Wake of the Perdido Star (42 page)

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Authors: Gene Hackman

BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star
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Jack, feeling strangely euphoric, studied Klett in the glow of the candle. The big man, breathing deeply in the confines of the bell, returned his stare, the flame reflecting dully from his eyes. They were both catching their breath after the long swim down. The descent was uneventful—an inverted wine cask rigged by the natives about halfway down allowed them to grab an extra breath or two, and they had no problems this time clearing their ears. In fact, the deeper they went, the less they had to deal with the ear pain.
Maybe it was because Klett was such an imposing figure, a bare chested Scandinavian Thor, that it struck Jack as funny when the
man finally started to speak. Klett sounded as if he were quacking his words, like a duck. Jack was momentarily incapacitated, reduced to tears—he was risking his life almost twenty-five fathoms below the surface in the company of a man who quacked.
The minor voice changes they had observed in the bell at shallower depths were now greatly exaggerated. When Jack tried to comment on the matter, he found he could do little better. Klett, hearing Jack, first started to smile then took on a very solemn expression as if he were a schoolboy working on a difficult math problem. Jack felt himself immediately propelled into another round of hysterics. “Crissake, Klett, don't start trying to think, we'll be dead men for sure.”
Enough. He had to gather his wits. Jack forced himself to stare at the side of the bell and slow his breathing. Okay, he thought. What we essentially are is drunk. He realized that the light-headedness they had experienced when working at shallower depths was present here without any exertion at all. And the swim down had worsened it, although his head was now clearing some. Physical activity at these depths greatly aggravated the problem they were having with giddiness; the air seemed to be richer—and sustained them longer—but also made them feel like they had chugged several cups of grog.
Jack felt a surge of confidence. This was remarkable, given where they were. Maybe too remarkable. Somewhere in the back of his mind a warning was sounding. This was a hell of a bad place to start getting cocky. Hey friend, you are one small mistake from eternity. Don't get careless. Luckily, the task they had to accomplish was simple; only the environment challenged them. Klett would leave the barrel and carry a light guideline from the bell to the rudder, which they knew was nearby. The rudder had disengaged at a place easily recognizable from surface features, and Matoo, one of the native divers, had seen it far below him only minutes after the surface divers had started looking for it. Once the guideline was in place, Jack was to take the bitter end of
a heavier line that extended all the way to the surface, follow the guideline to the rudder, and tie the heavy line to one of the brass pintles with a “wrap and bowline,” Quince had said. Simple enough.
Klett quacked that he was going. Jack watched the big man take a lungful of air and drop below to wrap the guideline to a piece of coral below the bottom of the bell. Then Klett resurfaced in the bell, took a series of deep breaths, and headed off to find the rudder and secure the guideline to something nearby. After what seemed to Jack a long time, he returned and squeaked in a nasal twang that he had found the rudder and all was ready. He said that he could stay longer here on one breath than ever before.
Okay, think! Jack fought down his giddiness and ran over the task in his head one last time. I grab the lifting line off where they hooked it on the outside of the barrel. They will give me plenty of slack from above once they feel it move. Then, I swim like hell with the rope to the rudder, following Klett's guideline, which will be tied to something nearby. Tie a bowline knot to the pintle and swim back down the guideline to the bell. Simple.
Jack took several deep breaths and headed out to tie the line that ran back up to the
Stuyvesant
and the lifting mechanism. He found the rudder immediately and made one wrap around the whole frame, then around the pintle, and began to tie a fast bowline. Bowline? Jack realized his brain was incapable of finishing the simple task. On board ship he had learned to do it without thinking. Now, in desperation, he felt himself reverting to the verse they had used in New England to teach schoolkids this most useful of knots. He twisted a loop in the line with his left hand and started to put the end through the loop, but was it under or over? Did the rabbit go down the hole . . . around the tree? It occurred to Jack he was out of breath.
He swam back to the barrel and burst into the airspace gasping and laughing like a maniac. “Does the damn rabbit go down the
hole and around the tree? Or, maybe around the tree and down the hole?”
Klett's incredulous expression once again paralyzed Jack with laughter. He was vaguely aware that they had been here for over twenty minutes and should return to the surface.
Saying nothing, Klett took an enormous breath, pulled himself under the rim of the bell, and left for what to Jack seemed hours. Jack's head cleared enough for him to begin to worry when the Scandinavian's head suddenly burst back into the air pocket. Klett gave him a very serious look and solemnly declared, “True da damn hole first, Jack.”
Thank God, thought Jack; they needed to get out of there, and he was not sure he could make another long swim without disaster. Affectionately, he clapped the giant on the shoulder and pointed to the surface. Klett nodded and began taking breaths in unison with Jack. As usual, going up was easier than going down. They didn't even stop at the wine cask for more air. It wasn't just that the surface crew was pulling them with the up-line, as they called it; the air in their lungs seemed to last forever. It felt like they could exhale more air going up than they had inhaled inside the bell. The two arrived at the surface almost a half hour after beginning their descent. They expected no problems with rheumatism, since they had spent only a fraction of the time they usually had on the bottom.
They shared with Paul their account of the strange drunkenness they had experienced, then helped the others rig and haul the rudder from the depths. Two hours later Klett had severe pains in his right elbow and left knee, but Jack felt fine. There seemed to be more to this problem of plumbing the depths than they could ever fully understand.
After the dive, it was anticlimactic to place the rudder. It took many days of measuring and fitting to get it to link properly with the
Stuyvesant
, but once it was done, it operated quite well.
The pain in Klett's elbow and knee—and pronounced tingling
in his lower arm and leg—finally lessened but never completely left. Neither Jack nor Paul could come up with a satisfactory explanation.
Work finally finished on the
Stuyvesant
. The sails were patched, repaired, and strong enough to proceed. The galley had been completely refitted by Quen-Li; the rigging was either replaced from the stores or spliced and repaired. The decks had been scrubbed endlessly, and although they were charred in a few spots, seemed serviceable. After several trial runs into the open ocean and a few adjustments to the rigging and helm, Quince called the men to a meeting at the bow of the ship.
“It's been a long ordeal. You've all pulled your weight, and I, for one, appreciate the effort.” Pausing, he looked over the crew. “I've been told one of you will be staying on the big island.”
A nod from Dawkins. Jack could see Dawkins's mistress, the native girl Mele, standing on the beach waiting patiently.
“We'll drop you off in the Dutch Bay on the big island. There we'll pick up the three Belauran boys who have chosen to go with us.” Quince looked around with a grin. “Although why they would do this, I'll never know.”
Laughter erupted from the crew.
“I figger Manila is the closest place we can go to finish off repairs and restock for our voyage home. The boatyard will take the
Pete'
s general cargo and supplies in trade for labor—least as long as the port's open. Hard to guess who might be shootin' at who these days.”
There were general nods all around; Manila would be the port of choice. Jack had his own ideas where it would go next; all he need do was convince the crew when the time came.
“We'll spend the next two days provisioning the ship with fresh water, fresh fish, the dried fish that Quen-Li's been preparing, coconuts,
and as many vegetables as we can store. We have only the remnants of a chart to get us to the Philippines, but they'll do.”
“Excuse me, Skipper.” This from Paul. “I wonder if I might interject a piece of business?”
“Yes, of course, Paul, what is it?” Quince seemed to be feeling magnanimous.
“I was wondering about the name of this ship.”
“It's the
Peter Stuyvesant
. What else?”
“What, indeed. I was wondering, since it's really two ships combined in one, I think it's only proper to rename her.”
“Do you have a name in mind?”
“Yes, sir, indeed I do.”
“I'm not surprised. Proceed.”
“How about
Étoile Pierre
. You see, it's the combination of
Star
and
Peter
. I think that would work, right?”
Paul waited for approval but heard nothing but stark silence. He looked to Jack for help. His friend just shrugged his shoulders and grinned.
“I've got it—
L'Étoile du Pacifique
, well, it seems obvious—‘star of the Pacific.' More silence followed. “Okay, how about
Étoile Brilliante
, ‘shining star' . . . well . . . ”
Snickering ensued, the crew obviously enjoying the performance.
Paul stopped to think, wishing he were somewhere else. Almost to himself, he mumbled, “
L'Étoile Chercher chez-nous
, ‘it takes us home.' I wish I was there now.”
Then he had it: “
Étoile Trouvée
.” He paused for a moment, looking to the heavens. “ ‘The star that is found.' ” He cupped his hands as if holding a small star. “You see, the
Perdido Star
is lost, consequently the new ship is the star that is found.”
Hansumbob, sitting on the deck, unlit pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. “What do it mean again?”
“As I explained, it means ‘the star that is found.' ”
“Well, Paul, it 'peers to me that's what we should call her.
Found Star
.”
Thus it came to be. The vessel would officially bear the nameplate
Étoile Trouvée
, which would help confound any authorities suspicious of the doings of an American-named ship with
Star
in its name. The crew worried that their reputation preceded them. For all other purposes she was the
Found Star
, or as the men called her, the
Star
.
“One more piece of business.” Quince seemed to be relishing this moment. “Another vote. A vote on whether Cheatum and Smithers finally deserve a tot of rum.”
The spell was broken. The crew all laughed, slapping Cheatum and Smithers on the back. In high spirits, the men split into small groups to begin their final chores. Cheatum and Smithers both stole quick glances at Jack and hoisted themselves over the side. The looks were not lost on the young man.
F
OUR DAYS AWAY from the islet that had been their home for almost a year and a half, Jack saw the last of the island birds swoop toward the fantail of the ship, gathering the sparse scraps Quen-Li had thrown overboard. For the past week, knowing they were under way again, Jack's resolve in regard to de Silva had strengthened. At last there was a real chance that “compensation,” as Quince had called it, might be in the offing. A current of excitement ran through his body as he climbed with Paul to the top of the mainmast to shorten sail. They could see for miles. Not a wisp of cloud obscured their view of a vast blue sea.
“A horse, a horse. My kingdom for a horse,” Paul said.
Jack grinned. “What are you blabbering about?”
“Oh, nothing. I was simply wondering if I would ever see the meadows and woods of Virginia again.”

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