Authors: Gene Hackman

Wake of the Perdido Star (32 page)

BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star

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Quen-Li stirred the pot of seafood gruel, mixed with island pig, which was fast becoming a staple for the shipwrecked mariners. His spoon scraped against the copper, shellfish, and red meat competing for the favors of the olfactory sense. The sun worked its way through the palm frond roof, dancing on the table where Paul's drawings and notes lay in disarray. The two were alone.

“You stand ready to kill, Paul, but you are no killer,” Quen-Li said. “And Jackâhe kills with great skill and ferocity, but neither is he a killer. He is an angry young man who despises injustice.”

Words shaped themselves in the back of Paul's throat. He struggled to restrain them, but they never remained captive for long in his spirit before taking form in the world. “Those are interesting observations, Quen-Li, most astute . . . and well articulated.” He sat back in his chair, “Particularly coming from a man who cooks but is no cook . . . n'est-ce pas? Oui ou non?”

Their eyes met for the first time during the conversation. The stirring stopped, then started again. “Why Paul saying such ting, no likee my fish-pig soup?”

Paul placed his quill in his leather pouch, put away his bark papyrus. He folded his arms across his chest and looked silently at the pot for several moments. Without warning he grabbed a mango from the table and threw it hard at Quen-Li's face. Quen-Li's left hand, the one not involved with stirring the pot, seemed to move of its own accord and effortlessly plucked the fruit from the air. The cook's eyes flashed for just a second, then became calm again.

“When you decide to come out from behind your mask, it will be a pleasure to make your acquaintance. But don't mock my friendship or that of Jack with hollow sounds. I believe I know who you are and what you are, but Jack needs to knowâfrom your lips, not mine. Don't lose his trust: it is a thing of great value; much, as to some, is the pulp of the poppy.”

That evening Quen-Li left his self-imposed exile to join Paul and Jack on their frond eating mat. The two friends always laid it where they could watch the sun redden the western night sky. Quen-Li looked about casually to confirm their privacy and then said in a low voice, to no one in particular, “Qu'est-ce qui se passe ici?”

Jack's eyes widened at the perfect French rolling out of Quen-Li's lips; it was as if a savage had recited a line from Shakespeare.

Paul replied without hesitation, “Rien, seulement trois assassins qui regardent le soleil. Two of them amateurs and one professional.”

A smile played on the Chinaman's lips. “So you know. It is knowledge that, to persons in other circumstances, would be fatal. But you are my friend, as is Jack, and these are different times.” All trace of pidgin had left Quen-Li's speech.

“What in blazing hell is going on?” Jack asked.

Paul shrugged. “Quen-Li, I believe, has some things to tell us.”

Jack was never as surprised or fascinated by a man's story as that which emerged from the lips of Quen-Li during the next several hours. Hours in which he and Paul were taken into the confidence of Lord Li Sen Quanjo, a man obviously not used to sharing anything of his inner self; a man who lived an artful lie for many years; a man whose soul seemed lightened by the unfamiliar opportunity for discourse.

Quen-Li told of his struggle with the purveyors of the tarry residue of the opium poppy in Nanking, Canton, and all of East China. Jack learned that the emperor of China had become increasingly impatient watching his people turn into cloudy-eyed cadavers, paying huge sums to support an opium habit fed eagerly by white devils from Britain, Holland, Spain, and America. His proclamations against the massive import of the drug from Turkey and India were blatantly disregarded, and in 1800 he made all possession of the white death a capital crime. But profits were so huge that traffic hardly slowed. Ships of the Honourable East India Company of Gentlemen of Britain, known as the John Company were, along with the Dutch and Spanish, some of the worst offenders. The Dutch Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie, or VOC as it was known, had actually gone bankrupt some ten years earlier, but its ships just reverted to the Dutch government. They now operated with less restraint than ever, since the
infrastructure of the venerable company wasn't there to regulate excessive behavior.

Certain Chinese nobles had given up second and third sons to a life of study in secret schools in the western provinces. Here the smartest and toughest were kept in servitude to a single calling. They were taught languages for hours a day by white devils arrested by the emperor's men. They learned the arts of war, particularly the art of assassination, from their own countrymen and specialists from Japan and Korea. Quen-Li was trained from the cradle to take life quickly, dispassionately, and with great skill. Not with the anger of Jack or the idealistic fervor of Paul, but with the precise artistry of a master murderer.

His targets were profiteers in opium. Paul explained that rumors of the assassin's cult were spreading through the Pacific and into the Caribbean, but few believed such fantastic tales. However, few cooks moved like Quen-Li, even fewer fetched salvaged salt and sugar from unlikely containers that Paul had purposely labeled only in French. “And no one, mon ami,” Paul continued, “not even someone with the reflexes of this animal,” indicating Jack, “could have caught that mango.”

“Ah, testing me, Paulee, hee, hee.”

Jack and Paul's mouths fell open. Quen-Li had sounded for all the world like Hansumbob. If the words had come from behind them, they would have been certain of it.

“Then it appears there may be some convergence of purpose in our lives,” Paul said.

“So it appears,” the nobleman stated.

Jack spoke softly. “Will you help us?”

Quen-Li was solemn. “Yes.”

PLANS BORN, PREPARATIONS MADE

H
AVING RETURNED TO Star Islet to work on the ship, the Americans did not see the Dutch pinnace when it entered the harbor back at Belaur. As they were later told by the Belaurans, several men had been on board armed with guns and a Papaloan captive for interpreter. The Dutch leader, a man named De Vries, had asked to speak to Yatoo. The chief delayed his welcome long enough for a fast canoe to reach the islet and inform Quince.

“Jesus, that was quicker than I would have ever guessed.”

The men, faces drawn, gathered about Quince to discuss their options.

“Hansumbob says they approached from the east,” Quince began. “It's a damn good thing that
Star'
s most sunk or they'd a seen it over the mangroves for sure. Yatoo says he'll hold off on meeting with the blokes until we can come through the swamp and see him first. He thinks he can arrange the meeting in such a way that we can hear what's going on. Course, if the buggers speak in
Dutch that don't help much, as none of us know itâ” He looked at Paul. “Unless, of course, Lord Le Maire . . . ”

Paul shrugged. “I can't speak it but I can pretty much understand itâdepending on the speaker and how fast he's talking.”

“That's it then. You and I will get behind that bark curtain in Yatoo's hut and listen to what these gents have to say. Jack, Hansumbob, Coop, and Cheatum will stay hidden with loaded rifles, in case these Dutchmen decide to start talkin' through their gun barrels.”

Heinrich De Vries was ushered with considerable ceremony into Yatoo's hut. He spoke through a dark-skinned man who knew some Papaloan but no Belauran; Yatoo had Graman, his interpreter, who spoke Malay and Papaloan, brought in to sit at his feet. Through the two interpreters the Dutchman and the chief were able to communicate.

Quince and Paul were squeezed into a cramped area behind a bark curtain, where Yatoo's wives weaved baskets while their husband held court. From there Quince could watch the Dutchman through a crack as the exchange took place. After studying him for a moment, “to gain a measure of the man,” as the first mate expressed it, he shifted position so Paul could use the slit to observe the man's mouth as he spoke.

Quince had decided at the last moment to squeeze Brown in, too. Since he was dealing with a “damned Tower of Babel,” he needed to garner all the linguistic forces he could muster. He moved back so his interpreters could better position themselves, finally pushing back the rear flap of the hut and easing himself out to join his marksmen. The meeting lasted for a little over an hour and seemed to end without incident. The pinnace crew never left the general area of the boat while waiting for their leaders to return. The native children watched from a distance, displaying
none of the spontaneity and openness they had shown at the arrival of the Americans.

“They're a surly lot,” Coop remarked to the others in hiding.

“Blackbirders ain't known for being a friendly bunch,” said Quince.

Jack studied the men's weapons and the manner in which they handled them. One musket was French, the others British, of the so-called India pattern. They were mass-produced copies of the East India Company's traditional shoulder arm, hurriedly made, Jack knew, to meet the crown's perceived arms deficit in the Napoleonic Wars. How his father would have scoffed at their quality! They were quicker loading than a Long Rifle but had nowhere near the accuracy and fine craftsmanship.

Only one of the three Dutchmen handling the weapons seemed comfortable with firearms. They were just sailors with gunsânot trained soldiers, Jack guessed. The man who looked familiar with his piece bothered him a bit, since another, snoozing in the boat, was dressed similarly in some sort of red and green uniform. Were these dragoons? Disciplined soldiers would provide a special challenge in a face-off. At least Jack surmised they would. Sometimes it struck him as outlandish that his judgment was being relied upon to make decisions of such importance. Was he the same Jack O'Reilly, that innocent young man living with his parents in New England less than a year ago?

Even more strange was how comfortable he felt in his new role. That older men increasingly deferred to him in matters of conflict was, in a way, unsettling. Was there something wrong with him that he felt his spirit soar with the anticipation of combat? Was it conflict in general, or was it the struggle against fearsome odds, against people who showed no remorse at killing? People who took advantage of honest, if unsophisticated, men and could kill babies . . . or rip the softness of a mother's throat.

Quince's voice: “Jack! Head down lad, they're leaving . . . you all right? You're pale as a topsail.”