The critical point of contention came when one of Charlene’s male friends referred to China as the Far East. An innocent enough assertion in most circumstances, but it confused and annoyed Klett. Paul had said on several occasions that they were heading west from the islands, toward China.
Klett turned to the dandy, “Sir, you must be mistaken. I am a sailor these many years and am quite certain China is west of here and should not be referred to as the Far East.”
“Charlene,” the man said. “Did you hear that? Can you believe this oaf?”
There followed several comments in which Charlene quoted lines from some of the better known works of Shakespeare. Paul caught the last few. Seeing Klett’s increasing discomfort and noting for the first time that Jack was standing quietly in a corner throughout the exchange, he thought it time to defuse the disagreement. Jack’s face was a barometer for storms best heeded; in the last few moments his easy smile had been replaced with that dark, intense look that too often preceded ominous events.
Paul brushed by several of Charlene’s admirers, to a point from which he could place his arm about Klett’s shoulder.
“Come hither, my friend, there are gay people in this room more deserving of your company. Fret not over the cruel croaks of these foppish frogs nor the sharp-tongued, dull-witted lass who shares their swamp. Her poor grasp of the bard is equaled only by the poor grasp of her girdle. I fear you may, in future, repeat some of her malapropisms and lose your reputation for repartee.”
“Well I never!” gasped one of the powder-wigged prigs. “You illmannered young jackanape.”
“Perhaps I am a jackanape, but I don’t ridicule well-meaning strangers. You’ve had your fun and may continue entertaining yourselves at someone else’s expense. It should not prove too taxing, since boors are usually easily amused by each other.”
A large, heavily built man, who had been at the fringe of the group of revelers, stepped forward. “And what if I lay a fist in your impudent mouth?”
As if explaining to a child, Paul said, “What if, indeed? I suspect that a moment after you silenced my impudent mouth, Klett here would pound you into a pile of haughty British dog offal, speckled in red. Or worse, my friend in the corner would lose the battle he has been waging for the past fifteen minutes with his murderous disposition, and carve you and your wigged friend like a Christmas goose.”
Both the massive man and the prig looked toward the corner, whereupon their expressions mellowed. Even Paul was somewhat surprised at the dramatic, dampening effect Jack had on the men’s rising tempers. It struck him that he had never seen such a dangerous-looking character, and Jack was just nineteen. Indeed, his friend had changed. His sun-bronzed, powerful frame, now grown to a height of six feet two inches, could not be hidden by the delicate clothes. His stance was as relaxed and alert as a cat’s and his eyes burned through a potential foe as if observing vermin teetering on the edge of mortality. The men turned and ambled off with a parting comment about “speaking to the management about the lower class of people being let into the establishment.”
Few outside the immediate area of the gaming tables had noted the incident, and those who did went back to what they were doing. Paul led Klett to a table where men from the Star were heavily into their drinks, entertaining each other merrily. He shoved Klett down at the table and asked Hansum and Coop if they would kindly get him involved in a backgammon game. He, by Jove, wanted his friend to enjoy one of the few opportunities at civilized society without any further chance of mayhem. But when Paul sat at a smaller table with Quince and Mentor, he found he was going to have to deal with an angry Jack.
“Damn you, Le Maire, I’m not murderous,” his friend hissed.
“Right, and if I say it again, you’ll kill me.” Quince and Mentor both chuckled, but Jack was miffed and unsmiling.
“Now look you.”
Paul, for his part, was getting increasingly exasperated. He jabbed his fork in Jack’s direction. “Old sod, it was just a figure of speech—but it’s also based on true observations.”
Quince and Mentor listened solemnly to what they figured would be one of Paul’s soliloquies. “I love you like a brother, but you must admit, you’ve developed the habit of thrashing an uncomfortably large percentage of the people you meet.”
Jack, agitated and unsure of what to say, looked at the two older sailors for assurance, but they just studied the wood grain in the top of the table.
Paul continued: “Granted, your temper has proved handy in our circumstances. And true, you show a strong sense of righteousness and judgment in how and when you fight. But damn it, Jack, you’re carrying around a chip on your shoulder the size of a hatch cover. You come alive when you fight. Oh, you’re more able to enjoy yourself than you were before our adventures in Belaur—hell, you’re actually fun sometimes. But man, Cuba’s buried inside of you like a hot ember.”
Paul had obviously been working up to this for some time; there was no stopping him now. “You’ve got to purge this from your guts. You’d have skewered those two men in an eyeblink. Why? Because they ridiculed Klett and threatened me. With words! You really are becoming Black Jack O’Reilly. People have good reason to be afraid.”
Jack stared blankly at the table as Paul spoke. His friend’s words were strangely disturbing to him. Paul had overstated the case, but not by much. He wouldn’t have skewered the men as nonchalantly as Paul indicated, but Paul was right about having to fight to maintain control. The people bullying Klett, making the fool of his friend, then threatening Paul when he stood up for him, was irrationally provocative to him. He was finding violence too satisfying a solution—it confused and frightened him.
“There’s more to live for,” Paul went on. “Quen-Li once said you kill but are no killer—I don’t know if that’s true anymore. There’s a lighthearted, happy person in there that used to temper the fighter in you, that gave it balance. Whatever it takes, we have to finish what needs finishing in Habana because that coal is going to eat its way out some day.”
Jack got up and started to leave.
Paul followed him. “See that Chamorran serving girl? She’s been eyeing you all night. If you were healthy inside, you’d take more pleasure in making her tear the sheets off the bed than you would in running your sword through some buffoon’s guts.”
Jack bolted outside, but Paul pursued him.
“Look, man. These men are your brothers—they’ll even take a chance on some crazy journey to help you set things right on the other side of the world—but you need to get right with yourself—” Paul stopped abruptly, realization dawning, and put his arm around his friend’s shoulder.
“That’s it, isn’t it? Brothers—I mean—you turn into the angel of death when your new family, your shipmates, are threatened, don’t you? Afraid you didn’t do enough to defend your first family?”
Jack had bitten through his lip; blood was dripping down his chin, onto his white vest. The young man collapsed to a sitting position, his shoulders started shaking. Some people on their way into the Orchid became curious, but there were now two large, formidable looking sailors standing with their backs to Paul and Jack, puffing on their pipes, their demeanor suggesting the onlookers stare somewhere else.
Jack collected himself and started to walk back toward the Star.