They all stared seaward and said nothing; the subject dropped in favor of sleep. The men retired, feeling better than they had in a long time, despite nagging questions of the future. Soon the camp was quiet, the
Star's
surviving crew sleeping more peacefully than they ever had since the wreck. But Jack was awake, unable to keep thoughts of the count, or of Colleen, from his mind. He was determined with an almost fearsome intensity that he would meet both of them again.
A
FEW DAYS LATER, ideas of the salvage of guns or shoes were all but forgotten in order to move camp to the Belauran village. The islet they were on was limited in resources and access to the lagoon. Beyond proximity to the
Star
, it had little to recommend it. Jawa felt it would be easier to offer the protection of his own clanâand that of the chief of the entire island chainâif the men of the
Star
moved to Belaur proper on the main island.
The day was spent strapping cargo from the
Star
to the native outriggers for the one-hour paddle to the main village.
Of great value were sailcloth, needles, and thread. A fair amount survived, although much remained in the hold of the sunken ship. Most of the cooper's wares were easily accessible, including his mallets and a wide assortment of hoops and staves that would probably prove useful for fresh-water storage and other purposes. Of less immediate utilityâbut the subject of considerable mirthâwas an unmarked crate which, when eagerly opened,
revealed over four dozen hoops for women's dresses, and another forty pounds of horse hair for use in making toothbrushesâenough for a small army.
Most of the gunpowder was left at the islet to dry out, there being no purpose for it in the immediate future.
The men spent the first three days on the main island sorting through salvaged material and resting from their ordeal. They were camped on the outskirts of the village, but the women and children brought them food and drink and helped them construct lean-tos as temporary sheltersâthough the weather was so pleasant this seemed hardly necessary. They were told not to enter the village because that triumphant moment needed to be attended by great ceremony. Thus far, all communication had been through Gan Jawa. The meeting with high chief Yatoo would symbolize their formal acceptance by the Belaurans and their official induction into village life.
On a Sunday, the survivors dressed in their best clothing remnants, including some modified women's wear found in yet another crate. The natives were resplendent in shells, beads, and feathers. Jack was intrigued that, even in their most formal attire, it was only by chance that the islanders' “privates” were covered. The younger women made designs with paint that served to enhance rather than hide their breasts and sexual organs. A drum beat, and the entourage was escorted into the village by Jawa, whom the sailors now took to be some sort of underchief or warlord.
Jawa wore the feathered hat that Quince had given him and carried his axe in his right hand, with no spear in his left. Jack noted also that the warriors who accompanied him carried spears but no axe. Jawa's axe must have some ceremonial significance, Jack thought, the razor-sharp shark teeth inset along two sides wickedly reflecting the bright sun.
Brown, the newly designated chief interpreter of “The Right Honourable Brotherhood of the Shipwrecked Men of the
Star
,” stood importantly one pace to the left and behind Quince.
When the procession reached the largest of all the huts, they stopped and waited. Chief Yatoo emerged and stepped forward to within a yard of Quince, who wore no headgear but sported an officer's jacket with brass buttons. No one seemed to notice that it was too small for him, having recently been removed from the body of the late First Officer Mancy. Quince's cutlass and scabbard hung over his shoulder with a bright red sash. Jack knew it was a fine cutlass, though not his favorite, which, given Quince's intentions for the ceremony, he had left in their makeshift camp outside the village.
Though shorter than Quince, Yatoo almost matched him in girth. His left ear was pierced, a ring of bone or shell thrust through it. Covered with tattoos like the others, he also had dark brown stains on his teeth, two of which seemed artificially sharpened. What amazed Jack was that a man adorned in such a bizarre fashion should have such a regal bearing. He felt an urge to bow in his presenceâa feeling he never had around the high and mighty gentry of Hamden.
Yatoo held both his palms upward and, through his man, the Malay speaker Graman, and Brown, told Quince that the crew was welcome to his village and to the chain of islands called Belaur. He noted that the white men had come in a fine ship and must be from a great island far away. They had never seen such a marvel up close, he told them, although twice they had seen white sails of giant canoes in the distance and wondered from whence they came. They had heard of men with white skin and great pigeons that walked but could not fly. There was even a legend of a giant man with four feet and two heads who had walked upon the beach sands and breathed fire from noisy sticks. Did Gan Quince know of these things?
Indeed Gan Quince did, and said he would be glad to share what he knew of the world beyond the reach of war canoes. Gan Quince was, in fact, a prince from a land far distant, he explained, and he expected that a great fleet of vessels similar to the one that had
wrecked on the islet would be sent in search of him by the king. There would be great rewards for those who helped him and ghastly reprisals for any who had harmed him or his men. He was grateful that Chief Yatoo had shown him and his men such courtesy.
Yatoo made a sweeping gesture with his hands toward the furthest portion of the compound. There were eight huts with newly thatched roofs waiting for their new occupants, seven for two sailors each and a private one for Chiefâindeed now “Prince”âQuince.
“Can you imagine?” Paul murmured quietly aside to Jack.
“What?”
“Can you imagine, old friend, if these people had wrecked a great canoe in our land, or Europe, being treated with such grace and humanity? Makes you wonder who the real savages are.” Jack nodded thoughtfully at Paul's remark, never taking his eyes from the happenings. Yatoo stated that he and his people would help the Americans with the further salvage of materials from their ship and assist them in constructing another if they wished. He asked only in return that they be friends, teach some of his people their language, perhaps donate some metal, and help in defense of the village from attack by Yatoo's enemies.
Quince immediately agreed to Yatoo's terms. As a gesture of friendship, he stood at attention while Mentor came to his side in a well-rehearsed move. He removed the cutlass and red retaining sash from Quince's shoulder and placed them in Quince's outstretched palms. The old sailor then clicked his heels in as military a fashion as he could muster and returned to his place in line. Quince bowed his head and handed the cutlass to Yatoo.
The chief was obviously greatly impressed by the sword. He stepped back, slowly removing the shiny blade from its sheath and walking purposefully to a retaining pole on a nearby hut. Grasping the hilt tight in his fist, he swung at the pole in a clubbing motion, simultaneously uttering a loud war whoop. The pole split in half and collapsed, along with much of the hut. Yatoo dissolved in laughter, accompanied by guffaws from his followers.
The entire village yelled wildly. The chief then replaced the sword in the scabbard, handed it to a retainer, walked to Quince, and with tears in his eyes grabbed him up in a great bear hug. Soon the villagers were cheering and escorting the whites to their huts. Runny-nose children, loudly imitating the chief's sword slashes and war whoops, ran in their wake.
Paul glanced at Jack. “I believe the formalities are at an end.”
“Yes, it's eat, drink, and be merry time.” They came to an empty hut. “How about this for an elegant hacienda? And will I do for a hut-mate?”
“I would be most honored, Lord O'Reilly,” Paul remarked. “If Quince can be a bloody prince then we can sure as hell be lords.”
“Aye, Lord Le Maire.”
The dwellings prepared by the Belaurans were comfortable and most functional for their tropical world. Jack lay on a pallet, elevated from the centipedes and other vermin, and noticed how the thatch permitted a breeze to enter from the direction of the prevailing winds, passing lightly over his body. Before they left to join the others, Jack remarked to Paul, “You know something, old bean. This really is an elegant hacienda.”
“Tu as raison, mon ami,” Paul responded. “Keeps out the rain and sun, lets in the breeze, handy hearth, and you don't have to sweep the dirt off the floor 'cause it
is
dirt. Only problem is it's going to be hard to bang nails into the thatch to hang paintings and the like.”
“Come, you fool.” Jack cuffed Paul playfully. “It's time to join our associatesâeven lords have social obligations.”
The revelry went well into the night with a plentitude of food, song, and a strange drink ceremoniously pounded from what seemed to be the roots of a pepper tree and strained through hibiscus bark. It was passed around in a coconut half shell to the sailors. The men, used to rum, thought it a comparatively mild party beverage until their lips turned numb. The natives called it sakau, a narcotic home brew that, when consumed in quantity, could make the average shipwrecked sailor forget his troubles and perhaps his name.
At the end of the evening, many of the men found that they had women returning with them to their huts. This included Jack and Paul, but while the young Le Maire seemed as if he had been blessed with manna, Jack was strangely subdued regarding the attractive young lady, Wyalum by name, who joined him. But she soon tired of his shyness and leftâto find a willing host in another hut, he presumed.
Jack lay on his pallet long after she had slipped away. It wasn't that he didn't want herâhis whole being craved the woman; he just felt sad to the point of paralysis and didn't know why. Finally, he left the hut so as not to inhibit Paul. There were no separate sleeping areas in their hacienda; and although Paul's consort seemed to be oblivious to Jack and was consuming his friend like a one-woman orgy, he knew Paul would appreciate the privacy.
Jack walked a deserted section of beach, the sounds of revelry growing distant. He still could form no really coherent thoughts but felt tears making their way slowly down his cheek.
Something had happened to him in Matanzas that went so deep it affected him in ways he couldn't begin to understand. The women would be a great comfort, he knew, but not this way. The carefree lust the women showed panicked him for some reason.
Images of his mother, the guardia leering at her breasts, her nakedness purposely exposed to save his life. The irony of it was almost too much. He could swallow fear to face any enemy; but women, they frightened him with their power.
He would later realize it was July 4, 1806. With sunup, the village returned to a semblance of normalcy although in three-quarter time. Most of the Americans were loath to leave their huts. Hungover and satiated, they spent the day recuperating from their good fortune. Quince decided in retrospect to declare a holiday, in respect for American Independence Day. Paul remarked that this sensitivity to republican democracy was indeed remarkable, coming as it did from “royalty.”
J
ACK HAD NO IDEA how long two and a half minutes could be until he watched the minute glass and noted he wasn't the only man holding his breath and, after a lung-scorching period, was forced to let the air out in a sigh. The men were all staring expectantly at the water beneath them. A native man had been under for three minutes now, having disappeared into the midships hold of the
Star
, resting precariously on an incline in twenty to twenty-five feet of clear water.
When it seemed as if he must have drowned, there was a hint of movement: a flurry of tiny bubbles preceded a form unhurriedly making its way to the surface. He broke through, took a huge intake of breath, which, Jack noted, was not preceded by exhalation. The man must have let out a huge lungful of air somewhere during the dive.
Paul noted this, too. “They get rid of the stale air slowly on the diveâprobably helps reduce the urge to breathe . . . interesting.” He was deep in concentration, speaking half to Jack and half to himself.
Jack knew that when it came to anything literary or theoretical, it was always worth listening to his friend. Paul was hopeless when it came to engineering and mechanics, but he had been talking about gas laws and physics studies he had read.
“How could that help?” Jack said. “Seems like it would just mean less air for the man's lungs.”
“It's not the air that keeps you alive, it's the oxygen in the air. Once you use it up, the air is toxic and makes your body want to get rid of it, at least that's what Lavoisier says. Now, in old Priestley's words, that would be dephlogisticated airâyou know, and still combustible . . . or something like that.”
“Something like that? Why couldn't you have studied less Shakespeare and more physics?”