By the third night the men settled into a routine, priorities being to maintain water, obtain food, and keep guard. At night, they could see fires on neighboring isles and knew the natives could certainly see theirs. The nagging cuts on their feet and hands became more than a nuisance. They were becoming debilitating.
On the fourth day Mancy died. Because his one good eye remained always open and his breathing shallow, it was only when Paul noted the drool had stopped that he took the initiative to check on the man. He was aghast to realize that rigor mortis had already set in, which meant the men had been murmuring comforting asides to a corpse for the better part of the day.
Disposing of the body proved no easy chore. It was impossible to dig an adequate hole in the thin mantle of soil covering the coral and limestone surface of their new home. Burning the seaman would take more wood than they could spare, so burial at sea seemed the only option. Most of the men were weak. Dragging their mate to the beach and out to the launch took precious energy and several hard-won links of chain to weight him down. But a putrefying body could spell real trouble for the men’s health on this tiny island, so Quince said it had to be done. They removed Mancy’s jacket when the rigor dissipated and his arms became pliable. Minus his clothes, which they all agreed would be of more use to the quick than the dead, Mancy’s remains were rowed to the edge of the reef and consigned to the deep.
The procurement of fish in any quantity proved a significant challenge. The men were sometimes successful with hook and line, but the bottom constantly snagged their tackle. Paul and Jack came up with an imaginative attempt at a solution. They designed an explosive charge that could be detonated in the water, hoping the fish would die in the concussion. After all, if there was one thing they were rich in, it was gunpowder.
Given the right conditions, Paul said, a fuse could be designed to discharge underwater. It had something to do with boiling the saltpeter.
“No, it’s the whole mess you boil,” Jack answered. “Nitrate, sulfur, charcoal, and all. I’ve heard it was done during the war, when the army and that Bushnell fella were experimenting with mines and submarine torpedoes in Boston harbor to break the Redcoat blockade.
“My father said there was nothing to it if you made a slurry of the gunpowder and coated it on the fuse. The fire burns from bubble to bubble, using the trapped air to keep the flame alive.”
“Did he ever do it?”
“Never had a cause to. But if he said it can be done, I’m sure it’s possible.”
They worked on the project all day. Finally, after boiling a concoction in the one pan not being used for collecting water, they dipped some twine in it and hunted for a proper container to use as a bomb. They settled on an apothecary jar, which they filled with dry powder and sealed with candle wax. Homemade fuse in place, Jack and Paul took it to a shallow reef near their cove where they had seen a bunch of fish congregating. They lit the fuse and tossed it amongst the fish. It sparked mightily and kept burning in the water, making a strange trail of white smoke as it sank, and finally fizzled out. Failure.
Next they tried a drill from the remains of the salvaged surgeon’s kit. Although it proved useless for Mancy, it contained a trephination bit for releasing fluid from beneath the skull in head wounds. They used it to drill a hole in a deadlight, wrenched from ship flotsam, which they then crammed full of black powder. “Shove it in there as hard as you can, compress the hell out of it,” urged Jack.
Paul looked at him doubtfully. “Isn’t that a little risky?”
“Come to think of it, be sure to use wood to ram it. Metal against metal could create sparks and that would be a problem.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Paul tossed aside the bent iron spoon he had been using for the task.
They finished the tamping, inserted the string through the hole, waxing it in, and finally tossed the latest design into the turquoise water. There was a muffled whump. Within seconds a number of small reef fish flopped on the surface. Their only catch. A semifailure. It appeared this approach would be inadequate for feeding the men, even if they perfected their technique.
That evening around the fire, Jack offered to reconnoiter one of the neighboring islands at night and perhaps do a little foraging.
“Ya figger the savages won’t know yer coming ’cause it’s dark out?” Quince asked. “No, Jack, for lawd’s sake I need you too much to lose you on some fool’s errand. They know we’re here—no way they couldn’t, with our fires and all. Christ knows why they haven’t shown up… for better or for worse.”
Paul grinned sardonically. “Greet us or eat us, the poor devils can’t make up their minds.”
“Enough, Paul. See if you can rig some more shade cover from that sailcloth, lad.”
“But,” continued Jack, “if they know we’re here, what’s the harm in paying them a visit?”
“No.” Quince sounded irritated but Jack knew the question needed answering; for the others as well as himself. “We’re a force to be reckoned with here, even with only one gun. We’ve cutlasses and we’re together and there ain’t but one way of gettin’ at us. We split our forces and we’ve lost an edge.”
“What if they’re friendly?”
“They might be, but I’ll believe that when we’re shaking hands and dancing the minuet with their ladies—not till then.”
Jack knew Quince was right, but patience and inaction never came easy to him, even when warranted, and he chafed under the mate’s restraint.
“Another thing, Jack. Those fires are probably from natives all right, but what if they’re not? Malay and Chinee pirates range the coast of Asia only a few days’ sail from here and they probably set up for their raids somewheres in these waters.”
Jack nodded his understanding. Paul added, “Could be Europeans, too, Mr. Quince. The John Company’s packets also range these parts. The bastards could dye us black and sell us like they do anyone else they can’t exploit in some other way.”
“Enough. Get that sail rigged for shade.” Jack hid his smile when he heard Quince mutter, “Sometimes that lad can be insufferable.”
Quen-Li proved invaluable in procuring what little vegetable matter the group could consume. He obtained tubers and green pulpy leaves scattered in the mangrove flats and made a mush that provided some nourishment even though it tasted “like something that had been et twice before,” as Coop put it. The Chinaman seemed to thrive on the gruel himself, being one of the few survivors showing no signs of physical or mental distress. Jack was increasingly intrigued with the calm strength of this man, certain there was something in his past that had little to do with a life spent slopping gruel for sailors.
Jacob seemed to be taking a turn for the better. His hand, soaked in hot salt water by Quen-Li and lanced when necessary by Mentor, was healing. Again, their surplus of gunpowder helped them in odd ways. From the start, Mentor had insisted on pouring some of the powder into the open wound. When it worked, even Jack became convinced the old folk tale was right; no infection was setting in. Paul, particularly intrigued with the development, opined that maybe the sulfur or potassium nitrate, which made up significant portions of the powder, was responsible.
Jacob’s leg had not been broken as originally feared. He started hobbling around a bit, and the swelling went down. The young man’s physical improvement seemed to help him combat the profound depression he had been suffering over the loss of his finger. Life without a little finger was no big deal, his older mates assured him, with their own brand of rough humor. Klett, a sailor of Scandinavian extraction, had a particularly interesting perspective to share with the boy.