"Surely that's their own business. I don't know what they're doing there and it's not my concern. All I know is that they had the choice. You saw with your own eyes that I ordered the hatch opened."
"Who wouldn't have fled, if the alternative was to stay in a dark hole? Is that a real choice?"
"It's a choice," Jack Lewis said. "And I offered it to them. But that's enough talking. Let's get down to the real reason we're here."
He went over to the fo'c'sle and shouted an order to the Kanaks, who immediately appeared on deck and started readying a boat.
"I think you should come ashore with us. You'll find it a worthwhile experience."
Across his shoulder he slung an old-fashioned musket with a powder horn and a ramrod, and I gave him a puzzled look. In his hand, he held a Winchester rifle.
"Don't ask," he grinned. "I'm a superstitious man. This old gun is my talisman."
I climbed down into the boat, together with two Kanaks, who manned the oars. The beach was deserted. On a desert island, what else could it be?
We dragged the boat ashore, and Jack Lewis walked up and down the beach while he scanned the thicket as though in search of something. Then he waved at me. Behind a flowering hibiscus I spotted a row of calabashes. In the sand next to them lay a hide filled with something that looked like pebbles, but I was too far away to see it properly.
Jack Lewis went over to the hide and tied it into a parcel with some leather string while the Kanaks started carrying the calabashes to the boat. They made a sloshing sound, and I realized that they were filled with supplies of fresh water. Jack Lewis weighed the parcel in the palm of his hand. I heard a rustling sound, and if his masklike face had ever been capable of expressing an emotion such as happiness, then that's what it was doing now.
Just then a gunshot rang out across the island.
Lewis froze.
"Damn it to hell!" he exclaimed. "Damn, bastard hell!"
He clutched his leather parcel and turned to me.
"Quick!" he said. "Take as many calabashes as you can carry!"
He yelled an order at the Kanaks, who immediately started pushing the boat back into the water. He gripped the packet tightly as he ran. I could tell from his face that our frantic flight was to save that, rather than our lives. Whatever it held was clearly his pirate treasure.
By now the boat was in the water, and I had to wade out thigh-deep before I could climb aboard. The Kanaks started rowing immediately, while Jack Lewis stood in the middle of the boat, cocking his rifle. He aimed at the shore and I heard a thundering crack. I turned toward the beach and saw it was teeming with natives. Several of them had guns and they were firing back, a whole salvo of bullets that hit the water around us. Jack Lewis returned fire, and I could see he was a good shot. One of the natives already lay outstretched in the sand. Soon another one tumbled.
"Ha," he snorted. "Fortunately for us those devils don't know how to aim."
"I thought you said this was an uninhabited island."
"I never said it was an uninhabited island. I said no humans lived here. If you call those devils humans once more, I'll order you off the boat. Then you can join your own species if that's what you want."
He grinned cruelly at me and carried on shooting. Yet another native collapsed, but the rest kept firing.
"So, what's your decision?"
I shook my head.
"I think I'll stay here."
I didn't understand any of this. Who were the natives, and why were they shooting at us? They couldn't be the free men from our hold. Where would they have got the guns? And the calabashes of water and the mysterious pebbles that had made Jack Lewis's rigid face crease with joy? What was their significance? He'd called it trading—but the deal appeared to have gone badly wrong.
No, I didn't understand anything. All I knew was that my heart was beating as it never had before and that the minutes I spent under this hail of bullets, with no task to distract me because the only oars in the boat were in the hands of the Kanak crew, felt like hours and days. The Flying Scud, which was probably a couple of cable lengths from the shore, seemed as far away as ever. Fortunately, the two Kanaks who'd remained on board ship saw our predicament and started to raise the anchor, but this didn't lessen the danger we were in: a second group of natives had pulled a long canoe across the beach and launched it not far from where the first group was positioned. They were still keeping up a heavy barrage of gunfire, though Jack Lewis's marksmanship had by now reduced them to half their original number, and the beach was strewn with bodies.
The canoe gained on us rapidly. Half of the men paddled while the rest stood shooting at us, so Lewis was forced to cover two targets at once. He fired a final shot toward the shore as a farewell and another native fell. Then he focused his attention on the canoe and I saw the foremost of the crewmen thrown sideways into the water just as our own boat suddenly slackened its speed.
Until now I had watched the dreadful spectacle in mute fear, my role reduced to that of the spectator of a drama whose outcome had not yet been written. And if fate was cruel enough, the spectacle would cost me my life. Just then, one of the Kanaks collapsed over his oars with a howl of pain. I pushed him from the thwart to the bottom of the boat, where he stayed, clutching his wounded shoulder. Blood bubbled out of it in a glistening stream barely visible against his dark skin. With a part to play at last, I rowed as I'd never rowed before. As soon as my hands had found something to do, I felt I'd seized some control over my own fate: my dark thoughts vanished and time—which a moment earlier seemed to stand still—resumed. The Flying Scud quickly grew closer. Her mainsail and foresail were already raised, thanks to the nimble fingers of the Kanaks aboard. I thought we were saved. But then came a burst of obscenities from Lewis.
"Oh, bloody hell!"
I thought that for once he'd missed his target. Then I realized he'd stopped shooting. He'd run out of ammunition.
I looked up. He tore open the leather purse and started rummaging in it. Then he fished out a small object and held it up to the light. As Jack Lewis twirled it in his fingers, the sun caught it, changing its color from white to pink to purple to blue, and back again to white.
It was a pearl!
I can't say that it was the most beautiful pearl I'd ever seen because I hadn't seen many, let alone held one in my hand. But it was wondrously lovely, and for a moment I was completely floored by the sight of it. Somehow, it was an invitation to dream. And despite the dire situation we were in, I let myself be whisked somewhere entirely different from an undermanned launch pursued by a canoe of blood-thirsty natives, who were swiftly gaining on us with brisk strokes. Jack Lewis knocked me brutally out of my reverie.
"Row, damn you, row!"
I'd been sitting immobile, the oars in my hands, while I stared at the pearl. Now I watched as Lewis took the old musket from his shoulder, poured gunpowder into the barrel, shoved the pearl down after it, and tamped the whole thing tight with his ramrod. Then he raised the gun he'd called his talisman and took careful aim. Before the noise of the blast died down, one of the natives flew backward, as if flung by a giant hand, and disappeared into the water.
"I'll send you the bill, you devil!" Jack Lewis screamed, his face distorted by rage.
He reloaded the gun. His fingers shook as he pushed yet another precious pearl into place. I could barely believe my own ears when I heard the strange sound that escaped his compressed lips: I could have sworn it was a sob. The gun went off with a bang.
The Kanak behind me jumped. I thought he'd been shot, but it turned out that his oar had taken a direct hit close to the oarlock and snapped in two. Now I was the only one rowing.
Our lives were riding on the pearls, Jack Lewis's aim, and the strength of my arms, and I rowed until they felt ready to drop. Desperation lent them a power I'd never known, and the gap between our pursuers and us began to widen. There were fewer of them now. Lewis's precision with both bullets and pearls had taken every second ma
n. Our enemy's victory song echoed in our minds just as menacingly as before—but its chorus had diminished. Finally we reached the Flying Scud, where a rope ladder awaited us. I slung the injured Kanak over my shoulder without feeling his weight, climbed the side of the ship, and hefted us both over the rail, heedless of what kind of target we might present as I did so. Several shots rang out behind us, but neither one of us was hit.
The Kanaks on board had prepared everything for our departure: the anchor was hung from the bow, the sails were set, and if they'd had access to the captain's cabin and his stash of guns, they'd undoubtedly have been handing him loaded rifles so he could continue shooting down our pursuers uninterrupted. But access to those guns was a taboo they dared not break.
We were barely back on deck before Jack Lewis had dashed to his cabin and reappeared with a box of cartridges and a new rifle. Then he knelt behind the rail and resumed firing. His face was that of a man settling a personal score, rather than putting a dangerous enemy out of action. For every precious pearl that he'd lost, he was making the natives pay, not just with the life each pearl had ended, but with interest. He greeted every clean kill with a cry of triumph.
"Take this, you devil!"
He spat contemptuously over the rail.
I had to take the helm: the captain was too preoccupied with his blood lust. It was up to me to get us across this lagoon and out through the opening in the reef. My success had nothing to do with seamanship, but with the fortunes of wind and tide, both of which were on our side. The wind had picked up and it filled our sails even before we were out of the lagoon. The tide was low and the current raced out through the gap in the reef. A believer would have said Our Lord was giving us a helping hand. But since I don't believe that the Lord, if He exists, would have been on Jack Lewis's side, all I'll say is that during one lucky hour, Nature ordered the sea and wind to side with him.
The feeling of being miraculously saved at the very last moment never quite left me, though I can't speculate who would have been worse off if Nature had decided to trap the Flying Scud in the lagoon, ourselves or the natives. There were many of them, but Jack Lewis's marksmanship was—to use a word that would undoubtedly have flattered his vanity—fiendish.
We sailed past the wreck of the Morning Star at a smart speed, at which point Jack Lewis took a break from shooting natives and turned his rifle on the wreck instead. I heard a bang and saw the face of the figurehead disappear in a cloud of splinters. It seemed that Lewis's rage could no longer be quenched by the blood of his enemies—and in that moment I sensed that we had not escaped danger. It had just changed shape. Now it was on board with us.
HAVING REACHED the open sea, I might have felt it was safe to breathe a sigh of relief—had I not seen that savagery in Jack Lewis's face. He'd finally put the gun down and left his position by the rail, and was now pacing up and down, muttering to himself.
"It's all ruined ... who is the bastard ... if only I could find that accursed bastard."
He scowled at me as if I too were suspected of a crime, the nature of which I couldn't fathom. His plans, whatever they were, had been thwarted. He owed me an explanation for the nightmare we'd just lived through. But I realized that now was the wrong time to ask him. If I valued my life, there might never be a right one.
I glanced over at him anxiously, trying to gauge the mood that accompanied his stream of muttered expletives. So when his face lit in a sudden smile, it caught me off guard.
"Well, I never," he exclaimed, as though he'd just spotted a much-missed friend whom he'd soon be welcoming with open arms.
I turned to see what had caught his attention and there, half a cable's length astern, the natives' canoe was bobbing up and down in our gleaming wake. I could barely believe my eyes. How could they possibly think they had a chance of defeating us now?
They worked their paddles feverishly. They were all sitting down; not one of them stood to aim a gun. There were seven or eight of them left: perhaps they wanted to be sure in advance they'd hit their target this time. They might even be planning to board us. Had they learned nothing?
I didn't for one moment worry about their attacking us. I simply pitied them and their naive folly, for it seemed they were not just dicing with death, but positively inviting it. Their daring filled me with deep sadness on their behalf.
No, I didn't fear the natives and their suicidal attack. I feared Jack Lewis's reawakened blood lust.
"What a delightful surprise," he declared. "And I was just thinking that the fun was over."
He grabbed his rifle and placed it on his shoulder. Then he lowered it.
"They're too far away," he said, sounding disappointed. "Let them catch up a bit. Sail closer to the wind."
"But Captain," I objected, "they've no chance of reaching us. Surely enough blood has been shed by now?"
He looked at me dispassionately. "We were attacked and we defended ourselves. That's all."
"But we're not being attacked now. And as long as we stick to our course, we won't be."
"Sail closer!"
My hands still hesitated on the wheel. He stepped up close to me, and his small eyes widened with rage.
"Mr. Madsen, I'm the captain of the Flying Scud and I have just given you an order. If it doesn't please the young gentleman to obey, he will be regarded as a mutineer, and mutineers get short shrift from me."
He poked the barrel of the gun into my face and for a moment we stared into each other's eyes.
It wasn't his stare or the menacing closeness of the gun barrel that made me follow his order. The weapon was shaking in his hands, and I sensed that although his voice was calm, he was in an uncontrollable rage—not at me or the natives who had spoiled his plans, but at the entire world. And he didn't care who paid the price: the natives or his first mate. It was all the same to him.
"Aye, aye, Captain," I said, and turned the wheel.
He lowered the rifle and returned to the stern. The ship dropped speed until we lay still, with the sails flapping in the breeze. The natives' canoe came closer. Jack Lewis raised his rifle and began picking them off one by one. With each direct hit, he emitted a short, contented grunt.
The canoe kept gliding forward. One after another, the natives stood up with their guns, aimed, fired, and fell dead.
At last there was only one left—but he kept paddling toward us. Jack Lewis paused in his shooting, and his attention seemed to drift momentarily. It was clear that his rage had abated.
"Leave him be," I said. "It's enough."
He looked up and gave me a small, sleepy smile, and in that moment his face had the strange gentleness of a newly wakened child.
"You're right," he said. "It's enough." He joined me.
"Aye, aye, Captain, straight ahead."
Once more the wind filled our sails and we raced ahead at the same speed as before. Neither of us spoke for a while. I'd escaped death only to have my life threatened by the very man who'd saved me—and now he was standing next to me, pretending that nothing had happened.
"Fine weather," he said suddenly, and inhaled deeply. "Sea air! Nothing like it. Makes a sailor's life worth living."
Of all the things I'd heard Jack Lewis say during the months I'd spent with him, this unremarkable comment seemed the strangest. I didn't believe for one moment that he meant what he said—and yet I welcomed his words. The terror I'd felt these past few hours had eased and we were once again a captain and his first mate on our way across the ocean.
"Yes," I said, and imitated Jack Lewis by inhaling deeply. "Sea air does a world of good."
Our idyll was interrupted by an agitated Kanak who ran up, pointing backward. We both turned. And there was the solitary native in his canoe, a black silhouette against our glittering wake. He wasn't far behind. How he'd managed to gain on us, on his own, in a canoe built for several oarsmen, was incomprehensible.
We watched him for a long time. The distance between our unequal craft remained constant. I glanced si
deways at Jack Lewis but said nothing. I expected him to grab his rifle again and put an end to the life he'd spared in a moment of kindness. But he didn't.
Eventually he turned to the helm and ordered me to adjust our course. From time to time I'd look back across the water. The native was still there. The distance remained the same. He neither gained on us nor lagged behind.
A couple of hours passed in this manner, and as I watched our pursuer, my perception of him shifted. Now what I saw was a man all alone in a canoe on the sea. He wasn't a native any more, part of the savage group that had recently attacked us. I no longer knew who he was or what he wanted from us, whether he was a pursuer or someone in need. All I saw was the vast ocean and his lost figure at the center of it. I felt he had to be some kind of messenger, but I had no idea what he was trying to tell us.
"This has got to stop," Jack Lewis said at last.
I knew then that there was nothing I could do.
He went back to his rifle and picked it up. I didn't look at him but kept staring at the solitary oarsman in the middle of the sea. Somehow I wanted to say goodbye to him in the minutes he had left and make sure I wouldn't forget him. My memory would be his only tombstone.
He must have seen Jack Lewis aim his Winchester, because he suddenly stood up and flung his own gun onto his shoulder. A bang sounded from Lewis's rifle, and at the same time a red flash shot from's the muzzle of the native's gun. They'd fired simultaneously. Our pursuer crashed backward into the canoe, and it turned sideways in the wake, where it bobbed up and down. Quickly, the gap between us widened. Soon the canoe and the dead man would be gone from view.
So preoccupied had I been with the native's fate that I'd paid no attention at all to what was happening on the Flying Scud. But now I heard a loud groan. It came from Jack Lewis. When I turned around, he was sprawled on the deck, a red stain spreading across his shirtfront. The native's bullet had also found its target.
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