Wake of the Perdido Star (31 page)

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Authors: Gene Hackman

BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star
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Jack reflected quietly on the exchange. It struck him odd that none of the doubts that had accompanied his killing the Papaloan months before had set in over his shooting the Dutchman. Perhaps
it was because it hadn't involved a real choice, just a reflex action in defense of Paul's life.
“I think it's awful what they done,” Mentor put in, pausing for effect. “But let's not forget something: them blackbirders might be our only way of gettin' home. There ain't no thin' but an occasional whaler that comes through these parts and East India Company packets that don't stop for no thin' if not paid royally by missionary societies or the like. Hell, if those country ships figure out what we done, they'll be comin' back here for our hides—not to help us.”
“True enough. But I don't think they'll know unless they find out from the woman. She ain't too likely to help 'em.”
“Hell, Skipper, it ain't her I'm worryin' about. Sure, the gunfire was covered 'cause there was lots of shootin' going on anyway. But they ain't so dumb not to know bullet holes when they see 'em in their man's head and neck.”
“Uh, men. Jack's told me that he's taken care of that eventuality. He reminded Jawa on the way back that they had made no stipulations about trophies. The, uh, head of the gentleman in question, including the relevant portion of the neck, is presently in Yatoo's hut.”
The group took a moment to absorb this piece of news. “I'll be damned,” from Coop.
Jack added, “The Dutch'll know we're here from their Papaloan captives but they won't have proof we killed their man.”
Mentor cleared his throat. “Ya know I never considered these'ere tattooed blacks and Chinee as human a'fore we got to know'em—no offense, Quen-Li.”
The Chinaman shrugged.
“But what do we do?” Mentor went on. “Them East India Company scoundrels . . . they're still white men like us. Do we kill our own kind to protect them natives? And if they're raidin' Papalo, they'll be raidin' here soon.... What do we do?”
Half dreamily, his thoughts in a choir loft in New England, hearing his father's voice, Jack said, “Our own kind, Mentor? Do you really think they're our own kind?”
“Aye, Jack's right,” interjected Dawkins. “They are a way home for us—and I miss home terribly—but man, I'll be damned if I haven't gotten to like it here. These people, savages or not, have saved our lives, warmed our beds.” He bent his head, face turning crimson. “I think I might even have made a child with Mele, who's been keepin' me company the last few months. I don't think they're any less our kind than them murderers.”
Quince turned toward Jack. “What's our warlord got to say?”
Jack believed he had to play his hand carefully. He did not want to let on to the others the surge of excitement he was feeling over the fragments of a plan whirling in his head. He also had a conflicting emotion. Dawkins' words had touched him. The mention of his intimacy with the native girl had sparked a deep feeling of loneliness, dampening his desire to express himself forcefully in the discussion. Images of Wyalum and a greeneyed fantasy standing on a dock in Salem merged in some kind of confusing combination. He needed time to think. The plan, the seed of which was taking form in his mind at the moment, was not something to speak of half-baked. No, he would be noncommittal. His instincts told him that, for the moment, it was best that others be in the unusual role of convincing him to take action.
“I don't know . . . I respect the savages more than the scum we dealt with today. But taking their side against the whole civilized world . . . we'd be labeled brigands like you say, Skipper. Hell, we'd probably qualify as pirates.”
Jack saw the level of respect he had achieved in the men's eyes. Despite himself, he had become a leader.
“Savages?” Paul was back into it. “You think one of these savages would have been so outrageously cruel as to steal your land and murder your family for power and prestige, Jack?”
Jack's face was expressionless but his eyes turned into two cold pools of gray. The others tensed uncomfortably.
Quince said to Paul, “Easy, lad. You're treadin' perilous ground.”
Paul, not ready to back off, had a point to make, and he always drove his points home.
“Why'd you use that example?” Jack asked softly.
“Because sometimes it's the only way to get through to you. Damn it, these refined, bewigged, besotted Europeans of ours are decidedly our own kind. It is clear to me therefore that they are, in the most sophisticated, genteel way, going to do atrocious harm to these people. They're going to steal their land, mock their dignity, sell them as chattel. It's the civilized thing to do. It's the damned British, Dutch, Spanish, and American thing to do. And I despise it!”
Jack ran a finger thoughtfully over the rim of a coconut shell. “Seems these savages here have found plenty of reason without our help to butcher each other. Does your friend Rob Pierre have anything to say about that?”
“Aye, Paul, he's got you there.” Coop raised his glass with some of the others in appreciation of Jack's point and to lighten the mood. But Paul would have none of it.
“In a bloody pig's eye. Don't you swab my words away with cynical remarks, Jack. You know damn well I'm right. Are you going to have clever words for Maril and Yatoo when Wyalum gets carted off in the hold of a blackbirder because they trusted in you? And, it's Robespierre, you idiot . . . Rob Pierre, indeed. . . .”
Jack placed his hand on Paul's shoulder. “I know too that you speak from the heart and not just from that bottle. But I don't want to argue with you now. You're exhausted and near drunk.” Turning to Quince and the others he continued. “Let's enjoy our grog and talk again on this in the morning. What do you say, Skipper?”
“Very well, men. Sleep on it and decide by morning.”
In the morning Quince reconvened the meeting.
“Men, you've had the night to think it over. Yatoo knows we're
in a spot over what's happened and he'll want to know our feelings. We owe it to these folks to be straight with them, what say ye? Do we try and signal one of the blackbirders and ask their help, hoping they haven't figured out who popped two of their men? Or do we stand square with the Indians and fight 'em and hope for rescue from some other source?”
“Wait. Now, Skippee, we haven't heard your opinion—I want to know it a'fore I give my vote,” said Hansumbob, an odd smile on his face.
“Fair enough. I was up all night pondering, and I'll tell you my personal opinion, though I came to it reluctant like.”
“What is it, Quince?” Coop asked.
“Well, it's them as do things wretched with snuff in their nose and blood in their eyes as bothers me most. A powdered wig on the head of one who tortures and destroys life for profit, then settles in and reads his scriptures at night. That's all I'll say now. Dawkins, what think yer?”
“Blast them blackguards to hell, I'll take my chances with the Indians.”
“Mentor?”
“Don't like baby killers,” he spat and started whittling a piece of wood.
“Bob?”
“I'm with you, Skippee, hee, hee.”
“Jacob?”
“I'd rather swim than ask those murderers for anything. I . . . I think I might be having a little one, too.” Several of his mates smiled at the revelation.
“Red Dog?”
“Stand with the Belaurans, been damn good to me, they have.”
Brown didn't even wait to be asked. “I'm with my mates, to hell with the Dutch.”
“Me as well,” threw in Peters.
“Damn right,” from Paul.
“Smithers?” Quince said.
Smithers was silent.
“In or out, Smithers?” Quince's voice couldn't help but reveal his growing contempt for the man.
“I don't put much stock in what these blacks do to each other, but them Dutch ain't so stupid they ain't going to figger out what went on soon enough, so there ain't no choice. We're gonna have to fight the only sots that coulda' got us out of this blasted place.”
“Cheatum?”
“I think you're all crazy. These natives will sell us to the Dutch for a pittance. But since our junior warlord here and young Jacob decided to take things in their own hands by blastin' those scoundrels away, ain't much else to do.”
Quince glowered at the man and most of the others looked away—not one needed to tell them this was an unfair assessment of what had happened.
“Your vote, Cheat.”
“To hell with you, Quince, I ain't voting.”
Quince said nothing but turned toward Jack.
“Jack?”
“I think we need their ship to get home.” The group fell silent. Paul looked hurt and turned away. Then Jack smiled. “I have business a world away that I must settle. I said we need their ship, Paul—I never said we need them to sail it.”
Paul turned, wide-eyed.
“You're talking straight-out piracy?”
“I'm talkin' defending ourselves and borrowing one of these murdering bastards' ships for a spell . . . one able to make it all the way back to Cuba.”
This apparent turnabout on Jack's part seemed to settle the matter. The men cheered, except for Cheatum, who pushed his way out of the gathering. Quince finished the meeting.
“Life changed for all of us when the
Star
went down. I'm not against taking some liberties with a crown ship. Never much liked
the Dutch and I've always hated the John Company. Seems we've agreed to find passage home for those as want it.”
“Ayes,” all around.
As an afterthought, Quince said to Quen-Li, “What think you of all this? You able to understand what we're saying?”
“Quen-Li understand. I with my shipmates. Don't like take slaves. These ships with opium, they go China way?”
“Aye, they do. Ye want to book first-class passage?” Mentor gibed, followed by an uproar. Quen-Li joined his shipmates, laughing at his own expense.
Above the laughter Quince declared, “Then we're all agreed. We take a ship—then sail under the black flag!”
The men cheered in hearty agreement.
Jack felt a profound peace come over him at the council's decision. He had actually come to his conclusion the night before, but acted noncommital to make sure the men had really thought it through. They were taking a momentous step that would affect the rest of their lives.
The mention of the black flag by Quince had sealed it. The fact that none—save the bully Cheatum, whom Jack thought a coward at heart—had blinked at those words meant there was no room for doubt—all seamen knew the significance of that piece of cloth. So that's how it comes to pass, he thought. He had always wondered if pirates and brigands were cutthroats at heart or driven by circumstance. In this case, at least, he knew.

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