Wake of the Perdido Star (56 page)

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Authors: Gene Hackman

BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star
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“Did you see where I smashed that bottle?” Jack asked, gasping. “Put all your efforts there.” Klett, without replying, headed back down with the Belaurans. Jack was at the end of his physical limit; he lay on the deck of one of the ship's launches, saving his final energy to help get the survivors to the surface when they emerged.
It was probably only ten minutes before a shout went up and there was a roiling of air bubbles under the boats. “They're through,” yelled Quince. Jack rolled back over the side, swimming like crazy to the wreck.
Klett was just ripping out a plank when he arrived. The hole was perfectly placed. Some air had escaped but Jack could easily make his way through to the inside and emerged once again in the air pocket, this time above the constriction. The water level was considerably higher and the occupants now had to swim. De Silva had his hand under Quen-Li's good shoulder and used his other to
hold onto a piece of bulkhead above him. The hole made by the rescue party was now just below the water level in the pocket. In addition to providing an escape, it also allowed in light, making it possible to see.
Jack grabbed Paul first and, dropping two feet below the water level, he shoved his friend through the broken planking into the waiting hands of Matoo, who took him to the surface. Jack returned and stared into the eyes of de Silva, still holding Quen-Li. The pocket was now bathed in a flickering, eerie light. The Spaniard returned his look warily.
“You go through the hole first and wait. I'll help Quen-Li get through from the inside. Take him through the hole gently, Count, and pray he makes it to the surface alive,” Jack said quietly.
“I . . . I am not a very good swimmer.”
“Learn quick, you bastard.”
De Silva was not lying this time; he struggled to swim, careful not to drop Quen-Li. Jack caught up, grabbed his enemy and his friend, and with a powerful stroke began dragging both of them to the world above.
That evening the entire crew of the
Star
, de Silva, and Cheatum sat on the midships deck of the ship. The count's chest of coins had been opened but lay undisturbed in a corner. The council of the Right Honourable Brotherhood of the Shipwrecked Men of the
Star
had met and made their decisions.
Cheatum and the count were led to one of the ship's dinghies, helped over the rail, and told to sit side by side, opposite to where Jack was sitting, wearing a cold expression. Jack tied one of each man's hands to the oarlocks so they could row but not move them past the center of the boat. When all was complete, Jack knelt in front of them. Cheatum was pale, Count de Silva's eyes darted wildly.
Jack held the count's dagger, turning it over in his hands again and again. He drew it from the sheath slowly and replaced it a dozen times. The men of the
Star
had gathered at the rail and watched the scene below silently—it was apparent that their young leader was journeying in his mind's eye through space and time.
Jack emerged from somewhere deep within and spoke in a deliberate voice, eerily soft. “Cheatum, lay your hand on the seat between you and de Silva. Count, please put your hand on top of Cheatum's.” De Silva immediately did so, as if being compliant would help convince Jack to keep his word—the count obviously still couldn't believe he was going to have his life spared.
Jack looked to the sky and said matter of factly: “Mamacita, look—the man who made you sick with fear, your murderer—see how pitiful he looks now? I notice his eye's slow where you gouged it to save me.”
De Silva turned pale. “O'Reilly, you promised. You gave your word.”
“So I did. Father, what do you think?” Jack yelled to the sky. “Should I keep my word to this man? Did he keep his word with you and Mamá?” In one swift move he pulled the count's dagger from its sheath and drove it through both men's hands deep into the wood of the seat. Ignoring the agonized screams, Jack leaned over and said in the count's ear, “My father said, ‘Yes, keep your word even with him. Let the pig go.' You are lucky he was such an honorable man. No?”
He rose to the wale of the
Star
, put one foot on the ladder and with the other pushed the dinghy adrift. Soon, the two castaways seemed to get enough control to be able to row in unison toward the distant glow of the night lights of Habana.
Jack and the others watched the two disappear into the darkness. Quen-Li, his arm reasonably well set by Red Dog and Quince, sat wrapped in blankets, in a chair devised for him by Hansumbob.
“I bet I know what you're thinking, my single-minded friend,” Paul said.
“What would that be?”
He gestured to the full moon in the heavens. “Twenty-nine. You're thinking, counting that one up there, this man has twenty-nine moons left to live.”
“Perhaps. But life has many mysteries. For all I know I myself may not live twenty-nine moons. Certainly the count has taken home with him much to think about.”
“Indeed,” Paul replied. “But once he makes it back to Habana and tries to pick up the pieces of his burnt and ransacked life, he's going to start thinking about time in a very special way—and I believe it will involve an obsession with counting backward from thirty.”
Looking to Jack, Paul said, “And you, compadre. I know my rash act meant you couldn't rid yourself of the curse that has plagued you for three years—but you did save our lives when you made your decision down there. I hope you never regret it.”
Jack leaned against the rail and considered Paul's words for a moment.
“I will never regret it. In a strange way you and Quen-Li have saved me from myself. Watching that miserable wretch paddle away in the moonlight has somehow freed me from the poison in my vitals. Killing that man would have been a poor trade for the lives of my mother and father, and somehow—I don't know. Somehow, it might have set me on a course for the rest of my life that I really don't want to sail.”
“Jack,” Quen-Li began in a low, soothing tone.
“Yes?”
“Your wisdom is beginning to catch up with your strength and courage—remarkable for one so young. My young friend, you are a warrior, not a murderer. You have killed all about that man that needed killing. You honor your parents' memory by choosing the lives of your friends over the satisfaction of revenge. Breathe
deeply, Jack, and think of life; you have no further business here, it is time for you to go home.”
Quince placed his hand on Jack's shoulder. “For what it's worth, lad, I think brother Li is right; it's time to hold your head up, a rich man, a life ahead of you and your duty done. Let's go home.”
“Yep, he has raisins, Jackee.” All turned to Hansum questioningly, except for Klett, who was nodding solemnly with him.
“What did you say, Bob?” Jack asked, one eyebrow raised.
“You know, I heard Paul and you say 'em words, like the Frenchees.” Hansum had a way of bringing sensible discourse to an abrupt halt.
“Saints preserve us,” muttered Paul. “The ship bard was telling Quince that he's right. Il a raison, non? And who else understands him but Klett, the ship's philosopher of fewest words.”
Jack placed his arm playfully around Hansum's shoulder. “Yeah, Quince has got raisins all right, and so have you and Klett.” He turned around and looked each of the crew in the eye. “And the rest of you men, the council has met and you've all decided to sail with me to Salem. Your equal share of this money is yours to do with as you wish when you arrive there, but I want you all to know that I would be honored to keep your company for as long after that as you wish.”
Quince stood and shook hands with his comrades. “I say three cheers for Black Jack O'Reilly and the devil take the hindmost.” The deck echoed with the men's cheers.
Jack yelled back over his shoulder, “Douse the running lights till we clear the coast.” Then his voice cracking, unable to hide his tears, “Lower the black flag and raise the Stars and Stripes, first mate. Set a course for Salem.”
T
HE TWO FIGURES coming off Summer Street turned left onto North. A bell struck twelve, signaling that the service at First Church had finished, and they headed up the short block and stood in front of the church as the congregation proceeded down the steps.
“We've been at this almost a week,” Paul said. “When are you going to give it up?”
“Not until I find her. When you see her, you'll understand.”
“God, man! You're twenty years old. The owner and master of your own vessel, a rich man by anyone's standards. You could have half the women in Salem with a smile and snap of the fingers. What's this in lieu of?”
“Don't disturb me while I'm concentrating.”
Jack peered at the dwindling number of people leaving the church. A few of them lingered on the sidewalk, conferring with the pastor. One last group came down the steep steps, the preacher among them. There she was.
Jack gasped when he saw her. His dream took on shape and substance. She was talking with her group and animatedly describing to the old preacher something that delighted all of them. As they said their goodbyes, Jack nudged Paul.
“Let's go—we'll follow back a ways.”
“If that is your long lost love, O naive one, she sure doesn't seem to be pining for you.”
“Shut your grub locker. I'm trying to figure out what to do.”
At the corner of Front and Market the group split, four going one way, Colleen and another girl going up Market.
Jack watched her walk. She was different. Somehow fuller, more womanly. She seemed to glide down the street. Jack's heart was tripping over itself. He remembered how the sun had caught her hair and burnished it. God help me, he thought, she seems to be shimmering now.
He took a deep breath and pulled Paul's arm. “It's now or never, Pauley.” Now or never. He followed her up Market Street. “Stay close. I may need your help.”
He drew within five feet of Colleen and her friend.
“Excuse, me, miss. Could you please give me directions to India Wharf?”
The two girls stopped and turned. The red-haired one in the green taffeta smiled brilliantly. “Pardon?” she said.
Jack, shaking, said, “India Wharf. We're lost and need to find India.”
The girl's smile vanished. She examined Jack for what seemed a minute. A full minute. “Yes, of course. From here it's a bit of a trick.”
She never looked around or pointed the way one would normally do, but simply stared straight into Jack's eyes.
“You'll be looking for Fish—the street, that is. It swims around and becomes Wharf.” Her green skirt fluttered as she spoke. Jack could smell apple blossoms. He wanted desperately to reach out and touch her freckled skin. There was no sound, it was as if his ears were plugged, the world beating in his chest.
The longer she spoke, the slower her speech became. Jack's face was expressionless.
“Norris Wharf,” she went on. “Hodge's, and it becomes Derby—”
“Toward the end,” he said, “it becomes Becket's shipyard, and that would be India.”
The girl finally just quit speaking, and paused for a long while.
“You've grown a bit of hair around your lip and chin, and you stand a bit straighter, but you still haven't been able to find India after three years. Jack, is it?”
“Colleen, is it?”
“Yes, it's Colleen, indeed. And it's actually been three years, four months, and sixteen days. If you're counting.”
Jack started to speak. Then he laughed hopelessly. “Counting is all I've done, and it seems nearer to ten years.”
They sailed 'round the world
With topsails unfurled
Those courageous men of the Star
Battered and torn
They rounded the Horn
To visit lands strange and far

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