We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [73]
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