A mist came in from the bay, obscuring the waterfront. The few figures left on the cobblestone street floated ghostlike, feet seemingly off the ground. Paul’s eyes stopped at a bent figure, standing still in the road. The man had not moved for what seemed like minutes; another drunkard, Paul figured.
He decided to make his obligatory tour of the ship, making sure the lines were secure, nothing had come adrift. The watch at night was mostly for protection from thieves, not really maintenance of the ship; as long as her bilges were regularly pumped, she’d probably float proud at the dockside for years to come left unattended. But inspection was one of the laws of the sea. His shoes padded on the wet decks as he checked each mooring line along the starboard side.
A clock struck four, reverberating from several blocks away. The night was about to lose its battle with day.
Leaning his elbows on the damp rail, Paul gazed sleepily over the bay. In another three hours the ship would come alive. Today, at last, they would set sail, catching the morning tide and making their way south around Cape Horn, then west to the South Pacific. The thought of adventure stirred him, and he shook off his stupor.
“Paul.”
Again his name. Now he knew it was not his imagination. He looked out into the fog. The figure he had seen earlier had dropped to the ground. He was calling weakly, one hand at his side, the other holding his face just inches from the street. “Paul.”
“Jesus Christ! Jack!”
Springing down the gangplank, Paul bolted toward his friend, prostrate on the cobblestones.
“Are you drunk? Or is it just tired you are, and find this filthy street a comfort?” Paul was amused.
No answer. Only heavy labored breathing.
“All right, me laddy. I’ll just get you to your feet and walk you around a bit to sober you up.”
Paul started to lift Jack when he felt a sticky wetness. Even in the dark, Paul could see Jack’s shirt was torn across the front, that the stickiness was blood.
“Jack, wake up, man. What is it? What happened?”
“Ship,” Jack mumbled.
“What?”
“Get me aboard.”
“We’ve got to get a doctor for you. There’s bound to be one awake. You’ve a cut across your stomach—and deep.”
“No doctor. Just get me aboard.”
“Why?”
“Please. Hide me.”
“Jack. We’re sailing at first light. You need a doctor.”
Jack looked at Paul directly for the first time. His eyes were bloodshot; his skin hot and clammy. There were dried cuts on his face and caked dirt around his mouth. But Paul could see gratitude in his friend’s look, and his own heart beat a welcome.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll help you.”
For three days the Perdido Star sailed along the northern shore of Cuba, making her way toward Cabo Maisi where she could bear south to the Jamaican channels and the Caribbean Sea.
Since their departure, the mates paid scant attention to the very sick stowaway Paul had been tending to between his own duties. But Paul knew it was only a matter of time before one of the officers became aware of this unwanted extra hand.
Jack’s fever broke on the fourth day and, although unable to keep down solid food, he sipped some of Paul’s porridge ration and a great deal of water. Paul hadn’t been able to get a coherent story from Jack. He worried that, with the island of Cuba slipping away, Jack’s parents would be concerned for him.
“I see you used my book to fine purpose,” Paul said when he knew Jack could understand. “Good words have always been known to save a soul.” He hesitated. “I think it’s time you told me about this wound in your side. You’ve been gone four days and I’m sure your parents are sick with worry.”
Jack remained silent, staring blankly.
“Listen to me. You can’t just sail away like this without telling your parents something.”
Jack turned to look at his friend. His eyes were clear for the first time in days. “I can’t tell them, Paul.”
“Of course you can. They’d understand. Just be forthright.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t tell them—because they’re dead.”
Paul slumped to the floor of the fo’c’sle. He sat as if dead himself, unable to speak. His breathing became labored; he felt as if he himself had been slashed. “I—I—just saw them. But how—”
Jack turned away, back to his silent staring.
Paul made his way on deck, taking deep breaths. There seemed to be only one thing to do. Reveal Jack’s presence to one of the officers, or possibly the bosun, or first mate, and ask for help.
Mr. Quince seemed to be the fairest man of authority on board. Still, it was with great trepidation that Paul approached him and brought him down to see his sick friend.
Quince’s huge stomach pressed tight against Jack’s second-tier bunk.
“You look like death’s cousin, wee Jack,” he said, his tone compassionate. “Your color’s gone and you smell of last year’s dead dog. You’ll be over the side if the captain gets wind of ya.”
Jack eyed the first mate’s girth. “Do your worst sailor,” he replied. “I’ll be swimming alongside this leaky tub long after you’ve been wrapped, stuffed, and weighted for your last bath.”
Quince stared for a second, shocked, then laughed so hard he had to hold onto Jack’s berth.
“I’ll do what I can, Jackson.” He paused. “I think that’s what I heard your mother call ya. I’ll do what I can with the captain. No promises.” He glided smoothly and powerfully between the berths, heading toward the companionway. “If it be any consolation, wee Jack, I feel for ya.” He lifted his bulk up the stairs. “There’s compensation in this world, lad. Trust me on this.”
Paul reached over and squeezed his friend’s hand, then made his way on deck. The sky was ablaze, a pink glow reflecting off the clouds in the eastern sky. Jack’s parents dead? It should be raining. There should be heavy seas and biting, bitter rain. Why Jack’s parents? What had happened? Who had attacked Jack? Paul could think of several people in his recent past much more deserving of that end.
Paul was working on deck several days later when Quince approached him.
“The ole man says he would like to put your friend off the ship at Port au Prince, Haiti.”
Paul bridled. “The captain’s an ass, as he has demonstrated on several occasions. I suppose I owe him a debt of gratitude for taking me on after finding me in the middle of the Atlantic, but I’m hard-pressed to understand him.”
“You weren’t listening,” Quince laughed. “I said he would like to put him off. Not that he was going to. I’ve talked to him and he’s agreed if Jack can start work in two days’ time, he’ll keep him aboard as an apprentice. If he can’t do the work, you’ll do it for him. You’ll stand his watch and your own and generally take up his slack. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Quince. Thank you. We’ll do you proud, sir.” For the first time since Jack’s arrival, Paul’s heart felt free. “We’ll do you proud, sir. I promise.”
BOOK TWO
7
LATITUDE 52
ASSIGNED TO HIS WATCH high in the foremast, Jack dropped his legs over the edge of the crow’s nest and let his mind drift. The breathless beauty of the sea battled the rage in the pit of his stomach, his bitterness over the count. Besieged by tormenting pictures of his mother’s bloodied body, de Silva dominated his thoughts. Jack vowed to return to Cuba. A constant image of the count’s neck surrounded by his hands kept him alive.