Wake of the Perdido Star (29 page)

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Authors: Gene Hackman

BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star
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“Do you think we should be getting up? We've been here well over an hour, lad.” Klett, usually as adventurous as his companion, was fatigued.
“Not me. We're too close. I know I saw that damned sash—and we need those triggers now.”
“I'll stay too if you're stayin', Jack.”
“No, let Maril take your place and have Shram stand by.”
“Jack, you'll be killing yourself for those guns—”
“Go. You're just wasting air down here. You're tired and need a break. Tell Maril to come down. Anyway, I need you up there in case anything goes wrong. I figure you could lift the whole damn bell by yourself if you had to.” Hesitantly, Klett took a gulp of air and made his way to the surface.
Jack rested from the exertion of swimming and talking. He felt resolve building in him. It was so close. He was becoming dizzy and it took longer to catch his breath, but he noted that the flame in the bell still flickered. Their canary still aflutter, he thought, smiling. Look at it, flapping its wings—hell, it's out. Must be the commotion of Klett leaving. It's gone out before, from disturbances in the bell; when I relit it, it lasted a good half hour longer. Should relight it but . . . bloosh . . . another bucket of fresh air released by the Indian divers. Aye, that's it, lads, we're hopping now . . . what the hell, okay, yeah, the sash.
Jack took in another lungful of air and dropped to the line. Here we go, down the hemp highway. Time had changed with the use of the rope. It seemed he was back to the wreck in two kicks. Hell, that piece of bulwark, that's the one near the sash. He left the line and swam to the bulwark, and indeed, right below him was Le Maire's kit! Marked with the telltale decorative sash. He grabbed for it. Missed. There, got it! Come on you bastard, there. I've got Paul's bag. Going to be hard to make it back, feel sick.
How much later he wasn't sure, but he was back in the barrel now.
“Dyak, Dyak,” Maril said.
“Aye, it's me, friend. What the hell are we doing here? Where the hell is the bag, Paul's kit? Why the hell is it so dark? Feel kinda sick.”
“Dyak! No fire! Must go!”
“Yer a quick learner, Maril. You know, I'd like to drill your damn sister till she talks English good as you, hell good as the bloody damn king of England. Dick won't work though, sorry.”
Another bucket of air splooshed in, followed almost immediately by another.
“Ah, me head's a little clearer. Two buckets . . . Le Maire must be having a bit of anxiety up there.” More scrambling and scratching against the wood, and Jack felt the presence of another person in the tight confines.
It was Shram. He could hear him talk to Maril in Belauran, then, “Pol say, ‘Up! Go up!,' say Pol.”
So, that's it; these wogs are going to drag me to the surface. Damn Le Maire. My bag is right there, I saw it under Paul's. Jack grabbed the bottom of the barrel, pulled himself under the two Indians, and then wildly propelled himself along his guide line. He looked back. They're following me. No time to talk . . . need guns now. Jack reached the wreckage, pulled himself over, and dove straight for the bag. All of a sudden he was frightened. He turned quickly and found Maril's outstretched hand. He pulled it down to the top of his bag, placed it there in no uncertain way, then turned and started back. He saw Maril hesitate and motion to Shram, who grabbed Jack and pulled him back to the bell. Jack surfaced in the pocket and gasped, hoping Maril had retrieved the kit. He was in air but couldn't get enough to breathe. Jack vomited and blurted out the word “up.” He felt Shram grab him and assist his ascent to the surface. Lord, it was so far . . .
A fire was crackling nearby. Jack could hear the sound of mosquitoes
and smell the burning wood. He felt awful, more tired than he could ever remember being. His shirt was off, and Paul and Quince were peering down at him.
“Ya hear me, lad?” Quince said.
“Aye.”
“I've made Master Le Maire here promise not to kill you.”
“Thanks, but I think I'd appreciate it if he did.”
Paul had obviously been terrified. Jack tried to smile. “Old friend, don't be cross with me. It had to be done.”
“Your whole damn chest is covered with a rash,” Paul said. “Are you okay?”
“Kinda feel pins and needles all over, head aches real bad and tired, uh, real kinda tired.” Before he fell back into a deep sleep he heard Quince say, “No point in having a canary if you don't listen when he sings. But we got 'em, lad. Maril brought up the mechanisms.”
For the week it took Jack to recuperate from his dive, he watched the labors of Mentor and Coop as they used their carving skills to set the brass parts into the stocks they had already started. Much of the first day they brought the barrels and mechanisms to his bed, to get his assurance they were assembling the parts correctly. He had little to say; the parts fit together well and Coop was adept at preparing the resting pad for the barrels. The men were better carpenters than he.
Jack felt strangely despondent. His mood wasn't helped on the third day when an accident occurred. Quince decided, as Jack had expected, to raise the deep bell. It needed to be aired, and design flaws corrected in the resting platforms. And, their main diver had “diver's rheumytism,” according to Mentor. Paul, though not sure it was rheumatism, believed it true that Jack had some kind of diving ailment.
Besides, they had salvaged the most needed items. Several of the men, Jack noticed, were now wearing shoes. His own boots from his kit were lying at the foot of his bed. They had been soaked in fresh water and well greased with animal fat.
They figured raising the bell to be an easy task. Hell, if it wasn't weighted down, it should come up on its own. Shram and two of the shallow-water team dove down to cut the lines from the biggest weights. After only two cuts, the bell started to move. But once it started, it gained momentum at a speed none of the men expected. Rael, a young native diver who had been practicing breathing from the bell, was snagged by a piece of the barrel rigging halfway up and dragged to the surface at great speed. Jack watched in amazement as the huge barrel hit the surface, half of its height actually clearing the water.
Rael was thrown free. The men helped him to shore, where he suddenly started to reel, his knees jerking.
“He fainted and never woke up,” Paul told Jack an hour later.
“But why, damn it?” Jack lamented. “He wasn't down but a minute. He can't have any diver's disease and there was all that blood frothin' out of the poor bugger's mouth. What the hell happened?”
They never were sure. After much agonizing, Paul's best guess was that for some reason the young man couldn't release the air in his lungs when he was pulled up so fast—they literally blew up in his chest. Why it didn't happen when other people came up fast, he couldn't say.
It seemed that every triumph in this diving game came with a price of pain or death. Rael's fatal accident deeply disturbed Jack, as he was developing an increasing sense of kinship with the Belaurans, particularly the young men who shared his diving adventures. Why Rael? Strong, bright-eyed, a young warrior with an easy laugh and ready courage. What a waste. Jack dearly hoped the gains from their underwater travails would justify such a tragic loss.
J
ACK UNDERSTOOD the need for Yatoo to take revenge on the tribe that had attacked his village. With the passing of another week, he seemed sufficiently recovered from his ailments to take part in the raid, second in command to Jawa; and after a proper funeral was conducted for Rael, he undertook his first military assignment. Five of the twenty rifles were now ready for use, and he had taught four of the sailors to use them with moderate competency. A call to action against worthy adversaries tapped the wellspring deep within him; he found his excitement build at the thought of impending conflict.
With a certain satisfaction, he watched sweat form on the brown back in front of him, and he picked up his pace slightly, enough to subtly pressure the leader. Soon perspiration covered his own torso. The strong, young warrior kept a fast pace until they reached the swamp. From here on they would continue by canoe, several having been brought around through the lagoon side. A war party waited, composed of men from nearby villages that owed allegiance to Yatoo.
Suddenly unwilling to let Jack take the entire risk, Quince had decided to head a party of his own men. When his party caught up with Jack's, the group built a fire and smoked pig meat on hot coals. Wordlessly, they set about preparing their bedding. The smell of rotted vegetation hung heavy in the air. Jack felt energized at the prospect of action. His self-doubts, depression, uncertainties . . . they all seemed to evaporate when conflict loomed.
Jack slowly unrolled one of the Kentucky long rifles from its fold and carefully rubbed the barrel with pig fat from the fire. The men around him talked in low murmurs; dark or white, all handled their anxieties in roughly similar ways. They walked with chests out, spoke confidently; yet Jack observed them staring longer than usual at the coals in the fire. They were men of different races, different worlds, but they knew death was a handmaiden to war. They intended to win tomorrow, but they also knew that this could be the last smoke that ever burned their eyes. Jack polished methodically, then lay down and seemed to drift off to sleep immediately. But he did not nod off before hearing Quince's words whisper in the dark: “Bless you, O'Reilly. You love it. Dancing with the devil. It remains to be seen whether you end up being a blessing or a curse to the rest of us.”
With the morning light they proceeded by canoe. Maril was positioned in the prow of Jack's boat. It seemed to Jack that the ocean spoke to Maril in measured tones. It slapped against the side of his boat in rhythms born of wind and distance, allowing him to slip his paddle through its surface without sound.
An island of steep shores lay on the left. They approached a long, low reef, where sharks stayed near the surface. Here they had to dig their paddles deep and pull hard to the right, or be slowed by a crosscurrent that carried them toward the setting sun.
There was much to learn from the dark-skinned men, and in
many ways Jack admired them. From his position behind the islander, he watched silently and learned. Though he had felt as clumsy as a child when they set out this morning, he could now feel his oar sing in tune with the water as he fell into harmony with the movements of his partner and the pulse of the sea.
A flying fish crossed their bow, then another. Then one landed in the boat. Without breaking the rhythm of his paddle, Maril tossed it overboard.
Jack's reverie was disturbed by movement far in front of them. Something not right on the waves . . . a canoe, maybe. Maril bowed flat and warned Dyak to do the same. No words were spoken. Maril let the current take the canoe toward a mangrove patch on a small island. They would appear from this distance as a log, if seen at all.
After many minutes they scraped bottom and Maril peered over the side, motioning to Jack to look as well. A war canoe was easily visible, but the occupants had not spotted them and the mangrove shadow would give them no silhouette.

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