, Isaac replied. "My partners at the Messenger think me a fool. I think me a fool."

Francisco shook his head and took a drink. Journey is there if you want it Isaac.

Where have you been staying?

Here and there.

Don’t take kindly to Mexicans here, came a booming voice. The chatter of the crowd quieted.

Francisco laughed softly without looking up.

The writer turned and behind them sat three men. All sturdy as lions, their hair and beards yellow like lions’ manes too, and their eyes sparkled with the killer instinct of lions.

Instantly Isaac put up his hands.

I says, don’t take kindly to Mexicans here! the blond man shouted again.

This time a few scurried out the door, even silhouette figures passing outside leered in under the flaming streetlights.

Don’t want none of that, ya hear? screamed the barkeep.

Francisco threw out his hands. I’m not here for bravado, he said.

Ain’t no bravado involved, growled the blond man. He took a drink.

Francisco scanned the room. Come, he said, putting a hand on Isaac’s shoulder. This is not a place for men of the sea.

As they stood so too did the other men. Francisco and Isaac walked toward the door and they followed.

You a whaler? barked the leader. Mexican whalers ain’t welcome here. Try your luck in the California lands!

You are right my friend, said Francisco. For now me and my friend desire sleep and no hot blood fills our veins.

The man’s blue eyes burned through Isaac. I’ll smash your friend’s skull first, he said. So that you watch him die.

But the Mexican in one motion spun and had a stout derringer pressed to the blond man’s forehead. The man’s mouth fell open but he kept his gaze on the Mexican. Go on, he whispered.

Francisco! Isaac tugged at the Mexican’s arm. Let us go, come!

Francisco stood motionless as the blond man leaned his head into the barrel. Francisco grinned and cocked the weapon, pushing it harder into the man’s head.

The man turned and walked toward the bar, slamming bottles and glasses and smashing stools to the ground.

Isaac pulled Francisco by the arm and they left the place under the heavy eyes of all inside.

The streets outside were barren though a few window lamps glowed tenderly, sheltered from the cold night. A dog barked, a couple ran by laughing and holding hands, a bottle shattered somewhere distant.

Put the damned pistol away, Isaac said.

Francisco tucked the weapon into his lapel.

Let us go back to my loft, said Isaac. Warm by the fire. We can eat something and talk.

Very good, said Francisco.

Isaac looked down the street nervously. If we can procure a damned coach at this hour, he said. He eyed