Wake of the Perdido Star (38 page)

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Authors: Gene Hackman

BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star
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“He was a hated man,” Paul stated emphatically, gazing out at the calm lagoon. “A man whom the British defeated and—”
“How do you know all this about the captain?” Jack interrupted.
“Not the captain, idiot. I mean Peter Stuyvesant, the man who founded New Amsterdam.”
Jack looked at him, puzzled.
“New York to you, O unlearned one,” Paul replied. “A controversial leader—but then maybe all leaders, by definition, are controversial.”
Jack continued to gaze at the ship, only half listening to Paul's words. He suddenly stood. “Let's find Quince and the others. I've got an idea that may solve our problems—or add to them.”
They walked briskly down the beach and found the rest of the
Star'
s crew gathered around a small wood fire.
“I have a proposal I think will work,” Jack announced, “but we need to act fast.”
“It be late for fireworks, laddie. We've done that once today,” said Hansumbob from the edge of the campfire. The tired sailors laughed halfheartedly.
“I propose we douse the fire on the Dutchman and save her.”
“Aye, so we can do it all over again tomorrow, Jack?” Red Dog answered back.
Jack continued, ignoring the remark. “We could salvage what's remaining of her and mate it with the
Star
. It seems as if what's missing from the Dutch ship is what's left of ours. We can replace the Dutchman's mizzen with the
Star'
s remaining mast, then foreand-aft rig all but the foremast. That'd leave us with a barkentine, and rigged that way we have enough men to crew her.”
The men were quiet, taking in the words of this young man who had once again acquitted himself well in the recent battle.
“She's startin' to list to starboard even as we speak, lad,” Quince stated.
Jack turned to the lagoon, where indeed he could already perceive a tilt.
Quince rose from the beach: “All hands hear this: whether we save the
Stuyvesant
for future use or not, it will certainly be too late if we wait and talk about it tomorrow. So here's what we'll do: we'll board her and attempt to douse the fire. If it seems too risky, we'll abandon ship and let her sink—but we've got to get crackin' if we intend to save her.”
The group acted instantly. A small boat was pushed back into the sea by Coop and Mentor. Several other men boarded canoes and began paddling toward the half-sunken vessel.
The Dutch ship was blown apart from the fantail forward to the mainmast. The mizzen had splintered and fallen back across the gaping hole in its deck; the deck beams were destroyed all the way aft, from the entrance to the officer's quarters past the helm. Bits and pieces of the frame ribs pointed grotesquely into the night sky. The fire seemed to be centered in the lower part of the hold, but so far had left the structural floor timbers unharmed.
Quince started the men on a bucket brigade, half of them trying to douse the fire, the other half bailing madly and manning the bilge pumps, trying to keep the ship afloat. Though exhausted from the day's events, the men pitched in mightily and worked through the night.
By dawn the fire was extinguished and the ship seemed to be out of danger. The sailors all lay about in various stages of repose, blackened by the smoke. It had been dangerous work, and Quince stood wearily, his face a scorched mass of dried sweat. “If this idea of yours doesn't work, Sir Jack, it will be your royal arse. Mind what I say.” The first mate lowered himself to the sooted deck and fell asleep.
Elated, Jack gazed at the blackened prize. His idea had worked—at least the first stage, and with any luck the rest remained just a matter of hard work. God knows he wasn't afraid of that.
During the next few days the men tried to clean up the ship to see just how much damage had been done. The aft deck was a jungle of splintered masts, line, sail, and charred timbers. Quince started several working parties to salvage as much of the hardware, line, and blocks as possible, as they would be needed later. Jack and Paul had been given the task of assembling the pinnace that lay atop the forward deckhouse. They were pleased to find a gig and jolly boat in good repair.
The Belaurans were diving in the bilge near the main mast step, trying to retrieve the ballast rocks to keep the ship afloat. Mentor was in charge of the working party who painstakingly hauled rocks up from the hold and heaved them over the side. The strong backs of the men and women of the village were of great help, but it was still difficult work. Quince yelled to a couple of hands to start emptying the remaining gunpowder into a sail remnant and then to seal the empty barrels so that they would be buoyant. There were over fifty barrels of the precious powder, and though some of it was wet, it could be dried later. Although the ship would not be in any immediate danger if the weather changed, any sort of heavy sea would pummel her against the beach in quick order.
Several weeks went by before Quince deemed the
Stuyvesant
safe to move. The natives pitched in heartily to help salvage the ship. In the evenings with the work complete, many of the young people, in high good humor, dove from the rail, carving the crystalline water with their bodies. Some climbed into the rigging, their screams of delight filling the night air.
Quince decided to call a meeting to explain how they would proceed.
“It's to be a difficult task for all hands if we're to get this barge down to the islet hard by the
Star
,” he said.
“What's the point?” Smithers piped up from the back. “All I see is hard work and nothin' to be gained. It'll take the better part of six months to get this wreck down to the
Star
, swap poles and gear, and get her right to sail. What's in it for me, I say? What say the rest of ya?”
They said nothing. Whether out of fatigue or disagreement, Jack couldn't be sure. Smithers and Cheatum were sprawled in the sand next to Quince, both looking straight up into the night sky.
“Stuff your grub locker, Smithers,” Quince said, “or I'll jam a cro'jack 'tween your pins.”
Nervous laughter came from the group.
“Aye, Skipper, don' ya do that—he'll have a grin on his face for days.” An anonymous voice had come from the center of the group.
“Who said that?” Smithers jumped to his feet with a shout. “I'll have his tongue on a plate. Who said that?” His voice was a shriek. A blade had suddenly appeared in his hand.
Quince waited a moment to let him cool.
“Smithers, rest your haunches. It won't be six months. It'll be closer on a year and no one meant you any harm. We're all tired—put your blade away and sit.”
Quince's delivery came in an even voice. Jack held his breath until Smithers in fact sat, mumbling and unrepentant.
“As I was saying,” Quince went on, “we're but a few, and if this work is to proceed and be shipshape, it will take every man to make it so. We'll do the following: in ten days, on the twentieth of the month as best as I can figure, we'll be at high tide about four bells to morning. We'll let the
Stuyvesant
drift out and with luck, the morning winds, which of late have been from the south, will
push us out of the lagoon. We daren't put up sails as we're without rudder and mizzenmast, and most of the starboard bumpkin's been burnt away . . . and the backstay, with so little purchase, would surely give way and bring the mainmast down soundly'round our shoulders. So we'll go out bare poles.”
“What's to keep us off those rocks, Captain?” Cheatum asked.
“As you well know, Mr. Cheatum, I'm not the captain—nor even your duly elected standard-bearer—but until someone comes up with a better idea, this is what we'll do: we'll have the pinnace secured hard to the aft starboard rail or what's left of the rail. She'll be strapped with barrels Coop has made buoyant. On the morning we leave, we'll have every available hand and all the Belaurans on the port rail hiked out. As the ship tilts to port with the movement of the sea, we'll continue to cinch up the pinnace to try and make the starboard side come up above a safe waterline. This being successful, I'll be on the bowsprit to help guide the boat and gig to lead us out of the lagoon. Once at sea, we'll continue rounding the eastern edge of the island. With God's wisdom, we'll drift south down to our isle of broken dreams . . . any questions?”
Silence was the only answer as the men contemplated this next adventure. Slowly, they wandered up the beach to their various shelters.
Then Hansumbob began to sing;
Bare poles he said, and said it strong
T'was stated loud and true.
Pete lives she does; she sails once more
With a fine but unruly crew.
Legend has it that they sailed this way
For forty years and more.
Chins held high, they roamed the seas
Till their bones did drift to shore.
Hansumbob hummed a few more notes, pulled his blanket around his head, and fell asleep.
On the morning of the twentieth, after being up all night, the crew reached the tattered ship. The Belaurans had arrived with baskets of fruit and baked fish, and at midnight a party had broken out. Quince allowed the sailors some leeway these last days, for though most of the crew had great confidence in the first mate, they seemed on edge with the prospect of taking the disabled
Peter Stuyvesant
into the open seas without rudder or sails.
“Mr. Cheatum, I would like you to be in the jolly boat on the port side,” Quince ordered. “Take up a station about thirty or forty yards forward of the bow and ten yards further abeam to form the port side of a Y shape. Take five men with you. Mr. Dawkins, you'll be in the gig opposite Cheatum. Form your Y and keep your line taut. On my command, you must pull hard to starboard or port, as this ship will be an ungodly handful. Good luck.”
The sailors manned the small boats and lashed lines twenty feet aft of the bow on either side. Then, as close to four bells as they could estimate, they cast off their long shore lines and the huge ship started drifting slowly out of the tiny lagoon. The Belaurans had finished their job earlier, cinching up the pinnace to the aft starboard rail; now they shouted encouragement from shore, mixed with raucous laughter. The sailors, though, kept to the task at hand.
“Cheatum, pull a little stronger to port.” Quince spoke with confidence. “We're drifting too far to starboard.”
Cheatum's crew turned their boat to the west, the starboard boat allowing their line to drift slack. With just a few course changes, the
Peter Stuyvesant
seemed to be drifting through the inlet in good shape. The coral heads on the port side were just about abeam of the ship, the two small boats astern evenly spaced
and pulling hard toward open seas. Cheatum was deep in animated conversation with Smithers, whom he had chosen to be on his crew. The two were engaged in their own private joke when their boat hit a submerged coral head. Cheatum, who should have been standing in the bow watching for just such an occurrence, cursed loudly and grabbed an oar, attempting to extricate his jolly boat from the shape just a foot below the waterline. The
Stuyvesant
and its great mass continued out the inlet; the gig on the starboard side continued to pull hard, bringing the large ship further to the right.

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