Wake of the Perdido Star (41 page)

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Authors: Gene Hackman

BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star
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No one spoke after that. There were many skilled fellows on
board but no one seemed to want to be in charge. Reluctantly Jack said, “I have a considerable knowledge of metalwork. Especially with the forge.” Still, no one spoke. Jack continued. “Coop, where will you be working—on the
Star
or the
Pete
?”
“I'll begin on the
Star
. I'll need two helpers.” Again silence.
Jack looked around. “Quince will be down for a few days, so unless there's an objection, I'll make up a duty roster. Will that be satisfactory with all?”
The crew seemed to perk up. They rose as one and looked to Jack expectantly.
“When Quince returns, I'm sure he'll have a grand plan for all of this, but until then, let's do what we can to get started.”
The men set to, seeming pleased at the prospect of having a goal.
Jack went below to see Quince. “How are you feeling, Skipper?”
“Better. Much better.” Still pale, but cool to the touch, he had just awakened. “I have what seems to be a giant drinking headache, which I suspect comes from too much rum.” He struggled for a weak grin. “What's the news on deck?”
“Well, the men were reluctant to get started. Not unwilling—just without direction. I told them I'd make up a work detail and they seemed pleased at that.”
“Yes, they would be. They need leadership. I'm surprised that Cheatum stood for any meddling on your part.”
“He's gone.”
“Gone? Wha'd ya mean?”
“Him and Smithers took the pinnace and half the foodstuffs and left. Probably at first light.”
“That jackass. I'll have his hide, I will. I guess ya have to expect this kind of thing from a damn fool like Cheatum. I told the captain when he first came aboard he was trouble. Where do you think he's off to?”
“Yesterday he said he was going to the Philippines. We all voted him down, but he went anyway.”
“If I ever see that fat toad again, I'll have my hands roun' his throat good and proper.” Quince became too animated and tried to settle down. “I've irritated my hand again. I'll have to remember to let it heal. There's still considerable pain in my fingers.”
Jack dared not speak.
“You have a funny look on your face, lad. What is it?”
“Your hand . . . don't you remember? We had to take it.”
“What are you saying?” Quince rose and brought his right arm up to eye level. “Sweet Jesus Mother of God, what have you done, Jack?”
“We had no choice. You were steaming with fever. You had dead skin all about and there was pus running out of your arm like . . . we all felt it was the thing to do.” Jack leaned heavily against the far bunk.
“Who did it?” Quince had a dark scowl on his face.
Jack couldn't meet Quince's eyes. “I did.”
Quince lay his head back down and stared at the ceiling with a vacant expression. Then, after a few moments, he started to laugh. “You? You did it?” He laughed until he couldn't contain himself. “I'll bet you were scared outa yer wits, weren't you, lad?”
Jack looked at this giant of a man in this filthy bunk. How could Quince, who had just realized his arm was gone, lie there laughing?
“That was only the half of it—I felt I couldn't breathe. Paul fainted, Hansum was singing hymns, Quen-Li was chanting some chink gibberish. It was pure hell.” Jack was laughing now, too.
Quince's face was red. “Help me out of this piss hole.” He raised himself up on his left elbow and gazed through tears at his stumped right arm. Jack helped him to his feet and held him tight around the waist as the big man wheezed and staggered to the ladder.
“Damnation. I'll have to teach you about playin' with knives, lad. Or keep me eyes peeled sharp or you'll have my leg.”
What a strange pair they must appear to be, Jack thought. The giant Quince bent in pain, Jack's right arm firmly around his waist, escorting him to the port rail.
“So it was left to you, Jackson?”
Jack nodded.
“It took guts, that I know—you'll make a good-un someday, lad. You surely will.” Jack wondered whether he would have been able to do the operation if he hadn't so dearly wanted to get back to Cuba; or if indeed he had reacted as a man, confident in himself and what he could accomplish.
The weather changed almost hourly during the next fortnight, from heavy winds to threatening clouds and rain and back to wind. But the men seemed to be right with the work, and struggled through the wet conditions.
High up in the rigging of the
Star
, Paul shouted to the men below that war canoes were coming hard and fast from the north. Jack took one of the long rifles and dropped down on the stripped quarterdeck. He could see four natives in each boat, with two bareheaded white men slumped in the forward canoe. Cheatum and Smithers.
The boats slipped into the calm lagoon, dropping the passengers off in waist-deep water. Without a word, the warriors turned and headed back to the island.
Cheatum and Smithers stood with the waves lapping at their backs. All hands on both ships turned toward the men with tropical sunburnt faces and clothes hanging in tatters.
“Give us food and water.” Cheatum was the first to speak.
No response.
“For God sakes. Our craft was swamped ten days out, we bailed her, but the foodstuffs were ruined.” He rocked back and forth, arms spread in supplication. “We had to turn around and we made it back to the big island but we couldn't survive in the bush so we asked the Belaurans to bring us here. They weren't too hospitable, I'll tell ya.”
Still silence. The two men stood shaking in the gentle wash of the lagoon.
“Oh, for Christ's sake, can't ya see the joke to it? Right, well we took the pinnace and the foodstuffs and we broke the boat and ruined the food so what are you going to do about it?”
Nothing.
“You don't own this damn island! I say we deserve another chance!” Cheatum took a couple of tentative steps toward shore. Smithers lagged behind, unsure. “Let's take a vote. What say, Jack?” Cheatum asked. “Are you the big man now?”
“We took our vote already, remember?” Jack smiled.
“Oh, you're a hard one, you are. Give us a smile, a drink of water, a biscuit, and all's forgiven. What say?”
“I say this, you toad: if you and your friend want to stay on this island, you'll sleep in the trees away from the rest of us and do a full day's work, including standing watch like the rest of us—but you'll not get a ration of rum until we take a vote on whether you deserve it. And you'll apologize to every man who stands here before you. And you'll do it now.”
Cheatum sputtered for a moment while Smithers spun around to look at the disappearing canoes. “You don't give a man much—”
“That doesn't sound like the beginning of an apology to me,” Jack interrupted.
“What could be the consequence if I was to say we're going to start to walkin' to shore and get some of that water in the cask, have a bite of that fish cookin' on that spit, and say to hell with you? What would you say to that, Master Jack?” Cheatum's voice was strong, his defiance resolute.
“I'd say the first one to take a step toward shore will get a musket ball in the back of his head. And it really doesn't matter to me which one it is.”
Jack brought the rifle up to his shoulder and pulled the hammer back on the flintlock. The sound seemed like a thunderclap in the still lagoon. Jack knew they both did not doubt they were a short pace away from death.
Then the apologies came quickly, Cheatum practically begging
forgiveness. Smithers was less animated, but forthcoming nevertheless. The two men dropped their heads and waded toward shore.
Quince observed the exchange from across the quarterdeck and winked at Jack. “You've not made any friends there, lad. I guess you know that sooner or later one or both of those blaggards will come for you.”
“I'll welcome it.”
The work dragged on for months. Jack seemed to grow stronger both physically and mentally as the two ships slowly mated. The crew melded together well, each man's skills used to the fullest.
Coop took charge of the actual rebuilding of the
Stuyvesant
, dismantling board by board the quarterdeck, wheel housing, cabin under the quarterdeck, all the many frames and as many hold stanchions as could be salvaged. He stored these on shore or in the forward deck of the ship. The most difficult job had been dismantling the mizzenmast on the
Star
and restepping it into the hold of the Dutch ship. Cheatum adjusted the number of lines that ran from the chain wales up into the rigging. He was making an effort to fit in under Jack's jaundiced eye.
Quince spent much of his waking hours wandering about the
Stuyvesant
, coordinating the work on materials that needed attending. Jack worked alongside him, learning about command and the everyday chores of running a ship.
“You'll need to start thinking in terms of the rudder,” Quince told him.
“The rudder? What do you mean?” Jack's head was buried in a ledger.
“We do need one—or hadn't you thought it necessary?”
“Well, yes, of course. But I just thought that when the rest of the work was done, Coop would build one from the timbers that were left.”
“Not quite that easy, lad. It's a complicated task to fashion one that works well. Also, the hardware. The pintles snapped on the
Stuyvesant'
s rudder, and we'd be hard put to replace them here. We'll need to retrieve the rudder from the
Star
.”
“But the
Star'
s rudder was torn off when we were swept into the lagoon,” Jack said. “God knows how deep the water is where she lay.”
“Nevertheless, we'll need that rudder. See to it, would you, lad?”
Here we go again, thought Jack. They would need to move the
Stuyvesant
out fifty yards closer to the entrance of the lagoon, to use it as a platform over the dive site, and then they'd need a lot of help. It would be a deep dive. Very deep.
Jack figured it would take one set of lines to set the hawser around the pintles, a set of heavy brass pins that fit through the holes in the gudgeon, a bronze fitting secured to the ship's sternpost, something like the hinge on a door. The rudder, controlled by the wheel, was the most critical moving part of a sailing ship—even minor variations in the angle of the water rushing by it could affect the direction of the vessel. Assuming he could get the heavy hawser attached to the rudder, they'd need all the men heaving on a capstan to pull it to the surface.

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