In the morning Quince reconvened the meeting.
“Men, you’ve had the night to think it over. Yatoo knows we’re in a spot over what’s happened and he’ll want to know our feelings. We owe it to these folks to be straight with them, what say ye? Do we try and signal one of the blackbirders and ask their help, hoping they haven’t figured out who popped two of their men? Or do we stand square with the Indians and fight ’em and hope for rescue from some other source?”
“Wait. Now, Skippee, we haven’t heard your opinion—I want to know it a’fore I give my vote,” said Hansumbob, an odd smile on his face.
“Fair enough. I was up all night pondering, and I’ll tell you my personal opinion, though I came to it reluctant like.”
“What is it, Quince?” Coop asked.
“Well, it’s them as do things wretched with snuff in their nose and blood in their eyes as bothers me most. A powdered wig on the head of one who tortures and destroys life for profit, then settles in and reads his scriptures at night. That’s all I’ll say now. Dawkins, what think yer?”
“Blast them blackguards to hell, I’ll take my chances with the Indians.”
“Mentor?”
“Don’t like baby killers,” he spat and started whittling a piece of wood.
“Bob?”
“I’m with you, Skippee, hee, hee.”
“Jacob?”
“I’d rather swim than ask those murderers for anything. I… I think I might be having a little one, too.” Several of his mates smiled at the revelation.
“Red Dog?”
“Stand with the Belaurans, been damn good to me, they have.”
Brown didn’t even wait to be asked. “I’m with my mates, to hell with the Dutch.”
“Me as well,” threw in Peters.
“Damn right,” from Paul.
“Smithers?” Quince said.
Smithers was silent.
“In or out, Smithers?” Quince’s voice couldn’t help but reveal his growing contempt for the man.
“I don’t put much stock in what these blacks do to each other, but them Dutch ain’t so stupid they ain’t going to figger out what went on soon enough, so there ain’t no choice. We’re gonna have to fight the only sots that coulda’ got us out of this blasted place.”
“Cheatum?”
“I think you’re all crazy. These natives will sell us to the Dutch for a pittance. But since our junior warlord here and young Jacob decided to take things in their own hands by blastin’ those scoundrels away, ain’t much else to do.”
Quince glowered at the man and most of the others looked away—not one needed to tell them this was an unfair assessment of what had happened.
“Your vote, Cheat.”
“To hell with you, Quince, I ain’t voting.”
Quince said nothing but turned toward Jack.
“Jack?”
“I think we need their ship to get home.” The group fell silent. Paul looked hurt and turned away. Then Jack smiled. “I have business a world away that I must settle. I said we need their ship, Paul—I never said we need them to sail it.”
Paul turned, wide-eyed.
“You’re talking straight-out piracy?”
“I’m talkin’ defending ourselves and borrowing one of these murdering bastards’ ships for a spell… one able to make it all the way back to Cuba.”
This apparent turnabout on Jack’s part seemed to settle the matter. The men cheered, except for Cheatum, who pushed his way out of the gathering. Quince finished the meeting.
“Life changed for all of us when the Star went down. I’m not against taking some liberties with a crown ship. Never much liked the Dutch and I’ve always hated the John Company. Seems we’ve agreed to find passage home for those as want it.”
“Ayes,” all around.
As an afterthought, Quince said to Quen-Li, “What think you of all this? You able to understand what we’re saying?”
“Quen-Li understand. I with my shipmates. Don’t like take slaves. These ships with opium, they go China way?”
“Aye, they do. Ye want to book first-class passage?” Mentor gibed, followed by an uproar. Quen-Li joined his shipmates, laughing at his own expense.
Above the laughter Quince declared, “Then we’re all agreed. We take a ship—then sail under the black flag!”
The men cheered in hearty agreement.
Jack felt a profound peace come over him at the council’s decision. He had actually come to his conclusion the night before, but acted noncommital to make sure the men had really thought it through. They were taking a momentous step that would affect the rest of their lives.
The mention of the black flag by Quince had sealed it. The fact that none—save the bully Cheatum, whom Jack thought a coward at heart—had blinked at those words meant there was no room for doubt—all seamen knew the significance of that piece of cloth. So that’s how it comes to pass, he thought. He had always wondered if pirates and brigands were cutthroats at heart or driven by circumstance. In this case, at least, he knew.
Quen-Li stirred the pot of seafood gruel, mixed with island pig, which was fast becoming a staple for the shipwrecked mariners. His spoon scraped against the copper, shellfish, and red meat competing for the favors of the olfactory sense. The sun worked its way through the palm frond roof, dancing on the table where Paul’s drawings and notes lay in disarray. The two were alone.
“You stand ready to kill, Paul, but you are no killer,” Quen-Li said. “And Jack—he kills with great skill and ferocity, but neither is he a killer. He is an angry young man who despises injustice.”
Words shaped themselves in the back of Paul’s throat. He struggled to restrain them, but they never remained captive for long in his spirit before taking form in the world. “Those are interesting observations, Quen-Li, most astute… and well articulated.” He sat back in his chair, “Particularly coming from a man who cooks but is no cook… n’est-ce pas? Oui ou non?”
Their eyes met for the first time during the conversation. The stirring stopped, then started again. “Why Paul saying such ting, no likee my fish-pig soup?”
Paul placed his quill in his leather pouch, put away his bark papyrus. He folded his arms across his chest and looked silently at the pot for several moments. Without warning he grabbed a mango from the table and threw it hard at Quen-Li’s face. Quen-Li’s left hand, the one not involved with stirring the pot, seemed to move of its own accord and effortlessly plucked the fruit from the air. The cook’s eyes flashed for just a second, then became calm again.
“When you decide to come out from behind your mask, it will be a pleasure to make your acquaintance. But don’t mock my friendship or that of Jack with hollow sounds. I believe I know who you are and what you are, but Jack needs to know—from your lips, not mine. Don’t lose his trust: it is a thing of great value; much, as to some, is the pulp of the poppy.”
That evening Quen-Li left his self-imposed exile to join Paul and Jack on their frond eating mat. The two friends always laid it where they could watch the sun redden the western night sky. Quen-Li looked about casually to confirm their privacy and then said in a low voice, to no one in particular, “Qu’est-ce qui se passe ici?”
Jack’s eyes widened at the perfect French rolling out of Quen-Li’s lips; it was as if a savage had recited a line from Shakespeare.
Paul replied without hesitation, “Rien, seulement trois assassins qui regardent le soleil. Two of them amateurs and one professional.”
A smile played on the Chinaman’s lips. “So you know. It is knowledge that, to persons in other circumstances, would be fatal. But you are my friend, as is Jack, and these are different times.” All trace of pidgin had left Quen-Li’s speech.