Besides, they had salvaged the most needed items. Several of the men, Jack noticed, were now wearing shoes. His own boots from his kit were lying at the foot of his bed. They had been soaked in fresh water and well greased with animal fat.
They figured raising the bell to be an easy task. Hell, if it wasn’t weighted down, it should come up on its own. Shram and two of the shallow-water team dove down to cut the lines from the biggest weights. After only two cuts, the bell started to move. But once it started, it gained momentum at a speed none of the men expected. Rael, a young native diver who had been practicing breathing from the bell, was snagged by a piece of the barrel rigging halfway up and dragged to the surface at great speed. Jack watched in amazement as the huge barrel hit the surface, half of its height actually clearing the water.
Rael was thrown free. The men helped him to shore, where he suddenly started to reel, his knees jerking.
“He fainted and never woke up,” Paul told Jack an hour later.
“But why, damn it?” Jack lamented. “He wasn’t down but a minute. He can’t have any diver’s disease and there was all that blood frothin’ out of the poor bugger’s mouth. What the hell happened?”
They never were sure. After much agonizing, Paul’s best guess was that for some reason the young man couldn’t release the air in his lungs when he was pulled up so fast—they literally blew up in his chest. Why it didn’t happen when other people came up fast, he couldn’t say.
It seemed that every triumph in this diving game came with a price of pain or death. Rael’s fatal accident deeply disturbed Jack, as he was developing an increasing sense of kinship with the Belaurans, particularly the young men who shared his diving adventures. Why Rael? Strong, bright-eyed, a young warrior with an easy laugh and ready courage. What a waste. Jack dearly hoped the gains from their underwater travails would justify such a tragic loss.
17
AN EYE FOR AN EYE
JACK UNDERSTOOD the need for Yatoo to take revenge on the tribe that had attacked his village. With the passing of another week, he seemed sufficiently recovered from his ailments to take part in the raid, second in command to Jawa; and after a proper funeral was conducted for Rael, he undertook his first military assignment. Five of the twenty rifles were now ready for use, and he had taught four of the sailors to use them with moderate competency. A call to action against worthy adversaries tapped the wellspring deep within him; he found his excitement build at the thought of impending conflict.
With a certain satisfaction, he watched sweat form on the brown back in front of him, and he picked up his pace slightly, enough to subtly pressure the leader. Soon perspiration covered his own torso. The strong, young warrior kept a fast pace until they reached the swamp. From here on they would continue by canoe, several having been brought around through the lagoon side. A war party waited, composed of men from nearby villages that owed allegiance to Yatoo.
Suddenly unwilling to let Jack take the entire risk, Quince had decided to head a party of his own men. When his party caught up with Jack’s, the group built a fire and smoked pig meat on hot coals. Wordlessly, they set about preparing their bedding. The smell of rotted vegetation hung heavy in the air. Jack felt energized at the prospect of action. His self-doubts, depression, uncertainties… they all seemed to evaporate when conflict loomed.
Jack slowly unrolled one of the Kentucky long rifles from its fold and carefully rubbed the barrel with pig fat from the fire. The men around him talked in low murmurs; dark or white, all handled their anxieties in roughly similar ways. They walked with chests out, spoke confidently; yet Jack observed them staring longer than usual at the coals in the fire. They were men of different races, different worlds, but they knew death was a handmaiden to war. They intended to win tomorrow, but they also knew that this could be the last smoke that ever burned their eyes. Jack polished methodically, then lay down and seemed to drift off to sleep immediately. But he did not nod off before hearing Quince’s words whisper in the dark: “Bless you, O’Reilly. You love it. Dancing with the devil. It remains to be seen whether you end up being a blessing or a curse to the rest of us.”
With the morning light they proceeded by canoe. Maril was positioned in the prow of Jack’s boat. It seemed to Jack that the ocean spoke to Maril in measured tones. It slapped against the side of his boat in rhythms born of wind and distance, allowing him to slip his paddle through its surface without sound.
An island of steep shores lay on the left. They approached a long, low reef, where sharks stayed near the surface. Here they had to dig their paddles deep and pull hard to the right, or be slowed by a crosscurrent that carried them toward the setting sun.
There was much to learn from the dark-skinned men, and in many ways Jack admired them. From his position behind the islander, he watched silently and learned. Though he had felt as clumsy as a child when they set out this morning, he could now feel his oar sing in tune with the water as he fell into harmony with the movements of his partner and the pulse of the sea.
A flying fish crossed their bow, then another. Then one landed in the boat. Without breaking the rhythm of his paddle, Maril tossed it overboard.
Jack’s reverie was disturbed by movement far in front of them. Something not right on the waves… a canoe, maybe. Maril bowed flat and warned Dyak to do the same. No words were spoken. Maril let the current take the canoe toward a mangrove patch on a small island. They would appear from this distance as a log, if seen at all.
After many minutes they scraped bottom and Maril peered over the side, motioning to Jack to look as well. A war canoe was easily visible, but the occupants had not spotted them and the mangrove shadow would give them no silhouette.
The Belauran canoes, rounding the previous islet, slowed upon seeing Maril’s maneuver. One by one the men ducked low in their sleek craft. They could tell that Maril had spotted something and were quick to join him in the little cove. Even as they reached Maril, Jack could see Jawa’s two canoes, scouting seaward of the main force, making their way carefully back to them.
Words in Belauran flew between principals for several minutes, then Jawa indicated to his interpreter to convey their observations through Brown to Jack.
“They’re a bit worked up over that canoe you guys spotted to seaward, Jack.”
“How so?”
“They don’t like that it’s heading at high speed toward the south in open water. Papaloan warriors would be more cautious than to do that.” Even more puzzling, Brown went on to explain, they could see women in the canoe with the men. Too, there were several other small craft in the distance—and they saw smoke coming from the Papaloan village.
“Ask Jawa if we should proceed.”
“He already said he wants to head toward the village through inland waters, hide the canoes, and proceed by foot. There’s too much activity on the open water up there and he thinks we’ll be spotted.”
Jack looked around at the sailors, who had been listening to the exchange. “Tell him okay, but two of our men still don’t have shoes that fit well and I want them assigned to guarding the boats.”
“Right enough.” A brief flurry of conversation ensued, and Jawa poked his chin out toward Jack in Belauran assent.
Within moments they were gliding through the mangroves, not a word spoken, and only Belaurans manning the paddles, to ensure silence. Jack listened to the hum of mosquitoes, the scuttling and splashing of marsh animals—and distant thunder. Squalls approaching, he thought.