“Men, we need a fire.”
“The natives will see us,” Smithers croaked from where he had sprawled on the ground.
“True enough,” answered Quince, glancing toward the nearby islands. “But there’s no point in not building a fire to hide our being here, since by morning the mast of the Star will be visible for miles.”
He’s right, Jack thought. The ship might be under but her mainmast wasn’t, and the soaked, weary men needed warmth and rest before they could defend themselves.
“The smoke oughta give us some protection from these damn insects, too,” muttered Coop, the ship’s cooper and chief carpenter. “But how we gonna start one? Everything’s soaked through.”
“Anyone bring a serviceable pistol or rifle to shore in all that mess?” Jack asked.
Bosun Mentor answered that there was one in Quince’s kit, to which Quince nodded, then said, “But so what?”
“Let me try something,” answered Jack. He explained his plan, and soon Quince had the men laboriously carving a pile of wood shavings from the comparatively dry inside of otherwise-soaked ship’s timbers. They scooped gunpowder from the center of a damp cask that had floated to shore, while Paul removed oil from the reservoir of a broken ship’s lamp he had salvaged. The men’s shivering was noticeably increasing; the intense excitement of their survival effort was waning, the effect of their long immersion catching up to them.
They sprinkled the mound of wood splinters on a plate salvaged from the mess, and heaped gunpowder over it. Paul poured the oil so it pooled under the shavings.
“Stand back, fellas.” Jack had removed the ball and charge from the pistol and with powder only in the flash pan, he held the pistol sideways, flintlock almost touching the flammable concoction in the plate. He pulled the trigger and a bright flash hit the plate. The men cheered as first a sizzling flame, then a steady fire took hold. Paul placed the plate on the ground, in one of the old hearths. It worked on the first try. Many boxes had been brought ashore or floated in of their own accord. They were pried open and anything that would burn became an offering.
Quen-Li, whom Jack had not noticed in all the commotion, appeared with his arms full of old coconut husks, gathered from a nearby stand of palms. An excellent idea, thought Jack. They burned beautifully and kept them from using something they might need later. The men’s spirits rose in direct proportion to the height of the growing flames. Jack knew the light and heat restored some sense of control in a world that had fallen apart beneath them.
“Well, maybe the savages will find us and eat us by morning, but at least we’ll make them a warm repast. I do so hate a cold breakfast,” Paul said.
The men, slumped around the fire, blankly considered Paul’s comment for a moment and slowly started to break into smiles. The smiles grew into low chuckles, into general laughter, and finally, insane guffaws. Jack, unable to keep his own reserve, joined them.
The evil spell had been broken. Jack marveled what a fire and some offhand humor could do. By bleeding, goddamn hell, they were alive! They were somewhere with earth beneath their feet and blood still in their veins; not still, pale forms on the seabed. Or worse, flailing in the waves, trying desperately not to drink the ocean.
Quince let the men calm from their outburst of nervous energy and told them they would have to take stock of their predicament before they could sleep. Jack and Quen-Li seemed to recover some strength the quickest, and they rose to help Quince assess the number and condition of seamen sprawled about the clearing.
They counted sixteen survivors of the Star’s demise, two seriously injured. Jacob, the ship’s youngest able-bodied seamen, lay in a state of shock. Shreds of skin remained where his little finger used to be on his left hand. He was badly bruised from head to foot, and his right leg appeared to be broken.
Mancy’s head was partly stove in from the main mast boom, which had swung free from its stays and fetched him a glancing blow in the last moments of the storm. His left eye bulged partly out of the socket, and his head on the left side was a confusion of blood, bone, and scalp. He seemed alert and followed the movement of his mates with his right eye. He had not uttered a sound since the wreck, but his mates weren’t sure if this was due to disability or disinclination. His drool flowed and the right side of his face—the undamaged side—twitched uncontrollably. Paul whispered to Jack that it was due to the damage to his brain. The men tried their best to make him comfortable. Everyone seemed to know that Mancy was only with them for a brief stopover on his way to eternity.
Quince believed Jacob would live if no infection set in and if his leg was not badly broken. The young sailor had no recollection at all of how he had lost his finger, but knew it happened when they scrambled to get a keg of drinking water and other essentials into the ship’s launch for the last run to shore.
Besides Mancy and Jacob, Quince counted Jack, Paul, Cheatum, Mentor, Smithers, Hansumbob, Coop, Peters, Klett, Brown, Red Dog, Dawkins, and himself among the survivors. Quen-Li also. All told, eleven had died in the wreck of the Star. All of those who lived were seeping blood from the cuts they had sustained on the jagged coral outcrops, particularly around their legs and hands. Jack noted that the coral abrasions tended to leave a nasty red flare about them. They’d be slow healing for sure.
The men soon collapsed around the fire, most falling asleep. A watch was kept all night on the quiet water leading to the cove. The guards were relieved frequently, the exhausted men only capable of keeping their eyes open an hour at a time. Each, in his turn, happily passed the one usable pistol over to his mate on the turn of an hourglass. Salvaged from the ship, the simple time-keeping mechanism was a comfort in itself, somehow providing a familiar touchstone to the Star, governing their routine.
The next morning broke gray, attended by a warm drizzle. As the sun began to break through, the heat of the South Pacific day engulfed them. But at least with the sunlight, the insects that had tortured them throughout the night dissipated. It was now easier to wander from the protective smoke without “losing a quart of blood to the damned winged furies that, by the saints, were a cross between a friggin’ fly and a mastiff,” in Quince’s reckoning.
Quince had the men tally their resources and comb the beach and shallows for anything more that might have washed up. Jack was glad to see that the first mate had managed to salvage a load of shot and several horns of dry powder for the pistol, and the sea, at its own whimsy, had tossed more than a dozen kegs of gunpowder onto the shore.
The Star had released a fair amount of bounty to the shipwrecked men, but the ship’s remains had settled to the lagoon bottom and anything else would have to be outright salvaged. Very little in the way of food had been rescued. As the day drew on, they managed to save a barrel of flour and several bags of rice—all of it wet. The rice started to swell, so Quince ordered it cooked. The salt water, with which it was impregnated, made it almost inedible. The islet held little food. No citrus fruits and only a few coconuts that weren’t so old and dried out as to yield white meat worth the effort of splitting them. Of great relief to the men was the presence of a full hogshead of fresh water that Quince had ordered salvaged at all costs.
The men preserved the coals from the day’s fire and added more dried wood to a pile growing steadily under a piece of sail canvas. There were plenty of fish in the lagoon but catching them was harder than expected. Knowing thirst would be the real killer, Quince had Jack, Paul, and Coop rig a rain catchment; but they lacked suitable containers to hold the water once collected.