“Blackbirders,” explained Quince. “They’re raiding the islands for the John Boys and Dutch. Don’t like to use company ships because the business is gettin’ a bad name on the Continent. They use ‘country ships,’ as they call ’em. Company reps and renegades do the dirty work and the profits go to the East India Company tills. They do the same with opium. Those buggers are probably carrying black cargo and white dust for the China trade. Damnedest thing is, they’re legal—even if they are the scum of the earth.”
“Legal! That’s the most sickening thing I’ve ever seen.” Paul’s voice trembled. He took a deep drink of grog.
“Aye, it took us all that way, but we can’t go shooting merchants plying a legal trade, even if they’re engaged in an ugly business—least not without being labeled brigands ourselves. That child woulda’ chinked their profits—a bit older and they would’ve kept it, and a woman pregnant would’ve been fine—but the baby was just the wrong age for a sea… well, they saw the child as a burden.”
“Blast to hell what they saw it as. It was a child they murdered!”
Quince hardened his tone. “Now look here: no one’s arguing with you. That’s why Jack and Jacob killed the blighter, in addition to defending your own dumb ass. By the way, lad: you don’t kill a man with the noise and the flash of a gun, you hit him with the damn ball. Now I know you was upset but you kinda reduced our options out there. From now on, mark my words, Paul and all of you—nobody makes a move during a scrap without my say-so, or the command of my duly appointed warlord. Understood?”
The men’s silence indicated assent.
“He’s right,” Paul said. “I apologize for endangering the lot of us. I also thank you all for saving me from that smirking piece of scum.”
Jack reflected quietly on the exchange. It struck him odd that none of the doubts that had accompanied his killing the Papaloan months before had set in over his shooting the Dutchman. Perhaps it was because it hadn’t involved a real choice, just a reflex action in defense of Paul’s life.
“I think it’s awful what they done,” Mentor put in, pausing for effect. “But let’s not forget something: them blackbirders might be our only way of gettin’ home. There ain’t no thin’ but an occasional whaler that comes through these parts and East India Company packets that don’t stop for no thin’ if not paid royally by missionary societies or the like. Hell, if those country ships figure out what we done, they’ll be comin’ back here for our hides—not to help us.”
“True enough. But I don’t think they’ll know unless they find out from the woman. She ain’t too likely to help ’em.”
“Hell, Skipper, it ain’t her I’m worryin’ about. Sure, the gunfire was covered ’cause there was lots of shootin’ going on anyway. But they ain’t so dumb not to know bullet holes when they see ’em in their man’s head and neck.”
“Uh, men. Jack’s told me that he’s taken care of that eventuality. He reminded Jawa on the way back that they had made no stipulations about trophies. The, uh, head of the gentleman in question, including the relevant portion of the neck, is presently in Yatoo’s hut.”
The group took a moment to absorb this piece of news. “I’ll be damned,” from Coop.
Jack added, “The Dutch’ll know we’re here from their Papaloan captives but they won’t have proof we killed their man.”
Mentor cleared his throat. “Ya know I never considered these’ere tattooed blacks and Chinee as human a’fore we got to know’em—no offense, Quen-Li.”
The Chinaman shrugged.
“But what do we do?” Mentor went on. “Them East India Company scoundrels… they’re still white men like us. Do we kill our own kind to protect them natives? And if they’re raidin’ Papalo, they’ll be raidin’ here soon…. What do we do?”
Half dreamily, his thoughts in a choir loft in New England, hearing his father’s voice, Jack said, “Our own kind, Mentor? Do you really think they’re our own kind?”
“Aye, Jack’s right,” interjected Dawkins. “They are a way home for us—and I miss home terribly—but man, I’ll be damned if I haven’t gotten to like it here. These people, savages or not, have saved our lives, warmed our beds.” He bent his head, face turning crimson. “I think I might even have made a child with Mele, who’s been keepin’ me company the last few months. I don’t think they’re any less our kind than them murderers.”
Quince turned toward Jack. “What’s our warlord got to say?”
Jack believed he had to play his hand carefully. He did not want to let on to the others the surge of excitement he was feeling over the fragments of a plan whirling in his head. He also had a conflicting emotion. Dawkins’ words had touched him. The mention of his intimacy with the native girl had sparked a deep feeling of loneliness, dampening his desire to express himself forcefully in the discussion. Images of Wyalum and a greeneyed fantasy standing on a dock in Salem merged in some kind of confusing combination. He needed time to think. The plan, the seed of which was taking form in his mind at the moment, was not something to speak of half-baked. No, he would be noncommittal. His instincts told him that, for the moment, it was best that others be in the unusual role of convincing him to take action.
“I don’t know… I respect the savages more than the scum we dealt with today. But taking their side against the whole civilized world… we’d be labeled brigands like you say, Skipper. Hell, we’d probably qualify as pirates.”
Jack saw the level of respect he had achieved in the men’s eyes. Despite himself, he had become a leader.
“Savages?” Paul was back into it. “You think one of these savages would have been so outrageously cruel as to steal your land and murder your family for power and prestige, Jack?”
Jack’s face was expressionless but his eyes turned into two cold pools of gray. The others tensed uncomfortably.
Quince said to Paul, “Easy, lad. You’re treadin’ perilous ground.”
Paul, not ready to back off, had a point to make, and he always drove his points home.
“Why’d you use that example?” Jack asked softly.
“Because sometimes it’s the only way to get through to you. Damn it, these refined, bewigged, besotted Europeans of ours are decidedly our own kind. It is clear to me therefore that they are, in the most sophisticated, genteel way, going to do atrocious harm to these people. They’re going to steal their land, mock their dignity, sell them as chattel. It’s the civilized thing to do. It’s the damned British, Dutch, Spanish, and American thing to do. And I despise it!”
Jack ran a finger thoughtfully over the rim of a coconut shell. “Seems these savages here have found plenty of reason without our help to butcher each other. Does your friend Rob Pierre have anything to say about that?”
“Aye, Paul, he’s got you there.” Coop raised his glass with some of the others in appreciation of Jack’s point and to lighten the mood. But Paul would have none of it.
“In a bloody pig’s eye. Don’t you swab my words away with cynical remarks, Jack. You know damn well I’m right. Are you going to have clever words for Maril and Yatoo when Wyalum gets carted off in the hold of a blackbirder because they trusted in you? And, it’s Robespierre, you idiot… Rob Pierre, indeed….”
Jack placed his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “I know too that you speak from the heart and not just from that bottle. But I don’t want to argue with you now. You’re exhausted and near drunk.” Turning to Quince and the others he continued. “Let’s enjoy our grog and talk again on this in the morning. What do you say, Skipper?”
“Very well, men. Sleep on it and decide by morning.”
