Jack reached under the cook and lifted him, the oil searing his arms. A hazy light guided him as he made his way up the companionway ladder with his hollering bundle. On deck, the cook’s clothes seemed to ignite in Jack’s face when the air hit. They were both ablaze.
Jack took three quick strides and cleared the starboard rail, his burning shipmate in his arms. He caught a glimpse of the astonished faces of the men in the longboat as he passed just inches over their heads. The sailors on shore had seen the smoke even before Bob and Jack and had been on their way back to the ship.
The two men were quickly fished from the water and hauled aboard. Jack bathed his own burns with cold water and watched as Cookietwo sat with his back to the port rail, trembling. After several hours, he could hear only an occasional moan. Cook’s eyes, when they were open, fixed on some distant unattainable salvation. Jack dipped a cloth in the cool water and laid it gently on the man’s forehead.
“You may not ’ave done me a right good turn, young Jack,” he whispered, his voice shaky.
Jack nodded and continued to cool the reddened face and limbs of the suffering cook, the older man lost in a mumbled prayer.
In the weeks to come, Jack’s burns healed without a trace, while Cookietwo’s face and arms were horribly scarred, the raw skin angry and full of infection. But it appeared that the cook would live.
Several of his shipmates tried to thank Jack for his attempt to save the cook, but he remained resolute in his determination to keep to himself.
The officers eventually took the longboat into the settlement to hire a new cook and returned with a small dapper Chinese gentleman named Quen-Li. Jack stood on the foredeck, watching the Oriental swing effortlessly up to the rail, glance around, and vault to the deck, as graceful a move as Jack had ever seen.
Jack observed this slim Chinaman for several days; he was fascinating in that there was a physical strength about him that belied his years. He moved as if gliding, his head never bounced, and most intriguing were his eyes; they were penetrating and yet kind.
“Methinks this fellow may be a man of many parts,” Paul told Jack, who nodded assent as the pair watched the Chinaman chop vegetables. It was apparent he had many years of experience with a knife in his hand and not just in a galley.
9
STORM
TEMPERS WERE GROWING increasingly short as the weeks passed. The starboard crew had just finished a grueling watch, and several hands shouted around the mess table as another serving of tasteless hardtack was passed around with a half pint of rationed grog. For two days they had labored without a hot meal, the weather too rough to light fires in the recently repaired galley.
As Jack reached his hammock and seabag, he was overwhelmed again by the strong smell of the fo’c’sle. The tight crew quarters on the gun deck made for spartan living; tallow lamps blackened the overhead and the deck under his feet was sticky from tar and salt.
The pitch of the ship seemed to be getting worse. She rose, then plummeted, taking white foam over her bows that washed down the foredeck. Next, a foot of water spilled over her gunwales, momentarily backing up the scuppers.
The constant deluge of waves soon found the imperfections in the foredeck hatch, spraying hammocks and seabags that already stank of mildew and stale clothes. Jack peeled off his wet jacket and rigged his hammock. Several of the crew on his watch were already asleep, looking as if they had passed out the moment their bodies became enfolded in the netting.
The old ship’s wooden bones creaked in protest as she crashed through the rough seas. She swung through a 30-degree arc on the highest rollers and the captain still hadn’t shortened sail. No one besides Quince had seen him for days.
As he lay in his berth, Jack’s limbs ached from the beating he had received two days prior as penalty for being late for watch. Images of the experience replayed in his mind, keeping sleep at bay. There was no order to them; sometimes he was himself a spectator.
“Well, strike me pink. What have we here?” He had been confronted by the second mate, Cheatum, who spoke in questions as the Lord spoke in parables and at this moment had more control of Jack’s destiny than the Lord. Jack hurried to his place in line as the rest of his shipmates tried to quell their laughter. They loved a confrontation, anything to break the monotony of life at sea.
“I asked you a question, wee Jack. Or would you be dreamin’ again?” The “wee,” Jack knew, referred not to his physical stature but to his youth and status in the hierarchy of the ship. The second mate eyed him for an instant, then stepped forward and backhanded him, bringing the taste of blood to his lips.
Jack hit back with such speed that the two blows sounded almost as one. Cheatum was stunned, as was everyone on deck. He was so taken aback that he stood for a long moment, mouth agape.
“How dare you hit a superior. I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life. Drop your britches and grab your ankles.”
“Never,” Jack replied.
“Am I hearing correctly? Did you say ‘never’?”
Jack surveyed the mate, a silent challenge stance. Muffled talk rose from the other sailors, some actually on his side, others clearly troubled by the threat.
“O’Reilly, you’ve been a pain in my arse for a long time now. You’ve walked these decks kinda proud and aloof and I for one am sick of it. You’re a brave one, I’ll grant you. Sticking your nose in the fire and all. But mind this, you’ll drop your pants for your beating, lad, or you’ll take it on the back with the cat till you beg for it on your butt.”
Jack never blinked. Cheatum signaled for two sailors to tie the young man spreadeagled against the pulpit, hard by the mainmast.
Jack heard Paul’s voice from somewhere behind him. “The Bible says, ‘Take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ Following the Good Book’s sayings, doesn’t it make sense to mete out punishment in the same way?”
“Shut your teeth, Le Maire, or you’ll be next,” barked Cheatum.
“For instance,” Paul continued, “if one is late for duty or roll call, or what have you, then it follows one should be forced to be late for one’s foodstuffs or one’s grog ration or—”
A blow on the side of Paul’s head flattened him on the deck. Cheatum stood over him. “That should close that yap of yours, laddy.” He returned his attention to Jack. “I’ll say it once again: on your back or your butt? What’s it gonna be, me hearty?”
Jack didn’t answer, but he saw the seaman named Red Dog hand Cheatum a cat-o’-nine-tails which he dipped in a bucket of salt water. The moist leather dripped on the deck of the Perdido Star.
Jack never wavered as Cheatum laid into him heavily. At fourteen strokes, a shout was heard from the quarterdeck.
“Mr. Cheatum, that will be quite enough.” Jack recognized Quince’s voice. “Stow the cat and release that man.”
The word “man” seemed to echo throughout the deck of the ship; a quiet pervaded the event as each sailor on board seemed to realize that this boy had stoically taken much more than many of them could have endured.
Jack’s face was red, and tears flowed down his cheeks, despite his efforts to stop them.
“They be salt of the earth, wee Jack. Lick them away,” shouted some disconnected voice. But Jack refused the invitation. Something black was growing in his soul. Something that comforted and frightened him at the same time.
Now in his hammock, Jack repeated his mantra: I must find a way of surviving this voyage. A way back to Cuba. Drifting into a slumber, his thoughts found purchase on that new hardness in his soul. I will live. I will find a way to confront the count, and in the meantime I will not allow him to destroy me. The face of the count drifted mistlike in front of him, tantalizingly out of his reach. He could hear only vaguely the sounds of sleep about him, the ship’s hull sliding through the endless sea.