Gene Hackman - Wake of the Perdido Star

Jack ran back down the road at a killing pace. Elated, he had just one more job to do.

The rear door to Peele’s tavern was unlocked, since it led to the privy out back for the patrons. Jack slipped through, unnoticed in the noise and darkness of the bar, and crept into the storeroom he had spotted during his previous visit. Kegs of beer were stacked five high. Seizing a wooden mallet, Jack proceeded to smash the bungholes on the barrels, each blow filling him with a wild joy. The beer began to pour out in torrents. He had smashed all but two when Cyrus Peele came through the door.

“What the hell—”

Jack turned and with one mighty move cracked the man on the kneecap with the mallet. Peele went down like a load of dung; he clutched his damaged leg and screamed. “You bastard. I’ll break your neck.”

Jack took the mallet and smashed the bartender’s fingers.

“Oh God! I’ll kill you and your father! You shit you!” The man was clearly in a great deal of pain, but still dangerous.

The door swung open. One of the dockworkers rushed in.

“What’s all the ruckus?” He saw Peele writhing in the frothing suds. “What happened, Cyrus? Did you slip?” He smirked until he looked up and saw Jack with the mallet.

“Get your red nose out of this business, sir, or I’ll whack you like I did your friend,” Jack yelled, feeling invincible. The man quickly vanished behind the door.

Jack straddled the sprawled bartender. “You humiliated my father. You cheated us out of our team and wagon. I want an apology.” His voice was cool. He knew he couldn’t get more money from Peele, but he would make him pay in other ways.

“Get off me, you weasel. We had a deal. It’s not my fault if your old man’s an ass!” Jack’s left hand was around the man’s throat. His right became a fist and he drove it into Peele’s fat face. He waited.

“I won’t apologize for—” He never got out the full sentence; Jack broke his nose with a hammering blow and then picked up the mallet. Someone pounded on the door.

“I have all night, Peele, and the first man through that door gets a broken leg.”

“All right, damn you. What would you have me say?”

Jack just stared and waited.

Peele murmured. “I think it was a misunderstanding…” Jack slapped Peele across the face. Blood from the broken nose mixed with the beer on the storeroom floor, the liquid running pink. Jack pressed his left hand harder into Peele’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he sputtered.

“For what?”

“What you asked me for.” The bartender was confused. “All right. I’m sorry for cheating you and your father.” He could barely get the words out through his broken teeth.

“And will it happen again, sir?”

“No, never.”

“Good.” Jack slipped off the man. “I’m leaving now with your mallet. Call out to your friends that I’m not to be harmed. Otherwise, I’ll come back and finish you.” He opened the door.

“Let the good lad go!” Peele shouted, terrified. “We’ve settled our differences.”

Jack, at the door, looked back. “You’re a quick learner, bumpkin,” he said.

Jack raced back to India Wharf, grinning all the way. He made it just in time, the crew readying the ship for departure. His parents rushed to greet him at the head of the gangplank.

“Jackson, we were worried sick,” said Pilar.

“Where in God’s name have you been?” Ethan barked.

“I’m sorry. I guess I just got caught up in town.” Jack realized he still had Peele’s mallet in his hand. He forced the handle up his sleeve and palmed the striker. Backing to the rail, he dropped the offending tool over the side.

Pilar looked him over. “Mi hijo, your blouse is soaking wet. What have you been up to?”

“Nothing, mother—” Jack stopped. He hated lying to her. “May I tell you later?”

Pilar consented. Ethan angrily turned away.

There were shouts from quarterdeck to dockside to let go the spring lines. Jack loved the race of activity as the ship creaked and groaned. A burning sensation in the back of his neck caused him to turn to the wharf side.

A number of people crowded the dock, speaking to the departing sailors. There stood Colleen. Seeing her, Jack realized that his choice to seek revenge prevented him from perhaps spending time with this lovely creature. Now he just stared, his heart yearning. She brought her right hand to her lips and turned up her thumb and forefinger held together in a gesture of drinking tea; then she cocked her head to one side and with fists planted firmly on her hips, stuck her tongue out at him. Jack brought his hands up, requesting forgiveness.

Suddenly, an entourage of angry men stalked down the wharf, the brothers Peele leading the pack, the bartender limping. But they were too late. Jack bid good-bye to them as the Perdido Star , fifty yards out, made its way slowly south.

As the Star sailed out of Salem harbor, Jack tried to rekindle the excitement he had felt about the upcoming trip. Sailors scampered up to the yards; shouts and orders drifted across the darkening bay. Jack grabbed a ratline and heaved himself onto the rail, looking south. Slowly, though, his eyes were drawn back to the dock. She was still there, alone. He waved but she turned away. Jack promised himself he would return. And he would be able to offer a thousand days of tea.

“MIND THE SPRAY, LAD! It’s chilly, you’ll catch your death.”

Old Hansumbob sounded the friendly warning. Jack didn’t know how long he had been standing on the bow. The spray, as the sailor had said, was cold, but to Jack it felt blessed: the water on his face refreshed him. He breathed deeply of the salted mist and was flooded with a great sense of anticipation. He wanted to shout.

The ship plunged headlong into a giant roller. Jack folded his arms around the rail, meeting the wave as a friend. The sea fulfilled him like nothing else, providing the sense of adventure he had always longed for. He could not get over the feeling of being safe, yet part of the vast roaring expanse of sky and water.

But he dreaded going below; the light was poor and a stench of sickness gripped the air. The companionway hatch, ajar from heavy seas, banged against its stop. Taking one last clean breath, Jack started down the narrow steps.

The smell overpowered the berth area. With no individual cabins, his family’s belongings and bedding lay scattered over the three bunks assigned to them.

His father’s face was drenched with sweat, skin waxen, his breathing shallow. “How are you feeling, Pa?”

“It was a mistake coming on this ship, Jack.” Ethan’s eyes were moist, his jaw slack. “We should have waited until spring; we would have missed this weather.”

His mother sat on Ethan’s bunk, her hand in his.

Jack was disappointed his father had given in to the sea. Ethan had been ill for the seven days they’d been on the ship. Jack watched his mother patiently sponge his forehead with a cloth. Looking alternately green and white, Ethan tried to put on a brave face.

“You will be better soon, sweetheart,” Pilar said. “Try to eat something. Some biscuits or soup.”

Jack hung back and watched the scene with a sad heart. He felt bad about his father; he was almost fifty and still strong, but his life had been difficult. The decision to give up life in America had been hard on him. Even his mother, at thirty-six, seemed to have aged.