Wake of the Perdido Star (55 page)

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Authors: Gene Hackman

BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star
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Jack, totally perplexed, stared toward the dim outline of his friend. “What?” After several more seconds, “But Paul—”
“No, at the time he was quite unconscious.”
“There's someone else in here?”
“Not exactly in here, but on the other side of that broken bulkhead—he's a bit shy. Didn't know I was here at all until you arrived and we started talking.” Quen-Li spoke conversationally: “Come talk to us, my companion in this tiny world. I heard you whimpering and yelling as you pounded for rescue . . . your salvation is here . . . speak.”
“I . . . I can pay a fortune. Please save me from this tomb,” a voice with a Spanish accent stammered back.
Jack felt paralyzed. The distorted voice was one he would never forget. He replied with no emotion, “So, it's you, de Silva.”
“Listen to me, O'Reilly. I have riches you've never dreamed of. I—”
“All you have that I want is your neck. I would hate to see you drown before I could caress your throat with a sharp blade.” Jack followed his words with a furious lunge, but all his strength could not force his large frame through the constriction formed by the timbers.
“Jack,” Quen-Li said firmly. “You must calm yourself as never before and make some decisions that you will live with always.”
Jack listened quietly.
“Even without you in here breathing like a furnace I doubt we could last another hour, more like half that time.” He took a moment to catch his breath. “De Silva's strongbox with the better part of his wealth—since you've torched everything else he owns—is in that compartment with him. He kept it and me safe in this ladyhole beneath the ship's waterline.”
“But—”
“Don't interrupt. If you have the crew beat through the hull above us, before this ship slips further down the slope I believe we're on, you can grab his riches and remove his head when he splutters to the surface.”
“No!” Jack wailed.
“Listen, Jack.”
“No, damn it, you listen, you smooth-talking Chinese lizard. I'm the captain of the
Star
and I make the decisions. That plan would leave you and Paul in here drowning like rats, and that's not going to happen.”
“Jack, Paul should be able to make it through the hole our men chop through the hull.”
“Don't Jack me. You've already wasted a passel of my time. The Brotherhood does not give up its own. Here's the plan—we cut through the hull from the outside below the air pocket and pry your chain ring off. Once you're free and we get you and Paul to the surface, then I'll deal with the count and his riches. If the ship slides off the reef before that, so be it.”
“O'Reilly, wait!”
“Shut up, de Silva! I'm bringing an iron bar down. I believe I can force it past this mess of timbers. Then Paul can bang on the hull from inside while we axe our way in from above—Paul, you up to that?”
“Aye, Jack.” His voice seemed a bit stronger. “But wait.”
“What is it? Time's wasting.”
“Bring a bottle of wine.”
Jack stared into the darkness. “Are you mad? What do you think this is, a bleeding birthday party?”
“Jack, I'm serious, get me a wine bottle with a cork and pop it, turn it upside down, and hold your thumb over the lip on the way back—I have an idea.” Nutty as the request seemed, Jack knew better than to argue with Paul.
He took a moderate breath and headed back down to the barrel. The water level was slightly lower—only possible if the Belaurans had been hard at resupplying it. From there he made his way quickly, hand over hand, to the surface.
The crew was astonished. Hansumbob clapped his hands and hooted like a banshee with the others when he heard that both Paul and Quen-Li were alive. Many of the crew's eyes narrowed when hearing of de Silva's survival.
“Broke the Chinaman's arm?” asked Hansum with a sickened look.
At this point, Cheatum, still in mortal fear of his life, decided to share his knowledge. “Fellas, when the count's men found out that Quen-Li was a . . . you know—”
“What of it?” snapped Jack.
“Well, they, all seven of them, jumped him. They mighta well as tied into a mountain lion. The reason you didn't have much opposition when you raided de Silva's hacienda was that four of the guards was attending funeral services for the other three.”
The men broke into smiles. Quince slapped Bob on the back. “Guess brother Quen hasn't lost his touch.”
“I knowed he'd be all right,” said Bob with a proud gleam in his eye. “But Paul and—how we gonna get them out?”
“We don't have much time,” interrupted Jack. “Here's the plan. With Paul in there steadily pounding, it's still going to be a trick to find exactly where to cut in from the outside. Too low and we're on the other side of the frame from Quen-Li's iron link. Too high and we let the air out and we'll drown him for sure—and Paul if we're not careful. No more jabbering from anybody unless they got something important to say. Red Dog, Jacob, Mentor, get another bar lowered down to the bell. Klett, you and the Belaurans make ready for some heavy work axing and picking down there once you know exactly where the sound is coming from. You others tie ropes to the divers' waists and pull them up when they get tired so they don't have to waste energy swimming.”
“Don't worry about this end, Jack,” yelled Quince. “You just get a fix on a spot we need to break through and pull Paul and our Chinaman the hell out of there.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” added Jack. “I need a wine bottle with the cork removed—don't even ask why, one of Le Maire's ideas.”
Quince rolled his eyes at Jack as Coop dashed off for the bottle.
With the uncorked and inverted bottle in hand, Jack slid down the rope once again. On hitting bottom, he squeezed himself into
the big barrel, still clutching the wine bottle, and made his way without incident to the air pocket.
The level of the water had risen a good three to four inches since he departed. Saying only, “no time to waste,” Jack forced the bar through the constriction, then handed up the wine bottle.
“How's Quen-Li doing, Paul?” Jack had surfaced again in the pocket, still beneath the constriction.
“Fair, just fair, Jack. The water's getting close to his chest and he's pretty beat-up and fatigued.”
“O'Reilly, I tell you I have something you want.” It was de Silva again.
“I know, just try to make it to the surface so I can enjoy it.”
“O'Reilly, I have the key to the Chinese man's irons.”
The only sounds in the dark enclosure was heavy breathing through the mouths of four desperate men.
“Really, I have it and I could make it through the bulkhead and pass the key to your friend,” the count said. “The only thing I ask in return is your word. Your word that you and your men don't kill me when we reach the surface.”
Jack's insides twisted into a knot. He couldn't bring himself to say anything.
“Jack, damn it. If he has the damn keys it's going to be our only chance. I think Quen-Li's getting weaker,” Paul urged.
Again silence.
At last, Jack spoke. “De Silva, you may have the one thing on this earth that can save you from me. Listen carefully: hand those keys to my friend, then with his help you enter through the bulkhead. When the men chop through from the outside there will be confusion. Paul's not a strong swimmer. If you help him bring Quen-Li to the surface—if they both arrive at the ship alive and well—I—I swear not to kill you.”
“And none of your men—”
“Shut your face, don't dare trifle or bargain with me!” Jack's scream echoed in the hollow chamber. “You heard the terms. Now
bring the key or what happens from here on won't matter for you.”
Jack listened in the darkness as Paul and de Silva scrabbled through wooden beams and wreckage he could only catch vague glimpses of. After several minutes, Paul was near Jack and lifting Quen-Li's good arm. The clinking of iron keys was bell-like in the underwater tomb. Suddenly, de Silva's voice broke the silence; he was now in the compartment with the others. “Wait, wait . . . the Chinaman, he must promise, too.”
Quen-Li responded in almost a whisper with a tone as cold as a rapier, “The emperor of China does not make bargains.”
“There, I knew it. Treachery! This one is an animal. He killed my men like they were—”
“Shut up, de Silva, if you want to live,” Jack said. “I won't tell you again.” Then to Quen-Li, “Damn it all, listen to me. It's not just your life now, it's Paul's. Let's get this over. Promise the bastard!”
After a seemingly endless silence, Quen-Li spoke: “De Silva, in deference to my friends—and my young captain who has to make an even greater sacrifice than I in not snuffing your miserable life, I—I agree not to kill you—for a while.”
“A while?”
“If you help us to the surface I will give you thirty moons of life. My final offer.”
“Done, done.” The count handed Paul the keys. “Go ahead and unlock him.”
There was a clanking of steel and a jangle as links fell loose into the water below. “He's free, Jack!” blurted Paul.
“Thank God, but you've got to start pounding quick. I think this ship is shifting—the water's raised another three inches while we've been talking. Pound, damn it. It's critical they come in at just the right point or they might still let the air out and not free you.”
Paul lifted Quen-Li higher, to a more comfortable position. “Now for the wine,” he told Jack.
“You're daft,” said Jack.
Paul retrieved the bottle from its perch and poured off the top quarter of the liquid. “Probably seawater,” he said by way of explanation. He raised the bottle and drank deeply, turned quickly, and offered some to Quen-Li. The Chinese man had learned not to question Paul's odd behavior and he too took a draught.
“Paul, for the sake of Christ!”
Paul offered the bottle to the count. “De Silva?” The count waved off the young lunatic. He next proferred it to Jack. “Jack?”
“What the hell,” he said, grabbing the bottle and taking a deep swig. “Are you happy now?”
“Getting there. Now listen.” Paul poured the rest of the wine onto the surface of the water, like a priest making a benediction. “This wine bottle may be our salvation.”
Paul thrust the empty bottle upside down into the water next to Jack. “There's a name written down the blown glass, Jack. I think it's Sobrett—tell me exactly where the water's stopped that forced its way into the bottle when I pushed it down.”
A glimmer of comprehension formed in Jack's mind. He let his eyes adjust and, reemerging said, “It hits the bottom of the R. Yeah, a bubble starts right at the bottom of the R.”
“I can't be sure of this, old friend, but the way I reckon is, if you head back down, never inverting this bottle, and then ascend back up the hull, never going to the surface . . . you'll find a place on the hull where the bubble goes back exactly to the bottom of the R. That, my friend, should be precisely the same depth as in here. Once you know that, there's only one thin line along the hull that can be the right place. You run your ear along the line till the pounding is loudest—that's where you need to break through.”
Jack absorbed his friend's words with amazement. He didn't know the physics involved but somehow it made sense.
“And listen,” Paul added. “If you're off a couple of feet this way or that, it won't matter much as long as the hole is correct relative to the depth of the air pocket—once you're sure of that from watching the bottle, go for it.”
A moment later Jack was swimming for all he was worth back to the barrel. He carefully held the bottle upside down and away from the air he breathed from the bell. Then he streaked off again for the surface, bubbles streaming out of his nose.
Halfway to the surface, Jack could see and hear Klett and the Belaurans off to his side slamming axes and picks into the hull of the Spanish ship with frantic movements. He broke from the up-line and swam toward them.
He saw that by the time he reached the rescue party, although he could clearly hear the banging, the bubble in the bottle had pushed past the R. They were at the right frame but the wrong depth by a good five vertical feet. Placing the bottle directly on the hull, he traced it back down until the bubble matched where it had been inside the base of the air pocket.
His lungs bursting, he smashed the bottle into the hull at the exact point. It broke, simultaneously making a distinct white scar in the fouling that covered the wood. By now the others had seen him; when he lunged for the surface with the last of his air, they followed.

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