“Papaloan?” A voice asked.
“Aye, she came aboard several weeks ago. Fair-skinned kaffir to service the officers. Seemed to relish it, cozy with all the men whenever they wished… she pretty much got the run of the ship. Her son and her man were killed in that first incident with you Americans that started this mess.”
The image of a woman’s face sprang into Jack’s mind, one that would be there the rest of his life. A beautiful, haunted, brown face of a Papaloan girl clutching a bloody bundle in her arms, rocking back and forth on her knees, grief so deep she had no way of expressing it.
“Quince, the girl in the clearing—”
“I know, lad, I know.”
Negotiations went quickly. The dragoons and remaining Dutch sailors could still cause significant bloodshed if forced to a desperate last stand. At this point no one seemed to have the stomach for it. Yatoo had entertained following up on the advantage, but Quince convinced him the spoils of the Stuyvesant were a magnificent prize—and two dozen dragoons could inflict terrible losses, ship or no ship. Their captain and most of their leaders were dead and they would be happy to put as much distance between themselves and this archipelago as fast as possible; but if they had to stand and fight, who knew what might happen. The bloodshed wouldn’t be worth the gain, Quince argued. If these were British or French, or the Dutch twenty years ago, the chance of reprisals would be great; but in this age the Dutch would be happy to find softer targets, even if news of this battle reached their homeland.
The sergeant never knew for sure what had happened in the boat with Arloon and never asked. He was a practical man. For Quince’s part, even when Jack and Paul explained the background of Quen-Li, the first mate couldn’t absorb it in the context of everything else that had happened. He decided it was just one more event in a day he would never fully comprehend, and asked about it no more.
As the chiefs and men talked, Paul watched some young native boys pushing stray arms and heads around in the shallows. They were fascinated with the grisly testimony to the power of the white men’s magic—a magic which they didn’t seem always able to control. Paul had killed his first man and he was numb. It had been so easy: point a muzzle, flick a finger—yes, just like that—and you toss some soul off the planet.
What’s that they’re saying? Ah, kill the badly wounded they’ve decided—more finger-flicking. The rest will be given canoes and food, and pointed south. If they make it several hundred miles down chain they’ll come to a strait where an occasional white sail is seen and they may find their way home. Their trail will be followed for five days by a Belauran and American war party. If it finds any stragglers, they will be killed. If they aren’t all gone by morning, they will be killed. If they ever return, they will be killed. All in all, a straightforward if not very gentle arrangement.
Quen-Li came by and sat with Paul. He did not flinch as Paul did with the sound of each shot; he just looked into Paul’s eyes and smiled when it was all over.
“Life is sometimes hard, my young friend, and victories hollow. You have given me my life back for a time and I will make good use of it. Thank you. The air feels good in my chest tonight, I am glad not to be breathing the dirt.”
“Quen-Li… Arloon was on your list?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else we know? What about De Vries?”
“No, not De Vries.”
“But another? Who?”
“Maybe one other.”
“Who, damn it, who?”
“Captain Deploy.”
“Sweet Jesus.”
“Bonne nuit, mon ami.”
21
RECLAMATION
JACK STOOD LOOKING at the burning hulk of the Dutch ship, recently standing so proud in the lagoon. She spewed an acrid mixture of gunpowder and burning timbers, and with smoke pouring from her innards, her death was imminent. Jack could not rejoice in its sinking, even though the enemy had been vanquished.
The sun balanced itself on the foreyard, casting a brilliant hue through the haze. Quince broke the silence.
“She were a fine ship, lads. Pity the captain acted like an ass. I’ve seen them smolder and burn like this for days. She’ll be down by her bulwarks by morning.” He turned and walked away, the rest of the men following in ones and twos, at once relieved, triumphant, and saddened by the day’s events.
Jack crouched against a palm tree, staring at the wooden pyre.
“What are you thinking?” asked Paul.
“Oh, I don’t know, really. Just wondering what this is all about. You know, the deaths, destruction. Wondering what it all has to do with me and my need to get back to the Caribbean.” The two friends sat silently, watching the sun perform its magic on the cobalt sea. “I was thinking what a shame it is to lose such a magnificent vessel as lies there, the Peter Stuyvesant.”
“He was a hated man,” Paul stated emphatically, gazing out at the calm lagoon. “A man whom the British defeated and—”
“How do you know all this about the captain?” Jack interrupted.
“Not the captain, idiot. I mean Peter Stuyvesant, the man who founded New Amsterdam.”
Jack looked at him, puzzled.
“New York to you, O unlearned one,” Paul replied. “A controversial leader—but then maybe all leaders, by definition, are controversial.”
Jack continued to gaze at the ship, only half listening to Paul’s words. He suddenly stood. “Let’s find Quince and the others. I’ve got an idea that may solve our problems—or add to them.”
They walked briskly down the beach and found the rest of the Star’s crew gathered around a small wood fire.
“I have a proposal I think will work,” Jack announced, “but we need to act fast.”
“It be late for fireworks, laddie. We’ve done that once today,” said Hansumbob from the edge of the campfire. The tired sailors laughed halfheartedly.
“I propose we douse the fire on the Dutchman and save her.”
“Aye, so we can do it all over again tomorrow, Jack?” Red Dog answered back.
Jack continued, ignoring the remark. “We could salvage what’s remaining of her and mate it with the Star. It seems as if what’s missing from the Dutch ship is what’s left of ours. We can replace the Dutchman’s mizzen with the Star’s remaining mast, then foreand-aft rig all but the foremast. That’d leave us with a barkentine, and rigged that way we have enough men to crew her.”
The men were quiet, taking in the words of this young man who had once again acquitted himself well in the recent battle.
“She’s startin’ to list to starboard even as we speak, lad,” Quince stated.
Jack turned to the lagoon, where indeed he could already perceive a tilt.
Quince rose from the beach: “All hands hear this: whether we save the Stuyvesant for future use or not, it will certainly be too late if we wait and talk about it tomorrow. So here’s what we’ll do: we’ll board her and attempt to douse the fire. If it seems too risky, we’ll abandon ship and let her sink—but we’ve got to get crackin’ if we intend to save her.”
The group acted instantly. A small boat was pushed back into the sea by Coop and Mentor. Several other men boarded canoes and began paddling toward the half-sunken vessel.
The Dutch ship was blown apart from the fantail forward to the mainmast. The mizzen had splintered and fallen back across the gaping hole in its deck; the deck beams were destroyed all the way aft, from the entrance to the officer’s quarters past the helm. Bits and pieces of the frame ribs pointed grotesquely into the night sky. The fire seemed to be centered in the lower part of the hold, but so far had left the structural floor timbers unharmed.