Wake of the Perdido Star Read online

  DEDICATION

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO

  THE SEA

  A place of endless mystery, adventure, and beauty.

  And to all those who ply its surface and plumb its depths.

  EPIGRAPH

  A man who studieth revenge keeps his wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do well.

  —SIR FRANCIS BACON

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  MAPS

  BOOK ONE

  Chapter 1 - NEW ENGLAND

  Chapter 2 - CAPE HATTERAS

  Chapter 3 - PAUL

  Chapter 4 - HABANA

  Chapter 5 - THE ROAD TO MATANZAS

  Chapter 6 - RETURN TO THE STAR

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter 7 - LATITUDE 52

  Chapter 8 - O’TAHEITI

  Chapter 9 - STORM

  Chapter 10 - WRECKED ON A SOUTH SEA ISLE

  Chapter 11 - THEY MEET THE NATIVES

  Chapter 12 - SETTLING IN ON BELAUR

  Chapter 13 - SIZING UP THE SALVAGE PROBLEM

  Chapter 14 - SALVAGE

  Chapter 15 - PROBLEMS

  Chapter 16 - SUCCESS AND TRAGEDY

  Chapter 17 - AN EYE FOR AN EYE

  Chapter 18 - RESOLUTION MADE, UNEXPECTED ALLY FOUND

  Chapter 19 - PLANS BORN, PREPARATIONS MADE

  Chapter 20 - SHOWDOWN

  Chapter 21 - RECLAMATION

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter 22 - EAST 121° SOUTH 8°

  Chapter 23 - MANILA

  Chapter 24 - ORCHID

  Chapter 25 - FIERY DEPARTURE

  Chapter 26 - CARIBBEAN BOUND

  Chapter 27 - NINETY MILES FROM CUBA

  Chapter 28 - COMPENSATION

  EPILOGUE

  THE BALLAD OF THE STAR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  PRAISE

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  MAPS

  BOOK ONE

  1

  NEW ENGLAND

  HAMDEN, CONNECTICUT. 1805. Jack O’Reilly, son of Ethan, gunsmith, walked a step behind his father as they approached First Episcopal Church. A cold wind drove at them, stirring leaves in the twilight, swaying the lantern in the church rector’s hand. Ethan turned to his son as they approached the massive archway.

  “You are not to speak at this meeting. Since you insisted on coming, you’ll sit in the choir loft. Quietly. Understood?”

  Jack felt a familiar knot take shape in his stomach. “Why can’t I sit with—”

  “You’ll sit where I say or not come in at all.” There it was, the tightness in his voice. He had come to this meeting primed for trouble.

  Ethan O’Reilly turned and brushed past three men conversing in the doorway. Jack watched them stare at his father’s back, whispering, then made his way inside.

  He climbed the steps to the choir loft, a tug on his breeches alerting him to the presence of other fathers’ sons. He turned and they smiled back. They were waiting for the outbursts that characterized these gatherings; knowing his father’s mood, Jack couldn’t share their eager anticipation.

  Dreading what he knew would come, Jack sank against the hardwood bench. The other boys were at the far side of the loft, perched as if to watch a schoolyard brawl. Jack looked up; as usual, the warmth of the rough oaken beams seemed to mock the meeting’s impersonal chill. He let his eyes fall to the mob below.

  The most important politicians and leaders of business had gathered. Jack could see the prim schoolmaster wedged between two fat men who conversed back and forth as if he wasn’t there. His father’s landlord, wealthy property owner Peter Slocum, sat rigid as a stump beside them, next to his married son. The young O’Reilly stirred. He wished they’d get on with it.

  Finally, Mr. Slocum stood and the crowd quieted. He raised his voice in his usual self-righteous protest: “The invasion of foreign heathens, who have taken jobs from the hardworking, God-fearing citizens of this land must be stopped. I, for one, won’t hire any of this pack nor continue to step aside for them as they weave their drunken way down our cherished streets. If we’re to become a strong nation, we can’t be a dumping ground for dark-skinned mongrels and hordes of papists.” He paused, enjoying the applause lauded upon him by his compatriots, although some shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Slocum’s eyes settled on Ethan, and he spoke in more deliberate tones, directed at the gunsmith. “There’s a privilege here that’s being ignored, a privilege granted to us by the pastor of this church to worship and enjoy the sanctity of these hallowed walls. But that privilege”—his voice took on a new volume—“can readily be exempted from certain members if they’re found to be continually disruptive and combative—”

  “How dare you speak of foreigners invading this land!”

  The crowd gasped. Jack felt his face turn hot; it was his father’s voice. As the only Catholics in Hamden, the O’Reillys sat quietly in the back when they attended the Episcopal ceremonies, not participating in the Eucharist; a fact, Jack felt, not overlooked by the “good people” of the community.

  Ethan O’Reilly thrust his arm at the landowner. “You, sir, are once removed from a foreign land yourself, as are a score of others in this room.”

  Several townsmen rose, shouting back.

  Jack could feel the eyes of the other boys on him and didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or proud. Most of the seventy-five or so men in the room were livid, but Ethan’s voice, full of loathing, rose above them.

  “You aim to rile me because of my family’s foreign heritage. But let me make this clear: never, and I repeat never, will I be driven from this city because of bigotry and intolerance.”

  Jack’s ears rang as if they’d been slapped, but he drove all expression from his face.

  The mayor, a gaunt man of considerable intelligence, rose from the back of the church. In a black high-collared suit, with starched white shirt and florid kerchief, he was the very picture of a successful politician. “You, sir, are out of order.”

  A hush enveloped the room.

  “The remarks, sir,” the mayor continued, “were not directed at you or your family, but rather at the riffraff and flotsam that have recently invaded from coastal cities. Stealing, cheating, littering these streets with their unsavory behavior. I also suggest to you, sir—”

  “I need no suggestion from you,” Ethan interrupted in only slightly more measured tones. “Nor can I ignore the implication.”

  Jack could see his father’s face had turned crimson; he leaned over the rail, scanned the room, and saw a pair of eyes looking up, frozen on him. They belonged to Slocum.

  “This nation’s independence,” Ethan went on, “so recent even you could not be unaware of it, was built upon the dictum that all men are created equal, and being so, are welcomed into our great country. This land is populated with foreigners.” Ethan paused to catch his breath. Jack knew his father had gone too far, and being the man he was, would plunge ahead. “The ‘riffraff,’ as you call them, were oppressed in other lands, and have as much right to be here as you gentlemen sitting here smug and comfortable. You seem to have forgotten how this nation was formed.”

  Several men began stirring and prepared to leave the assembly. Jack could feel his father’s frustration.

  “This nation was not founded to propagate the notion of an empire, but to free the oppressed, allow freedom of speech, and grant the right to pursue one’s God-given talents.” Silence ensued.

  Suddenly laughter erupted from various parts of the room. This metalworker had overstepped his bounds. Perhaps realizing this, Ethan stopped, and made his way between
the pews of the old church toward the entrance. When he reached the door, he paused, his back to the congregation, and in one swift move he flung it open and slammed it behind him.

  Jack felt numb; his friends shifted nervously. He knew his father’s words were true, but voicing them so stridently gave them a life of their own, a vision of the villagers’ behavior that would be hard for them to accept. The townspeople were nosy and narrowminded but Jack sensed that they probably weren’t much different than people in most places. It was just that his idealist father brought out the worst in them. Over the years, in three different towns, Jack had fought schoolyard battles with bullies who made fun of his mother’s accent or ridiculed his father’s wild-eyed fervor for justice and “rightful authority based on the rule of law, not entitlement.”

  Jack rose, staring back at the boys until they averted their eyes. He descended the steep stairs and followed his father out into the night.

  By nature, Jack was a loner. Generally liked and respected by his peers, he had still made no close friends in his years at Hamden. Most hours in the day, if not spent beside his father’s forge, were spent reluctantly with books. Not a natural student, he pursued his studies at an age when most young men in Hamden had turned from schooling to more practical matters.

  Hunched against the cold, his feet crackling through dead leaves, Jack mulled over the meeting with a heavy heart. He felt events in his life were building toward some change. His father had really angered people tonight. Deep down he knew that his mother would be readily accepted by most of the townsfolk if it weren’t for his dad. Despite her Cuban heritage, his mother’s features—brown eyes, full lips, and light-olive skin—were attractive, and she radiated a warmth that disarmed people, accent or no. But Ethan’s manner made many uncomfortable. Jack recalled an incident several years earlier in which his father railed against slavery in a public meeting. Although many in the crowd were likeminded, his father’s tone had been accusing and unconvincing. After the meeting, a young hooligan, perhaps sensing the gunsmith was unpopular, lobbed a piece of dried horse dung at the O’Reilly carriage as the family was riding home. It hit his mother in the back of her head. Not quite thirteen at the time, Jack quietly wiped her soiled hair with a kerchief while his father launched into a red-faced tirade, threatening mayhem against the retreating schoolboy. Onlookers shook their heads. Two days later, the ruffian who had offended his mother was spotted extricating himself from a manure pile at Harmon’s Stables with a black eye and bloody nose. He was afraid to name his attacker but no one doubted it was Jack O’Reilly. Short-lived satisfaction, brooded Jack.

  Nor was the family’s financial status improving. As talented an artisan as his father was, the diminishing opportunities for fine gun makers was not helped by his outbursts; it seemed life was becoming harder all the time.

  A chilled breeze promised an early snow as Jack rounded the next corner. He felt resentment take hold as various signs indicated he was near home: Slocum Dry Goods, Slocum Chandlery, Slocum Livery. He picked up his pace, kicking at rocks and dirt clods in his path. The family lived in two small rooms behind his father’s workshop, which they rented from Slocum. Most craftsmen would have owned their homes and shops after working so many years, but the O’Reillys seemed never to settle more than five years in any one place. Jack tried to shake away the gloom. He broke into a trot to catch up to his father, and they arrived home almost simultaneously.

  The O’Reilly family sat huddled in hard-backed chairs around a dying fire after their sparse meal of boiled potatoes and turnips which they had scarcely touched. Ethan stared intently into the weakening flames. Jack’s mother, Pilar, hummed softly.

  “Ethan, mi hito, there is no need to despair. Things, they will improve.” Pilar’s dark features wrinkled in concern. “They show only their ignorances by keeping us from their church.”

  “They haven’t actually said we can’t attend, Mother,” Jack offered. “But you’re right, their purpose is clear.” Jack wanted to help in some way. “Father, maybe if we traveled to New Haven on a Sunday there would be a Catholic church to attend and—”

  “Jackson, don’t speak of things you know nothing of.”

  Jack fell silent, feeling as he often did that his father was treating him like a child.

  “We must not let this trouble split our family . . . we must not.” Pilar’s voice was breaking, but filled with resolve.

  The group sat engulfed in thought when Ethan rose and slammed his chair on the wood floor. “Damn them!” He stopped as a light from outside refracted across the ceiling. Someone was approaching. Ethan peered out the window.

  Pilar jumped to her feet. “Ethan, let Jackson answer the door. You’re not of a condition to let the neighbors see.” His father nodded to his son and reached above the fireplace for his rifle; overreacting, Jack thought. A shout came from the street.

  “Jack O’Reilly! Come out here!”

  Jack knew the voice. It was Billy Slocum, the middle son of their landlord. The young O’Reilly threw open the door; he saw two figures in the street, their breaths forming clouds in the cool night air. Billy waved the lantern.

  “Pa sent David and me down here to give you this note.” He tossed a small crumpled envelope at Jack’s feet and giggled. Unamused, Jack eyed the bit of parchment.

  The smaller of the two taunted, “I could tell you what was in the letter but that would spoil the fun of your big-mouthed pa’s look when he reads it to you and your funny-looking ma.”

  Jack thought about charging into the pair with his fists but decided it would only make things worse.

  “Why didn’t your father come himself, Billy? Was he too busy in the barn, diddling the sheep?” Jack stooped and retrieved the note, slowly straightening the crinkled edges. The Slocum boys continued to shout, but Jack just stood his ground, smiling at them.

  Billy backpedaled down the road. “Read the note. You may be living in some other town!” David grabbed a rock from the street; his aim at Jack was on target but Jack stepped easily to one side.

  “Who was that?” Ethan emerged at the end of the exchange.

  “The Slocum boys.” Jack handed his father the note. Ethan snatched it and walked inside.

  The elder O’Reilly stood by the dim light of the fire, reading aloud:

  Mr. Ethan O’Reilly, I regret to inform you of the urgent need I have of your rental property number 38 Hamden Town Road. As you are on a month to month arrangement, by all rights I could ask you to leave by October first, but as this is only two weeks away, I shall generously grant you until the first day of November, 1805, to abandon said property. Regards, Peter Slocum.

  Ethan spun to face Jack. “What in the hell have you done now? You’ve gotten us evicted by bullying those boys. Now their father is taking it out on your mother and me. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Jack stood in the middle of the room, stunned. “Pa, I—”

  “Don’t you ‘Pa’ me, damn you,” Ethan stepped threateningly closer. “I want an answer.”

  Pilar came between them, facing her husband. “You must look to yourself on this.” She placed her hand firmly on her husband’s arm. “This is not Jackson’s doing. My love, you often say ‘the truth will set you free,’ but you forget, most people fear the truth and crucify its prophets.” Her tone was pleading and intense. At times such as these, his mother’s strength and intelligence took him off guard, as it did her husband.

  Jack watched his father’s anger thaw under her gaze. “I . . . I’m sorry, Jackson. I’m very sorry.”

  Jack watched his father slump into a chair and cradle his head in his hands. When he finally sat up, he said, “It would appear now that we are without funds, prospects . . . without a home, again.”

  Although Ethan was the finest gunsmith for miles, his skill was not appreciated, was not even in demand; instead, he found himself relegated to fabricating barn door hinges and wagon hardware, and repairing common muskets far inferior to the custom
firearms for which he was known. A perfectionist, he found it increasingly difficult to compete with the influx of Eli Whitney’s mass-produced weapons that satisfied military demand for shoulder arms. Ethan specialized in the Kentucky rifle, valuable only on the frontier; other smiths, from Pennsylvania, were closer to the wilderness and took most of that business.

  But Jack knew his father’s feeling of dejection came from more than that. He saw the land of the free and equal fast building its own class system.

  “There is always the land in Cuba,” Jack’s mother offered in a quiet voice. Ethan turned away, grimacing; but Pilar approached him, her voice full of hope and pride. “It is waiting for us, Ethan. It is not America, and it also has its problems, but we would be, how is it they say? . . . gentry. I love that land . . . and Jackson would grow to love it, too; after all, it is his birthright. The count assured us in his letter many months ago that in another few years the sugarcane will grow well and provide an income. And remember that in the last Easter greeting from my childhood friend, Dolores, she told me how well the surrounding farms in Matanzas had been doing.”

  Pilar then said with a determination Jack had not heard before, “Our son has learned his Spanish well. We will be accepted in Cuba. I want to see the finca again.”

  It was always a mystery to Jack why his mother had been taken away from her homeland. She never talked about what happened between her parents, saying only that “God forgives all.” But she had adored her father, who never wanted her to go to England with her mother. Pilar’s eyes would shine at his memory, and she would often say, “Jackson, in your grandfather, kindness met strength.” Though Jack never met him, he had become proud of this man of strength and kindness whom his mother cherished, and who had ensured that the finca would become her inheritance, even though he himself had failed as a farmer, landowner, and husband. The land was officially hers upon his death five years earlier, but it was still in no condition to provide a living for his daughter and her family. Pilar allowed her father’s friend and neighbor, Count de Silva, to recultivate the barren fields for a share of the profits, but Jack knew his mother never gave up hope that one day they would manage the land themselves.