Jesus, Paul thought, who does he think I am, his goddamn apprentice?
“Boat-ho!”
The pinnace, on a scouting mission, must be returning, Paul thought. There was some commotion on the beach that he couldn’t quite make out; then he saw several canoes make their way out from shore. From his scouting forays, Paul knew a flotilla of canoes would act as lighters, transferring cargo if the tide was out. If the tide was in, only one or two were necessary to guide the pinnace around coral heads.
The tide was in, so it puzzled him why so many canoes headed out to greet the craft. Arloon seemed also to be watching with interest. De Vries paid no attention and went on talking about the state of preparedness for their imminent departure to Canton and on to Capetown. It strengthened Paul’s growing suspicion that there would be opium deep in the ship’s hold during the final haul.
Several shots rang out from shore. Glancing back toward the island, the Dutchmen registered alarm at the sight of smoke billowing from Papalo, a village, Paul knew, which the Dutch had in effect turned into a temporary detention center for their “laborers.” De Vries yelled for a spyglass, which materialized immediately from the watch officer’s kit. Sailors crowded the port rail to see what was happening; one seaman who owned his own telescope was bombarded with questions from his mates.
Paul tried to make himself inconspicuous. He knew what was happening, but only in a general way, since Jack had insisted none of the scouts be apprised of any details of the impending raid.
Before the sailor with the telescope could launch very far into a description of events on shore, shots rang out from behind them… from seaward. They could only be from the pinnace. Something was obviously very wrong—even Paul was at a loss. He caught Arloon looking at him, and he was glad that his face was probably registering how nonplussed he was.
De Vries’s glass was still trained on the shore, where his precious human cargo was caged; he seemed hardly aware of the actions transpiring with the pinnace. The sailors and Arloon, however, seemed ambivalent which way to look. All the canoes had converged on the pinnace, and there seemed to be some sort of altercation involving shots that had now quieted.
The pinnace was under way again but was now headed toward the Stuyvesant, several canoes following in its wake. Arloon seemed anxious to hear what had happened from the men operating the fast-sailing craft.
Many focused their attention toward land where the fires seemed to be spreading, and they could hear a new outbreak of gunfire. Paul knew this must be Jack’s doing, but suspected it was some sort of diversion. A poke at the ship itself would be the most provocative to the Dutch, but how was he planning to do this? Paul couldn’t imagine. It was broad daylight—approach with canoes would be suicidal.
Paul suddenly realized that De Vries had been talking to him as if he was a confidant in frustration. De Vries could now see most of what transpired on shore, but it still made no sense. A company of dragoons was visible to the right. They seemed to be pinned down with their backs to the sea. Two other splashes of red and green were prostrate on the beach, apparent casualties. The ship’s crew, along with Malay and Chinese handlers, were regrouping their native captives. They seemed to be trying to stay well out of range—of something, but what?
“How can a company of armed soldiers be held down by a group of savages and a few renegade Americans?” De Vries blurted. The only shooting they could discern came from the dragoons firing back into the thick jungle brush.
The Dutchman’s own pinnace was now bearing down on them under full sail. It would arrive within moments, and the men on the pinnace were waving at them wildly. One large, heavyset man stood on the bow, waving a piece of dark cloth. De Vries and the men on the Stuyvesant were totally puzzled. Paul wasn’t. His eyes widened; he knew that bearlike shape.
In the midst of this seeming chaos, the pinnace suddenly jibed. Her boom swept like a pendulum in a wide, sweeping maneuver; the craft’s direction had been skillfully turned 90 degrees to starboard. As the stern swung around, Paul could make out a pile of dunnage laying against the transom and two men nestled down amidst the sacks, as if taking cover from small-arms fire. Paul, crouched low, watched De Vries’s eyes narrow as it slowly dawned upon the man that he was in danger—too slowly. From the corner of his eye, Paul caught two flashes in quick succession and almost simultaneously heard the Dutchman yelp. A fraction of a second later the sound of the shots reached them. De Vries turned, assuming he had been grazed by a rifle ball or splinter, and began to examine himself for damage.
The dragoons onboard immediately returned fire with a salvo of musket shots, some of which found their mark in the pinnace but not in their assailants. The crew of the sailing craft had hunkered down behind bags of produce and spare canvas and let the boat ride a favorable wind that whipped her seaward at an excellent clip on a starboard tack. Their port heel would take them out of range and out of the harbor. Paul deeply wished he were with his comrades.
The men in De Vries’s boat were speechless. Two tended to a dragoon who seemed mortally wounded, and the others kept staring at De Vries with a strange look. He swiped at something that had caught on his brow and barked in exasperation, “Why are you damn fools gaping at me and not running those bastards down? And how the hell did they get our pinnace and… Lord save me.”
De Vries turned pale, realizing why the men were staring. It was no piece of wet canvas on his forehead—it was a sizable ribbon of his scalp he had been trying to wipe away. Paul almost felt sorry for the man. Most of his right ear was shredded, and there was a clean white streak where the ball had torn his scalp forward like peeling a potato and left the mess hanging over his face; the bone of his skull was miraculously untouched. He fainted momentarily, then raised shakily to his knees to watch the Stuyvesant gunners attempt to fire its bow chasers at the receding pinnace. Everyone knew they had little chance of hitting her.
In a worsening state of shock, he leaned forward and threw up over the gunwale before sinking into a second faint. Paul knew, however, that the image that had burned itself into the minds of De Vries and the crew was the piece of dark cloth the fat man had been waving at them as they approached in the small sailboat—a black banner with a smirking white skull embroidered on it and two bones crossed beneath it. As the pinnace sailed away, Paul saw it rise up the main mast—whipping the air with a fearful vengeance.
The ship’s surgeon did as well as he could by De Vries. Most of his scalp was back in place, but the best the doctor could do with the ear was remove some of the dangling flesh—it was an ugly wound that would make the man shop carefully for wigs the rest of his life. Most of the sailors cared little for the foppish, demanding company man, and Paul sensed they rather delighted in his new look. De Vries in no way shared their light view of the matter and retired to his cabin where he brooded in a dark rage. When he finally came back on deck, he called for the ship’s captain, and Paul could hear him yelling that no effort be spared in the capturing and executing of the Americans and making an example of all the God-be-damned savages that had in any way colluded with them.
Paul deduced that Arloon, from his manner, agreed in principle but his instincts told him to cut his losses, secure the blacks still in captivity, and depart these waters. It was apparent to Paul that the raid by the Americans, and whichever the hell natives were really on their side, had shaken him and adversely affected his men.