“Not if certain members of this crew have anything to say about it.”
“Yes. I've taken to sleeping with one eye open.”
“Not a bad idea, my learned friend.”
Jack looked down and found Cheatum glancing up into the rigging.
The second mate stopped in the waist of the ship and shouted to all within earshot but to no one in particular, “I own part of this scow, and I want privileges!”
The six or seven crew members who could hear ignored him; they continued working, not wanting to make eye contact.
“You hear me, you bunch of lubbers? I want respect!”
“Doesn't one have to earn respect?” whispered Paul. “Or am I just being old-fashioned?”
“The only respect Cheatum understands is a fist in the belly,” said Jack.
Jack started down the ratline. By the time he and Paul were down, Quince had come on deck.
“What's this about respect?” Quince asked.
“I did more than my share on this tub, and considerin' my knowledge and the number of years I been to sea, I think I deserve it.”
“You deserve no more or less than any other tar aboard this ship. And don't let me hear you talk of it again.” Quince turned his back and walked to the rail on the port side.
Cheatum began an animated argument with Smithers and several of the crew members. Quince turned.
“Cheatâwhat the hell are you doing? It seems you're not content unless you're stirring something up.”
“Not at all. I just want what's mine.”
Quince adjusted his empty right sleeve and strolled methodically toward him. “And what do you think is yours?”
Cheatum puffed out his chest and spoke not only to Quince but to the rest of the crew. “I want twenty-five percent of this ship.”
Jack leaned against the port rail, wondering what it would take to shut this lout's mouth.
“Aye,” Cheatum continued, “I think it only fair. Quince, you
and me be the most experienced dogs on board. I think we divide it in half and the rest goes to the crew. What say ye?”
“I say you're daft, man. Every man on board has broken his back to put this ship together, so put a stopper in it and lay on some work, sailor.”
“Who put you in charge?” The two crusty salts glared at each other, Cheatum with a bully's grin on his face, Quince with a sense of resignation. Seconds passed like minutes. The entire crew assembled on deck, waiting to see who would emerge victorious in this confrontation that had seemed inevitable since the
Star
piled up on the rocks.
“After Mr. Mancy died, I was the senior person,” Quince said. “No one put me in charge. It was just the natural turn of events.”
“Well, I don't see it that way. The way I see it, you was in charge as long as the
Star
was a goin' concern. But this ship is different.”
“Different how?”
“It's a whole new ship. I say we start from scratch. We choose who we want as skipper. What say ye, lads?” Silence. “All those in favor of choosing a cap'n, raise your right arm.” Cheatum smirked at Quince's empty sleeve.
The men were silent.
“Dammit to all. Speak up, you bunch of lubbers. You know you don't want this one-armed gimp as your leader. Speak up.”
The men stood frozen, expressionless.
“I'll be in charge, at least until we get to Manila,” Quince said evenly.
Jack knew the first mate was in a tough position with his right arm gone, and he itched to say something on his behalf, but he held back, thinking his words would do more harm than good.
“Which reminds me,” Cheatum pressed. “Why was it decided to go to Manila in the first place? Who made that decision?”
Quince stared hard at the second mate. “Before my accident, you would never have spoken to me in this manner. . . .” His voice
trailed off, and he shrugged. “All right, you son of a whore. Take out your blade. I'll do you with my left hand.”
Cheatum's smile split his ugly face; Jack knew this was exactly what he wanted.
The men began clearing the way for the confrontation. They made a large circle, excited by the prospects of seeing a fight to the end. With weapons in hand, Quince and Cheatum began circling each other for several minutes, making ineffectual thrusts.
“I'll slice you fore and aft, you pumped-up pig,” Cheatum grunted.
Jack knew he had to act if the ship was to survive. He stepped between them, combative, facing Cheatum.
“Cheat, you're well named. You are, indeed.” Jack could hear Quince breathing hard behind him.
“Step away, Jack. I'll deal with you later.” Cheatum frowned.
“No. The way I see it, you're taking unfair advantage. You've goaded a weakened man into a fight you know he can't win. I won't allow that to happen.”
“Let it be, Jack,” Quince said. “It's inevitable. I'll take him. Step aside.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Quince,” Jack continued, “once he dispatches you, I'll be next. Probably in my sleep, if I know the second mateâand I think I do.”
With a grunt, Quince collapsed.
“You see, Cheat, your foe is down with nary a scratch on him. Wouldn't you feel proud to bury your cutter in his helpless hulk?”
With a guttural yell, Cheatum lunged at the younger man. Jack stepped aside with contempt and seized Cheatum's right wrist, twisting it into the air. The demonic look that the crew had seen before came into his eyes. The sharp blade dropped to the deck, where it stuck and quivered. Cheatum's scream of pain was stifled as Jack locked his left arm around his neck and forced the bigger man to his knees.
“I'll kill you with your own knife if you move an inch,” he said.
Cheatum gasped assent and relaxed. Jack picked the knife out of the deck and tossed it overboard. His gaze stopped on Smithers, who seemed uncomfortable with Quen-Li, Hansumbob, and Paul surrounding him.
“I'm ashamed of all of you,” Jack said, looking around for the first time. He walked in a wide circle, staring the sailors in the eye, standing in front of each until they dropped their gazes. There was a silence on the ship; what wind there was rocked the boat gently. “You're grown men delighting in someone else's scrap. I don't care how long you been to sea or how old you are or how tough you think you are.”
Smithers stepped forward and addressed the group. “This young pip-squeak has the balls of a brass monkey, I'll say that for him. But listen here, all of ya. Quince can't lead and that's clear. We're a band of brigands, and we'll be branded such as soon as we touch shore. I say we head for the Sunda straits, sneak into Jakarta, then head for the Cape of Good Hope. What say ya all?”
Mild shouts of ayes and nays; there didn't seem to be a clear-cut margin one way or another. Regaining his strength, Quince stood, clutching his empty right sleeve.
“I may not be up to running this ship with an iron fist, so to speak,” he said. There was laughter and Quince grinned at his unintended pun. “But listen upâwe can't go directly through the straits. We need provisions. We got to think in the long term, not the short.” This seemed to make sense to the disgruntled men. Jack marveled, once again, at Quince's sheer strength of will. He seemed to always be fair and firm, but uppermost in his mind was always the ship. “I propose the following: an equal split of the ship decided by the number of men here, excluding the Belauran boys, who understand they're on salary, what say you?” The men all agreed.
Jack contemplated this. “I'd like to say that I want my share of the ship divided up amongst all of you if after the stop in South Africa, we head for Cuba, where I have a plan to make you all rich.
As some of you know, my parents were murdered in Cuba, and I'm sure their plantation has been confiscated. I intend to retrieve it, and I make all of you this promiseâyou will be wealthy indeed. You have my word.”
“It's generous of ya. But we would 'ave gone with ya anyway, ya id'jut,” Hansumbob said quietly.
Paul stepped forward. “To make my friend's offer even more attractive, I'll also forfeit my share of this vessel if we head toward Habana after Manila.” He bowed grandly at the group, and with a sweep of his arm backed away from the band of sailors, stumbling on a hatch coaming and landing butt first in a pile of coiled line. Jack thought Paul brilliant at finding just the right bit of levity to punctuate a moment of importance.
It was agreed they would indeed stop briefly in Manila for refitting, finishing repairs, reprovisioning, and arranging cargo for the passage to South Africa. Then on to Cuba.
After the meeting, Jack found Paul at the rail, peering at the bottomless ocean. He touched his friend's arm.
“Thank you for the vote of confidence. I think that, coupled with your performance as a grandee-turned-joker, swayed the crew.”
“It was nothing, O one without learning. I was simply extending a helping hand to those less fortunate than myself. I believe in the adageâ”
“Save it, Le Maire; but thanks anyway.”
“Incidentally, Cap'n, just what plan do you have to make all these men wealthy once we've reached Cuba?”
Jack looked to Paul with a certainty given only to youth. “I'm not sure. But I'll do right by these men. Or die trying.”
T
HE
FOUND STAR
encountered surprisingly little official folderol on its arrival in the port of Manila. Flying an American flag, neutral in the wars wracking Europe, and carrying an innocuous cargo of island trade goods, it attracted little notice. Manila was a racial potpourri and no one seemed to care about the presence of the islanders on the crew. The tattooed men simply returned the curious stares of the Spanish port officials, who eventually signed entry permits for the ship. The customs officers asked only that the several cannons be stowed in the bilge during its stay in port; they particularly wanted the bow chasers removed from open view on the deck. Several pieces of Dutch silver and some intricate wooden carvings from the islands speeded the process.
Jack went with Quince to help him find a prosthetic hook. Every few minutes the first mate would step out of a merchandise shop they'd find on the waterfront and show a new choice to the young man. Jack vetoed them all until Quince appeared with one
of solid brass inlaid with ivory, as befitted a man of his stature. It was duly bought, and the two men went off to join their shipmates at the centers of libation.
The men of the
Star
absorbed the revelry about them as they wet their throats at the Boar's Inn. It was their homecoming to European drinking establishments, and they were surprised how much they had missed the aimless, recreational patter of their own world. The talk had been about the battle of Trafalgar, but when Jack and Paul ambled to the edge of the throng of listeners, they attended to a sailor's tale of shipwreck and piracy with great interest, for it seemed to involve islands of the West Pacific not far from where the
Star
had just sailed.
“Aye, the scuppers ran red with bloodâI seen it with me own eyes. The Dutchman's head, eyes gouged out, hung from the mainsail lower yard. If ever there was a ship where the devil played a bloody tune, it was the poor
Mary Lee
.” Jack had heard of the
Mary Lee
. It was a general cargo packet, under contract to a British missionary society, he believed, but never knew it flew a Dutch flag or had fallen prey to buccaneers.
“And the women were a sorry sight, enough to make a man cry. Tied over the cannon they were, naked, with their nether ends to the sky while the savages had their way with them until nightfall. Then they lit the ship on fire and you could hear their screams as the poor defiled lasses burnt to death.”
Jack wondered who could do such a thing.
“I'm telling you lads, Blackbeard was a man of the cloth compared to these blackguardsâeat the heads of their victims, too. If you're ever given the chance to kill yourself with a dull knife, take itâtake it, I'm tellin' ya, before you let yourself fall into the hands of Black Jack O'Reilly.”
Jack almost dropped his mug of ale. He stared open-mouthed at Paul.
Paul smiled. “Blimey, Jack, you never even shared those ladies with the rest of us.”
“It's not funny . . . I mean . . . damn, the man's daft.”
The bar suddenly quieted; Jack's last comment, louder than he intended, was overheard by the storyteller.
“Daft is it? You numb-butted upstart. I'll show you daft.”
The man walked toward Jack, groping clumsily for a dagger under his jacket. His comrades sized up Jack, Paul, and the table of swarthy men in the corner that had grown ominously quiet. “Easy there, Duncan,” a sailor said. “There's no need for that. The lad meant nothing by it.”