Quince stared at the deck for almost a full minute. “Sir, we are men of humble roots; we have our loyalty to each other, but we despaired of having a home to return to.” His voice almost breaking, he continued, “You have given us back our country. We have scores to settle, though not with anyone you are sworn to protect—then we will be at your service if you call us.”
Jack felt Captain Bowdoin’s eyes on him. The surrounding officers and sailors were frozen in silence, the only sound the creaking of the ship timbers in the gentle swells. He could not fathom why Quince’s words had made him feel so moved, but something told him they had a similar effect on Bowdoin and even the ship’s crew.
Jack held his hand out to Captain Bowdoin. The captain accepted it.
“I add my word to that of Mr. Quince. Should we be called upon by our country, there will be a fast ship with a crew that fights like hell preying on its enemies.”
“I don’t doubt it, Mr. O’Reilly.” He heard Bowdoin instruct Lieutenant Feller. “Please see to the letter of passage, Lieutenant, and I will sign it.”
A table was erected on the quarterdeck, and when the lieutenant had written a simple declaration of inspection and safe passage to any port in the New Republic, it was signed by Bowdoin and accepted by Quince.
As the sailors helped them over the rail, Jack felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Captain Bowdoin studying him. In a voice only Jack could hear, he earnestly whispered, “Son, do what you have to in that rat’s nest, then leave whatever it is that consumes you—leave it go! Bring your friends home and live a life.”
Jack reflected back on the incident, still not believing. They were now scant miles off Cuba, carrying an official letter signed by a senior officer in the American navy which basically ensured that when they had finished their business in Habana, they actually had a country they could return to without fear of hanging. The stop in the Tortugas had been a tremendous stroke of fortune.
It was hard to think of good luck now, though, as the morning mist cleared and he found himself approaching Habana from almost the exact direction he had not so many years ago. The lighting on the hills, the smell in the air; he had come full circle in more ways than one. He stared in the direction of Matanzas Province and felt the deep stirring in his vitals, a sense of loss and fury. Perhaps Bowdoin was right: he must go home and live, but first some must die.
28
COMPENSATION
JACK STOOD COLD and wet, staring at Count de
Silva’s villa.
He had been unable to sleep and paced the ship’s deck for hours. On impulse, he had slipped off his tunic and shoes, jammed a knife in his belt, and dove over the side, swimming the one hundred yards to shore.
The Star had been anchored for three days, waiting for the quarantine to lift. The men had been impatient. “What’s the plan, Jack?” “What’s it goin’ to be, matey?”
At Quince’s instigation, the council had met and confirmed Jack as the new skipper of the Star. Quince would remain first mate. If the sale of the finca or booty obtained from the raid on de Silva’s villa was rich enough, Jack would pay off the others’ shares and become the ship’s owner and master.
So here he stood in the middle of the night, shivering half naked across from his enemy’s house. Jack had many schemes, none clearly thought out. He realized that each time he started to devise an idea, his thoughts turned to rage and he was unable to think clearly. He had dreamed of approaching the count in a public place and confronting him with his crimes. Humiliating him in front of his peers and then killing him in a duel, or slipping quietly into his bedroom at night and slitting his throat. Or better yet, hanging him from the yardarm of the Star as it sailed slowly and majestically out of Habana harbor. He knew secretly, however, that none of these plans would come to pass. That his unabated anger was leading him around by his nose, and that he must take things slowly.
First, he must find out about his property; the deed to his mother’s land would have to be sorted out. There was also the matter of Quen-Li’s disappearance the first night they had anchored. Only when he had settled this matter would he deal with the count, for no one had seen the slim Chinaman leave the ship. He had simply disappeared. Jack cared a great deal for Quen-Li and it troubled him that twice when he swam to shore to look for the mysterious Oriental gentleman, he found no trace of him.
The swim to the wharf from the Star now seemed to him a little silly, but having seen the villa, the years of fantasizing about the count seemed to dissolve into a cold sense of the course he would take. He started back to the ship. “One step at a time, Jack boy,” he mumbled. “One step at a time.”
The quarantine was lifted the next morning, and after tying up, Jack swiftly made his way off the ship, arriving quickly at the main street of Habana. He asked locals where the American consul resided and was repaid with a wave of the hand toward Calle Juan Carlos.
When Jack entered the consul’s outer office, he found a clerk, a self-important young man, who glanced up from his newspaper. “Yes, what is it?”
From his accent, Jack thought he came from the American South. The fellow dropped his eyes back to a month-old newspaper.
“I would like to speak to someone about property that belongs to me.”
Without looking up, the young man said, “And just exactly what would you like to speak to them about?”
Jack raised his index finger to the top edge of the paper and slowly brought it down until he could see over it. “I’ll explain that to him when I see him, won’t I?” There was something in Jack’s voice that persuaded the young man not to delay any further.
“I’ll see if the associate consul can see you. Have a seat.”
After nearly half an hour, an effete, older man beckoned Jack to a small office which contained only a desk and one chair. Jack stood with hat in hand before the man. In no hurry to initiate conversation but finally wondering about office protocol, Jack introduced himself. “My name is Jackson Alexander O’Reilly. I have been—” Jack stopped, wondering how much to say. “Well, to put it bluntly, I’ve been traveling the past three years and haven’t had time to consummate the transfer of my mother’s property in Matanzas into my name. I—”
“Have you kept up the taxes on said property, Mr. Jackson?” The man’s eyes and voice were expressionless.
“O’Reilly, sir. And no, I haven’t. It was my understanding that until the deed had been properly transferred, that wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Well, O’Reilly, or whatever your name is, you’re wrong. Your place most likely has been sold for taxes. In any case, you don’t seem to be of the landed gentry, a latifundista, as they say here.”
Jack glared at this puffed-up politico. “Excuse me, whatever your name happens to be. I’d like to speak to someone who can help me. You obviously aren’t interested, and my time’s just as valuable as yours.”
“Oh, well I see.” The man looked at Jack for the first time, sneering. “You should have told me you had limited time. It’s the consulate general that you want. May I make an appointment for you, Mr. Jackson?” Jack gazed at the fool and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “How would four o’clock this afternoon be, Mr. Jackson O’Reilly, sir?” Jack left the office after providing the details on the property, and walked out into the avenida. He took in the fresh air in deep gulps, trying to calm himself.
He wandered back to the ship. They had been in Habana three days and they had not been pleasant ones. What had happened to Quen-Li? The Chinaman’s personal effects were still on board, yet no one had seen him. Cheatum was missing also, but he had taken his things—along with various items that were not his—and slipped off the ship in the middle of the night.