Pirate Souls

II - Chapter 4 - Vindicta

Nobody watching the bridge. No lamps lit. This is normal, because there is no longer a captain to give orders. Madmen! Sailors are sleeping on the deck. It would have been so easy to slit their throats one after the other in their sleep.

I had hoped that Carpentier had sobered up. The blasted idiot is still drunk.

"Get up, there!" he intones forcefully. "Up, up!"

The fool will alert the whole harbour if he continues. His excitement, augmented by alcohol, is making him lose sight of how dangerous our position is. I do not want to die. Not before I have found my men, my ship and my woman.

"Quiet!" I fume between my teeth.

I grab his arm and press hard enough for it to hurt. He must pull himself together. I can see fear in his eyes. Had he forgotten who he was dealing with? The rancour he shows towards me has the same effect as a firing of musket balls. I have no doubt that he intends to kill me as soon as he has laid his hands on Basselin's chest. It is the only explanation for his three cronies being here. I shall deal with this problem all in good time.

He pulls his arm away to free himself from my hold.

"I am Customs Officer Guillaume Carpentier," he announces in a more measured voice. "I am here to commandeer your vessel for a mission of the highest importance. Monsieur Ravière, Sub-Delegate to the Marquis de Vaudreuil, has sent me this lettre de marque against the pirate ship Anarkhia. I have been charged with finding, attacking and capturing the crew of the ship that is an enemy to the nation."

"What's all the noise about?" asks a big sailor as he comes out of steerage.

"You are free to stay on the dock. But know that as the holder of this authorization, we can fall upon those who oppose our country and will have privateer status. Forty-seven pieces of eight per head. Make up your minds quickly! Untie the mooring lines! The Vindicta must sail before daybreak."

Good. I am satisfied with Carpentier's statement. His earlier amateurishness did little to reassure me. He has made up for his earlier mistakes well.

There is uproar among the seamen. They are not certain to have understood the proposal. It is my turn to take the floor. Cook claims that I have a manner of predisposition that convinces men to follow me. It is not true. I have striven throughout my life to obtain what I want from others. It is not ease; it is work.

"Seamen," I shout with my most authoritarian voice. "You have heard your captain. He cannot abide shirkers, halfwits and troublemakers. So, those of you who hope to stay, get moving!"

"We must see the official document," demands a little man to my right.

Aged around forty, he limps towards us on his wooden leg.

I proudly display the lettre de marque for all to see.

"Who are you?"

"Christian Maillard, first mate of this ship. And you, where are you from?"

I knew that my nationality would be a problem. There is only one way to get rid of this nuisance: to counter-attack.

"If you are the first mate, you knew all about your captain's skulduggery," I answer sternly.

The little man's face falls.

"We don't want you on board. Get out!"

"But...," he tries to answer.

I must assert myself. They must fear me if I am going to obtain a modicum of respect. My arm is fast. It seizes the man by the throat. My fingers encircle his gullet and squeeze his pudgy neck, hard. I push him away violently, giving him a sharp kick in his artificial leg. He falls down beside the gangplank. My belly reminds me of its wound. The stitches are tearing at my skin. Good. Suffering is my incentive. And a feeling that I recognize only too well rises within me.