“Yes, Yatoo,” Paul replied.
“If this Yatoo has been convinced by you to help us and we have no indication you helped them resist, we will not only not hang you, we will provide you transportation out of these islands to a civilized port.”
“Very gracious of—”
“Shut up. If he joins with the Americans, as I suspect he might, his promises to the contrary, you will die a miserable death. Am I understood?”
Paul couldn’t believe his luck.
“Oui, je comp… yes, I understand, absolument.”
“And I will be assured that you will not even think of pulling a trigger against one of my men if I let you go.”
“Of course, I—”
“No, my assurance will come in another form.” He turned to a mean-looking second mate. “Carsten, take him to the rail and break his right index finger. Then take him by launch to where he will be found in the morning by Belauran scouts.”
Paul froze inside. He never felt so devalued as a human being. The only thing that kept him from dissolving completely in panic was the fact that everything happened so fast.
As predicted, by late morning, he was found and whisked to Belaur by heavily armed scouts, his finger broken, and nearly his spirit.
“They’re coming, all right—we can see the tip of the foremast over the palms on East Key. It’s making way around the outer reef.” Paul’s voice grew tight with excitement as he stepped out of the first of the three Belauran scouting canoes that had just arrived at the spit. Jack studied his friend’s expression and manner as he stepped ashore. Even with the prospect of battle so close he could not help contemplate what Paul had been through. Paul cut a pitiful figure. Right hand splinted, he had not stopped shaking since being found and brought in the night before by Belauran scouts, nor to Jack’s knowledge had he slept. The brutally cold act of breaking his finger had deeply upset him, even more than the ignominy of being captured. He could not speak of it except to say, “They did it to me without feeling, Jack. No anger, nothing, just like the child they brained in the clearing. I fainted with fear and pain and…”
Jack had tried to calm him but he would have none of it. As soon as Hansum had splinted his hand, Paul insisted on going back out with the boats. Before leaving, he ran back and pulled Jack aside where the others couldn’t hear and whispered, “I peed myself when they did it—before I fainted—and… and they laughed.”
Jack wondered if, for the first time in his life, Paul Le Maire really wanted to kill someone. He forced down the rage that sought to possess him when he thought of the physical and spiritual damage done to his friend—he must keep a cool, clear head. He turned his attention to the matter at hand.
Jawa and two dozen of his best warriors stood in a circle with Jack and Quince, going over the details of the plan. Things were moving on schedule, Jack concluded, and Jawa needed no further explanation. Quince asked Jack if the small diving bell was in place. Aye, it was; it blended in well with the bottom when seen from above. And the trees—if one looked carefully, he could probably make out the artful camouflage of fronds and sticks. From behind, it would be easy to discern they had been converted into sniper perches.
Jack and Quince had just completed their inspection of the sand trenches, dug into the far side of the spit in which Jawa and his twenty-four warriors would be secluded. None of these men had firearms, although the six Americans with them carried the pistol and five of the rifles. Eight of Jawa’s recently trained marksmen would be in the trees armed with long rifles. In the village itself, Yatoo and every man who could fight—about a hundred and fifty all told, plus thirty Papaloans—had left their weapons concealed in their canoes. When the ambush was sprung, and the Dutch were occupied by the force in front of them, Yatoo would enter the cove from the rear—it would be a day of glory for all the people of the archipelago. Yatoo would die or he would live, but his name would be honored forever.
Quince and Jack stood on the beach in the open. About a dozen natives in full ceremonial regalia, including war clubs, surrounded them, but none except the two Americans carried firearms. The Stuyvesant dropped its bower hook and let itself be swept broadside to the spit before its crew expertly secured a stern anchor. The gunport covers were already raised, and within moments the ugly muzzles of twelve cannon were played through the open ports.
“Big surprise,” muttered Jack. He was amazed how predictable the enemy’s behavior was. The Dutch had not discussed details of their plan around Paul before sending him off, but they didn’t need to. The Brotherhood had anticipated this move since hearing the substance of De Vries’s talk with Yatoo weeks before. Only now the Dutch leaders had been provoked into committing their major asset, the ship, on terms specified by the Americans. Thank God you’re not as smart as you are cruel, Jack thought.
“It’s what you might call negotiating from a position of strength,” yelled De Vries from his perch on the quarterdeck to the figures on the beach. Smug bastard, Jack thought. He hoped their situation seemed hopeless to the Dutch. The American leader and Indian allies were assembled on the beach for the parley, and there would be no chance of escape from the narrow spit of land. They would be chopped to pieces attempting to run back to the main island. The white men on both sides knew that after the ship’s initial range-finding volley, the murderous carronades would be loaded with chain and metal detritus that would rake every living thing on the beach.
The village would have seemed peaceful enough when they passed it, Jack reckoned—normal activity, many canoes lined up on the beach. From Paul’s descriptions, Jack was sure he could make out the key players. Captain Arloon and the sergeant of dragoons were obvious from their demeanor and uniforms, De Vries from his bandages and big mouth. After they dispensed with the Americans on the spit, they probably planned to let the dragoons move to the village over land while they swept back past the compound and reduced it to shambles with the ship’s heavy guns.
The sergeant of dragoons was strangely quiet, however, as was Captain Arloon. De Vries had heeded the warning to yell no orders at any of the sailors or soldiers. They cared little what he screamed to the enemy on the beach—their disposition would, in the final analysis, be his call. But both veterans seemed uneasy to Jack—he knew they felt that something was wrong here, and they carefully scanned the cove for a trap.
De Vries finally scoffed. “What, no tricks from your fat self or young banty rooster? Perhaps we’ll be merciful to you if you beg, and just hang your friends. We’ll only cut out your tongues, or remove other vital parts, and keep you alive for hanging in Amsterdam—or maybe trade you to the English crown.” De Vries’s command of English was much better than Jack would have guessed.
When there was no response, he continued, “The terms are simple: unconditional surrender or die like dogs.”
“We accept,” Quince said calmly.
After a short, surprised silence, De Vries blurted, “Finally, some common sense.”
“Yes,” echoed Quince, “we accept. Now if you would have your men toss their arms over the side, close the gunports, and raise a white flag, we will go easy on you and spare most of your lives.”