Nesmith turned to the crowd outside the cabin. “Sebastian, you back with that Quince fellow?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, send him in here and get all those armed men off the deck. If I was depending on them for my life, I’d be a fond memory by now. Then come in here with my chiefs of staff.”
Totally unprepared for the turn of events, Jack returned his pistol to his belt and moved to the side, motioning his men to do so, too.
There was now room for the British officers and Quince to enter. Jack felt a surge of relief on seeing Quince, angry but otherwise without a scratch. It took seeing the big man in fine fettle for Jack to fully realize how worried he had been.
The captain was smiling. “Mr. Quince, I understand that some fools operating under my authority pressed you unwillingly into His Majesty’s Service right from your own boat.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“I was not aware of that and assure you the guilty will be apprised of my disapproval. I apologize—I believe this has something to do with that whiny Dutch merchant who shaved too close over one ear—aha! So you’re the pirates he’s so perturbed about.”
Quince began to protest but Nesmith cut him short.
“Makes no nevermind; he’s a scurrilous dog. However, these naked lunatics of yours did attack a Royal Navy vessel, entered the captain’s cabin—” Here the man’s battle with the absurdity of the situation started to succumb to laughter again. But he turned suddenly serious. “You will all leave here unharmed in the next hour if none of my men were killed or seriously injured.”
Sebastian interrupted to say that a guard had been struck, but had regained consciousness, not seriously hurt.
Nesmith stretched, grinned, and winked at Jack. “You’ll all be free to go; but I insist that first you tell me your story. Methinks we will never hear one like this again.”
At noon the next day, the Christian Sabbath, the Star suddenly pulled anchor and sailed out of Manila harbor. Customs, port officials, and a number of merchants must have cheered in relief. Jack saw De Vries watching from the port side of the country ship Bauxter, along with the local leader of the auxiliary thugs who worked with the British press-gangs.
Fourteen hours later, at 2:30 A.M. Monday, the Star reentered Manila’s outer harbor with no running lights, all lanterns doused, and a black flag flying from its main topgallant. It passed silently by the Bauxter and several other ships to the inner harbor.
At 4:30 A.M. the Star’s sails filled with the usual outgoing morning breeze. She passed the merchants of the inner harbor slowly, with reduced sail, and then came alongside the Bauxter with all sails reefed. “Yo, watch of the Bauxter,” hailed Quince from the quarterdeck, Jack standing beside him.
“State your intentions,” came the startled response.
“A message from the Brotherhood, for Heinrich De Vries.” The Bauxter watch summoned his captain and De Vries. The latter came onto the deck rubbing sleep from this eyes and cursing the damn Spanish customs officials who had no doubt roused him.
“Says they have a message for you, sir.”
De Vries cupped his hand over his good ear and turned it towards the ship, a mere fifty yards from him. His eyes shot to the mainmast and the black flag when simultaneously he heard the report of a Kentucky Long Rifle. He stared at his hand in disbelief. The middle finger was missing and a significant part of his left ear was intermeshed in his remaining fingers.
“Couldn’t bear to leave a man in such a state,” Quince called. “Smaller wig and hat size and they should fit evenly, though now you’ll kind of look like a walking prick wearing a merkin. Bon voyage.”
The Star emptied six guns of its broadside at the waterline of the Bauxter, dropped all sails, and headed full tilt out of the harbor. At 6:30 A.M. the captain of the Bauxter ordered all hands to abandon ship. The Bauxter sank at 6:55 A.M. with no loss of life.
Jack would take to his grave the memory of their breakneck sortie from the Philippine harbor, every soul in the port wakened by the blast. Quince, on the quarterdeck, never looked happier or prouder. In deference to the HMS Respite, they lowered their black flag and raised the Stars and Stripes as they made their way past it. The British sailors crowded the rails, marveling at the cheeky Yanks that had bearded the Dutch merchants.
Quince ordered a salute fired for the British ship. It was returned from one of the thirty-six cannons on its port side. Hansumbob, in the crow’s nest, swore later he could hear the sound of laughter; it seemed to be coming from the area of the Respite’s quarterdeck. Although the Americans might soon be going at it again with the English, they had been fairly treated by this captain and wished him well.
It would take many days at sea before the men all calmed down; the Brotherhood was definitely frisky. As Mentor said, “I reckon we’re on a fool’s errand, but damn if we ain’t a magnificent bunch of fools.”
26
CARIBBEAN BOUND
WHERE DOES THE time go at sea? Paul pondered, serving his shift on the starboard watch. The ocean spread in every direction. Huge, blue-gray rollers lifted the ship and surged it forward, assisting the wind in its work. Paul felt himself grow heavy as the deck rose under his feet, then light as the swell passed. The effect was hypnotic, memories of land and his family evoked by the endless sliding of wood over water.
A week at sea from their triumphant departure, the Brotherhood seemed content, welcoming the sense of security that came with returning to familiar routines. Away from ports and harbors, the sea was a place of refuge. In these far reaches of the Southern Pacific, a vessel might cruise for months without ever seeing another sail. No crowds, no press-gangs, no Dutchmen bearing blood grudges; just the pulse of wind and wave. Even the coming and going of the sun lost meaning in the seaman’s world of four-hour watches. Night and day merged in motion.
Heading due south, looking for the trade winds that would carry them past Ceylon and on to the Cape of Good Hope, they were between lives, Manila already a dream in their wake and Cuba far ahead of them. The men did their chores and sank into their own private rhythm with the sea—much to absorb, much to anticipate. The drills were their main distraction. Jack had the men practice endlessly with the rifles and cannon, occasionally even tracking back over their own seaway, blasting at jettisoned crates and other makeshift targets. They made a game of it but Paul knew Jack had serious intentions and wanted the small group’s marksmanship highly honed.
He marveled at how Jack brought the men out. Perhaps all men have some of the warrior in them, and Jack made sure that over the weeks the group shared their martial skills. The Belaurans demonstrated the art of wrestling and wielding clubs. Quince and Mentor were a surprising source of knowledge on the use of cutlasses. Only Quen-Li kept his distance from the training. It was clear from his rare smiles that he approved of the drills; it was just that the Chinese cook was a man apart, one for whom, Paul knew, taking life was already a way of life.
Weeks rolled into months as the Star sliced its way south. A brief, uneventful stopover in Cape Town preceded the five-week haul to Cuba.