Before departing with Quen-Li, Matoo, and Yanoo—the three others who would carry out the raid—Jack looked at the remaining men intently. “Make the Star ready for sail and get axes ready to cut her mooring lines. When we go I suspect we’re not going to have time to windlass in the anchors.”
“Bless ya, lads,” Mentor said. “You get Quince back from those bastards and take care. We’ll be there when you need us.”
Paul, clearly agitated, hugged each man, Jack last. “I think this might be the most harebrained stunt you’ve talked us into yet,” he said, his eyes full of dread.
Breathing was easy enough—maintaining direction was the problem. They couldn’t keep on course without popping their heads out of the water for a peek to correct for drift and lack of reference. Ironically, it was the lights on the protective perimeter boats that provided the necessary points of orientation. Jack finally turned all his attention to steering and Quen-Li provided the propulsion.
With a quickening of his pulse, Jack became aware of something else now visible in the dimly lit water: sea snakes, which seemed drawn to the light and began poking at his hands occupied with holding the bottom of the spar. He knew from his experience in the islands that the animals were too slow to be dangerous if you paid attention and pushed them away. But there were other things on his mind at this moment, and if one of the snakes was able to gnaw through his skin, it could deliver a dangerous, probably fatal, bite. Great, just great! His impulse was to hurry, but that might draw attention from the boats—also fatal.
They knew they would be noticed if they moved too fast, so once they were certain they were on course, they progressed slowly. Eventually they were past the light boats, and the HMS Respite was a large glow directly above them. Jack edged them toward the stern until he detected a new, orange light. He knew this was the color of the stained glass in the ship’s aftercastle; seeing it meant they had passed below the fantail, where they could not be spied from the ship. When he banged his foot on the top of the Respite’s rudder, he stopped.
Raising his head, Jack scanned the water’s surface and judged they were safe from detection. The men in the watch boats were half asleep and paid no attention to anything inside their perimeter. He inched along the log to tap Quen-Li on the head but the Chinaman had already surfaced. The two men were naked aside from the leather belts around their waist and shoulders to hold weapons, including a pistol tightly wrapped in oiled canvas. Their faces covered with lamp black, it occurred to Jack that they must appear fantastic creatures. A slight bump and a second log joined them. The two Belauran warriors emerged from under their camouflage. Fantastic, indeed.
As suspected, the ship’s stern had built-in handholds above the waterline to facilitate maintaining the wood and servicing the rudder. Jack grabbed the first iron brace and hauled himself up the curved underside of the fantail. Jack had picked the Belaurans for their strength and agility. They knew enough English now to follow orders, but mainly they simply followed Dyak, so no words were needed. Their eyes burned with the fierce hunger of young warriors bound for glory in the execution of a daring deed. Jack knew the risk of death was a small consequence for men of their upbringing.
For once, their luck was good. Apparently, though Britannia ruled the ocean, the one attack her famed warships were not prepared for was from naked madmen crawling up her hull in a peaceful harbor. The watch was disciplined and alert, but confined to the main deck, crow’s nest, and pickets. And they were watching for vessels, not swimmers.
The party found the ship easier to scale once they rounded the chine; in a matter of moments they were at the captain’s walk, only one bored guard, standing at ease, in their path. Late though it was, Jack could hear voices and laughter coming from the captain’s cabin. He motioned to one of the Belaurans and pointed to the guard. Seconds later the Englishman was sprawled in a corner, unconscious from a blow with a Belauran war club.
Things had gone so easily that Jack was unprepared to be in this position so soon. Thinking of nothing better to do, he politely knocked on the door of the captain’s cabin.
There was a rustling and a murmured, “Who the hell would that be, Leftenant?”
“Couldn’t imagine, sir, unless the watch wants to report something.”
The door opened and an officer in a blue coat stood, looking questioningly into Jack’s face, then down the length of his naked body, then at his companions. His jaw dropped open. He made a half effort to close it again when Jack punched him full on the chin. The man staggered back into the cabin and fell in a sitting position in a red-upholstered chair.
The captain, a man of considerable stature, stood before Jack without fear. Jack pointed the flintlock pistol at the captain’s chest. “Pardon me, sir, but we have come to retrieve our skipper who was falsely imprisoned and brought aboard this ship against his will—an illegal act, one, uh, well of, uh, piracy—yes, piracy, no matter who does it—even a sovereign—”
“And who in the red, green, bloody blazes of hell are you?” The man’s composure was admirable given the circumstance.
“I, sir, am Jack O’Reilly, warlord—uh, first mate—of Étoile Trouvée—the Found Star—and have come for my skipper.”
“Étoile Trouvée? A French ship? But you’re an American, fully apparent from your poor command of the tongue—even the French speak English better than you colonials.”
Jack was unnerved. Didn’t the man realize he was a finger pull from death? Then again, he realized, so were they all. He saw the man whom he had struck recover enough from the blow to rise to his feet and draw his sword. One of the Belaurans stepped toward him, but Quen-Li restrained the native by kicking his foot out, and striking the flat of the blade, sending the sword clattering to the floor.
Jack swung his gaze back to the captain and said with resolve, his own temper flaring, “You may remember we are no damn colonials to you anymore since we kicked your damn limey asses out of our country. I demand you arrange for our skipper to be… what in hell are you smiling about?”
“Balls, bollards, huevos to the dons, I love it. You crazy bastards crawled your naked Yankee, Chinese, and black asses up onto a British fourth rate to retrieve your skipper, who I take it we’ve somehow mistakenly pressed.”
“Well—yes—no mistake though—”
“Christ, Sebastian, do find this fellow, what’s his name?”
“Quince, he—”
“Yes, Sebastian. Quince. Get this Quince up here.” He waved the man toward the door.
“By George, what a tale,” the captain said. “Wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.” Pounding the table, he relapsed into fits of laughter. “Look at ye! Dicks swinging in the tropical breeze, and where’d you get the savages and the chink?”
“These are my shipmates and associates,” retorted Jack.
“Assoc—” The captain was disabled by his own laughter. Suddenly there was a commotion behind them and the companionway filled with armed men.
Jack held his pistol up. “Captain, you’ll give us our skipper or even though we lose our own lives you’ll never live to tell this funny tale.”
At that, the officer drew himself up to his full height. “Son, you address me as Captain Nesmith, mind your manners, and you might get off this ship with your skipper, your associates, and your brass balls intact.” He stuck his finger into the barrel of Jack’s pistol. “Put that away, lad, before I stick it up your arse.” It was time for Jack’s mouth to hang open.