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Authors: Gene Hackman

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BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star
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At noon the next day, the Christian Sabbath, the
Star
suddenly pulled anchor and sailed out of Manila harbor. Customs,
port officials, and a number of merchants must have cheered in relief. Jack saw De Vries watching from the port side of the country ship
Bauxter
, along with the local leader of the auxiliary thugs who worked with the British press-gangs.
Fourteen hours later, at 2:30 A.M. Monday, the
Star
reentered Manila's outer harbor with no running lights, all lanterns doused, and a black flag flying from its main topgallant. It passed silently by the
Bauxter
and several other ships to the inner harbor.
At 4:30 A.M. the
Star
's sails filled with the usual outgoing morning breeze. She passed the merchants of the inner harbor slowly, with reduced sail, and then came alongside the
Bauxter
with all sails reefed. “Yo, watch of the
Bauxter
,” hailed Quince from the quarterdeck, Jack standing beside him.
“State your intentions,” came the startled response.
“A message from the Brotherhood, for Heinrich De Vries.” The
Bauxter
watch summoned his captain and De Vries. The latter came onto the deck rubbing sleep from this eyes and cursing the damn Spanish customs officials who had no doubt roused him.
“Says they have a message for you, sir.”
De Vries cupped his hand over his good ear and turned it towards the ship, a mere fifty yards from him. His eyes shot to the mainmast and the black flag when simultaneously he heard the report of a Kentucky Long Rifle. He stared at his hand in disbelief. The middle finger was missing and a significant part of his left ear was intermeshed in his remaining fingers.
“Couldn't bear to leave a man in such a state,” Quince called. “Smaller wig and hat size and they should fit evenly, though now you'll kind of look like a walking prick wearing a merkin. Bon voyage.”
The
Star
emptied six guns of its broadside at the waterline of the
Bauxter
, dropped all sails, and headed full tilt out of the harbor. At 6:30 A.M. the captain of the
Bauxter
ordered all hands to abandon ship. The
Bauxter
sank at 6:55 A.M. with no loss of life.
Jack would take to his grave the memory of their breakneck
sortie from the Philippine harbor, every soul in the port wakened by the blast. Quince, on the quarterdeck, never looked happier or prouder. In deference to the HMS
Respite
, they lowered their black flag and raised the Stars and Stripes as they made their way past it. The British sailors crowded the rails, marveling at the cheeky Yanks that had bearded the Dutch merchants.
Quince ordered a salute fired for the British ship. It was returned from one of the thirty-six cannons on its port side. Hansumbob, in the crow's nest, swore later he could hear the sound of laughter; it seemed to be coming from the area of the
Respite
's quarterdeck. Although the Americans might soon be going at it again with the English, they had been fairly treated by this captain and wished him well.
It would take many days at sea before the men all calmed down; the Brotherhood was definitely frisky. As Mentor said, “I reckon we're on a fool's errand, but damn if we ain't a magnificent bunch of fools.”
W
HERE DOES THE time go at sea? Paul pondered, serving his shift on the starboard watch. The ocean spread in every direction. Huge, blue-gray rollers lifted the ship and surged it forward, assisting the wind in its work. Paul felt himself grow heavy as the deck rose under his feet, then light as the swell passed. The effect was hypnotic, memories of land and his family evoked by the endless sliding of wood over water.
A week at sea from their triumphant departure, the Brotherhood seemed content, welcoming the sense of security that came with returning to familiar routines. Away from ports and harbors, the sea was a place of refuge. In these far reaches of the Southern Pacific, a vessel might cruise for months without ever seeing another sail. No crowds, no press-gangs, no Dutchmen bearing blood grudges; just the pulse of wind and wave. Even the coming and going of the sun lost meaning in the seaman's world of four-hour watches. Night and day merged in motion.
Heading due south, looking for the trade winds that would
carry them past Ceylon and on to the Cape of Good Hope, they were between lives, Manila already a dream in their wake and Cuba far ahead of them. The men did their chores and sank into their own private rhythm with the sea—much to absorb, much to anticipate. The drills were their main distraction. Jack had the men practice endlessly with the rifles and cannon, occasionally even tracking back over their own seaway, blasting at jettisoned crates and other makeshift targets. They made a game of it but Paul knew Jack had serious intentions and wanted the small group's marksmanship highly honed.
He marveled at how Jack brought the men out. Perhaps all men have some of the warrior in them, and Jack made sure that over the weeks the group shared their martial skills. The Belaurans demonstrated the art of wrestling and wielding clubs. Quince and Mentor were a surprising source of knowledge on the use of cutlasses. Only Quen-Li kept his distance from the training. It was clear from his rare smiles that he approved of the drills; it was just that the Chinese cook was a man apart, one for whom, Paul knew, taking life was already a way of life.
Weeks rolled into months as the
Star
sliced its way south. A brief, uneventful stopover in Cape Town preceded the five-week haul to Cuba.
Paul expected Jack to be intense, agitated, morose, on this last leg of the trip. In fact, he was strangely calm, relaxed. He spoke of his childhood and his family's fateful decision to move, even the incidents in Cuba, but he was more reflective than passionate. Paul realized that with the mission under way, his friend was already feeling some release. Relief from the nagging need to take action.
Paul watched the crew of the
Star
complete the metamorphosis that began from the time they went aground in the South Seas; a “sea change into something rich and strange. There's a black star rising in the east,” he mused.
Inside Jack there was a quiet turmoil. His surface nervousness and agitation had disappeared—there would be no more waiting, no more indecision, the prow of the
Star
sailing toward his destiny, whatever it might be. He was heading for the birthplace of his nightmares. That line that Paul often quoted from Shakespeare—something about the “taking up arms against a sea of troubles”—yes, that was it, “and by opposing, end them.”
The face of his mother; sometimes he couldn't see it anymore. Her eyes, but not her face. But he always saw the face of de Silva. Asleep, he sometimes saw his mother's neck, pulsing blood, though not when he was awake. But de Silva, he could see his face, in the brightness of day. He could see Sergeant Matros's face, his father's hands—yes, he could see those. He could see that dagger, could feel his hatred, running cold and deep.
“W
HAT THE HELL is this place?” Ole Bob barked at Paul.
“The Dry Tortugas. Discovered by Ponce de León in 1513. He called it Las Tortugas, the turtles, 'cause a lot of turtles used to hang out here and made good eating.”
“Seems mighty wet to me.”
“Well, he's not the one that called it ‘dry.' That's a warning for mariners on the map that there's no fresh water here.”
One anchor was set, and as the ship swung into the wind, another was about to be released by Mentor, standing next to the cathead on the port side, on Quince's signal. As standard precaution, he held an axe in his hand, to cut the retaining lines if the pin didn't work.
“There ain't nothin' here but sandy sand and more sand and a few acres of bushy sand with squawkin' birds,” Hansumbob complained.
“But it's quiet water,” Paul said. “Good anchorage where we can
spend a couple nights, collect eggs from the birds, and approach Habana from the north. It's ninety miles that way, and it'll look to the Spaniards as if we're merchantmen coming in from the United States. Running in ballast from a few hundred miles away to pick up cargo makes sense, Bob. They'd be like flies on us if they knew we ran without cargo all the way from the damn Philippines. At least that's what Quince's and Jack's reckoning is.”
“Well, Paulee, that's good enough for me, hee, hee.”
Hansumbob made his way over to the cathead to help with the ground tackle, muttering, “Yeah, the plan's good enough for most of us, but Cheatum will probably have something to complain about.”
As it turned out, even Cheatum was silent, as if he had come to some inner resolve that allowed him to bide his time. But Paul was watchful of him always.
There were eggers from Habana squatting on one of the keys; mainly poor folk from Cuba or the Floridas who lived there part of the year, when birds migrating from the mainland were plentiful. They had fresh water from a rain catchment they had rigged; for a not-too-inflated price they sold it to the
Star
, along with fresh eggs. They even sold some of their own store of fruits when they realized the sailors from the barkentine would pay handily for them.
On the third morning of their restover in the Tortugas, Coop, who had been on watch, shouted a warning from his perch. “Two sails, ship-rigged. Yeah it's a brig, and it looks military, headed for the harbor.”
Quince had the
Star
prepared for action. He wasn't expecting this. This sprinkle of keys and shallows should rarely receive a visit from larger ships—they tended to avoid it. According to the Spanish, Florida was still a part of their dominion in the Americas, although the United States was claiming it was really an implicit part of the Louisiana Purchase—there was tension over the issue. Quince ordered the U.S. flag run up and all men to the battle stations, as they had rehearsed so well in recent months. Men stationed in the
rigging could either shoot from a good vantage point or set sails, depending on whether Quince chose fight or flight.
The brig picked its way tortuously through the coral reefs, preparing to enter the lagoon. Quince knew there was only one safe direction for it to take, given the prevailing winds, so he simply held the
Star
at anchor, ready to chop lines if necessary. The
Star'
s crew watched silently as what they could see now was an American brig-of-war made its entry. The brig was well handled; she was definitely intending to come within hailing range. As it dropped anchor, the vessel swung sharply around so her port side was exposed to the
Star
.
Jack, standing beside Quince, could see the faces of the officers on the poop.
“I'll bet they're curious,” Jack said. “Think about it; a ship with a French name flying the Stars and Stripes and rigged for battle.”
A first mate with a horn and good hailing voice transmitted the orders of the skipper: “Sailors of vessel
Étoile Trouvée
: you are being detained for inspection by the United States brig-of-war
Adams
.”
“Detained?!” Quince needed no bullhorn. “We ain't going anyplace, so how you going to detain us?!”
A moment's hesitation on the brig and the big voice of the man again rang out. “How about retracting those gun muzzles and lowering your gunport covers . . . real gentle-like.”
“How 'bout kissing my round red arse . . . real tender-like.”
There were several more moments of hesitation on the brig while the skipper reviewed his options. Jack imagined himself on the deck of the
Adams
—something he found himself doing more and more in confrontations—trying to see himself through his antagonist's eyes.
The
Star
, though slightly larger in overall length than the
Adams
, had a much smaller complement of men, but Jack knew it would bother the naval officers that the men on the dark sleek ship were so well deployed. Those not manning cannon were dispersed
through the rigging and along the gunwale . . . each with a musket. Muskets, hell. On closer inspection it would occur to a seasoned soldier that those shoulder weapons were long rifles, Kentucky style.
BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star
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