Waves struck the cabin on the quarterdeck, sounding to Jack like the felling of trees. Tons of water rushed into her companionway hatch, spilling into what was once the captain’s cabin. The water would shoot over Jack’s and Paul’s heads, slam against the quarterdeck bulkhead, and disappear into the cabin area. As the Star pitched again, it would dump the water, along with debris from the aft cabin, back on deck. The returning water lashed against the new wave coming over the bow, meeting in the middle of the main deck where the sailors were struggling for life.
Jack now thought that strapping in was not such a good idea. He could barely catch his breath between waves, and looking about him, he could see some of the mates were struggling mightily to keep from drowning.
At one point between waves, Jack raised his head above the pulpit stanchion to look aft, when he heard a loud shout. “Jack, above!”
A spar in a tangle of lines came screaming down in a large arc toward the pulpit, crashing just inches above Jack’s head. The concussion alone was enough to deafen him and he had pulled Paul down with him. They were shaken but unhurt, as yet another wave washed over them. Sputtering, Jack looked to where the warning had come from. There lay the drowned body of Cookietwo. He had repaid his debt.
Across from Jack, three sailors secured between the cannons were trying to untie themselves, for one of the cannons had come adrift and was running to the length of her securing line and then back again, swinging like a pendulum from the end that still held. The sailor closest to it was unconscious and in the path of the two-ton, cast-iron killing machine. Jack could do nothing but watch helplessly as the man was reduced to pulp. The damn thing didn’t need to be loaded to take seamen’s lives.
“Are you all right?” Jack shouted to Paul, hearing his voice.
Paul must have been delirious, for his answer didn’t make sense.
“Say it again. I can’t hear you.”
“I said, never let me find you again, old sir, near our hollow ship…” Paul pointed toward the ocean, laughing.
There, tied securely onto what was left of his oaken bunk, floated the captain, holding an oil lantern, silver beard and hair wild with water, gazing into the black sky. He lifted a hand to wave briefly as the sea carried his bier into the night.
“Are we dead yet? Do we deserve this?” Paul asked, suddenly cogent, his voice matter-of-fact.
Jack spit seawater and replied, “Not dead yet. But close. Very close, Paulie.”
“Paulie? Only Hansumbob calls me that. I remember the first time I heard that name, it was the night I peeled you off the street in Habana. Do you remember that night?”
Jack watched the violent sea. He remembered.
The storm wrenched their bodies from side to side. After the endless hell of drenchings, the water tearing at his bindings, Jack was beaten so badly, he was barely conscious. Then the wind’s fury began to ease. The ship seemed to right herself, slowly circling in her own debris. Stars appeared not only overhead, but across the entire sky. The decks were now awash, fore and aft; the port rail was four feet underwater, and the ship lay as a tilted whale. But they had survived the storm.
It occurred to Jack they should be sinking. The seas had calmed beyond what seemed reasonable from just moments before—they must be in the lee of land, given the odd lurching of the ship.
Wounded and drowned sailors were all around him; some of the stronger ones started to move. He knew the sailors tied to the port rail were all dead, for he saw that part of the ship submerged most of the time.
Jack became aware of a wild joy coursing through his veins. It was the most exciting and terrifying thing that had ever happened to him.
Quince untied himself and began giving orders to the mates who were able to move. A grinding, unearthly sound stopped him. He made his way aft along the starboard rail, shouting, “We’re hard aground, lads. Quickly grab anything that floats and prepare to abandon ship.”
Jack pulled out the belaying pins, untying Paul and himself. He grabbed the door to the captain’s cabin.
“What’s happening? Are we home?” Paul’s face was intense with pain.
“No, Paul, we’re not home yet. We’re going to take this piece of wood and begin paddling. We’ve gone aground on a reef, or a spit of land, and if we’re lucky, lad, maybe there’s an island attached.”
10
WRECKED ON A SOUTH SEA ISLE
JACK AND PAUL CLUNG TO the safety of the door, drifting away from the remnants of the ship, praying to find solid earth. They could hear the surf breaking somewhere on a distant shore but the heavy seas and dark night made it impossible to know which direction to swim. They were exhausted. Jack had left the safety of their life raft twice to go to the aid of a sailor crying for help—each time finding nothing. The sea was exacting a heavy price this night.
A dozen or so sailors were shouting to one another, assembling slowly, scrambling over jagged rock and coral shallows, desperate for land. They knew from the pounding of the surf that it was near; but getting there was frustratingly difficult. They would be atop a coral head, in two feet of water, and moments later flailing in water over their heads. Jack and Paul were too busy keeping the door from splintering on the coral to pay attention to anything else. Finally, they made it through a break in the reef, landing in a tiny cove, and could see a foam line ahead. Jack thought he saw movement at a point where the mangroves were thinnest, perhaps a large animal or a man.
At last staggering onto shore, Jack noticed signs of human use, in the form of a fire-blackened hearth mere yards from the water. He and his friend continued dragging valuable flotsam to shore, even the occasional bedraggled sailor.
“Look, Jack, there’s charred animal bones in some of these things,” Paul said. He pushed a barrel full of something he couldn’t identify to higher ground, past the water’s edge.
“Yeah, looks mainly like fish.”
The moon had broken through the clouds, and the men were making shore more easily. They arrived in ones and twos, collapsing long enough to catch their breath. Suddenly Quince seemed to appear from nowhere, relatively unscathed and already shouting orders.
“The Star’s awash and down at the gills, men, but there’s a passel of junk floatin’ around out there that’s gonna seem like treasure tomorrow—so look alive!” He had apparently made it most of the way to shore in the ship’s launch but waded a different route over the last few reefs. He had clutched in his huge arms an odd assortment of personal treasures, including a pistol case, a cutlass, and a bunched-up red sash which Jack had seen hung over his hammock in the Star.
As Jack waded out to grab a floating box, he tried to take in as much of his surroundings as possible in the moonlight. The islet they had landed on seemed small and not readily approachable except through the break in the reef they had discovered. Hands occupied, he jutted his chin seaward and remarked to Paul, “Look at that.” Paul, dragging a timber to shore, turned. Even in the dark they could see outlines of larger islands nearby. Jack’s imagination ran with possibilities as he harvested pieces of the Star from the sea. Indians, cannibals, stories of castaways.
“Okay, take a break, men.” Quince motioned the survivors to gather several yards inland, away from the beach. Most of the easily salvaged flotsam had been collected, and Jack figured Quince thought it more important now for the men to take stock, rest, and if possible, get warm. Getting warm was the issue. Even in the tropical night the men were seriously chilled from their long exposure to the sea.