Jean joined them with the Jamaicans, and Sophie brought them more stools to have a chance to congratulate Maxó and De Neill for staying awake so late. The Jamaicans were two young captains, that had gotten a privateer commission despite their pataches only carried eight guns and twenty-five souls. Like many others since the Windward Fleet wasn't around, they used to scavenge together in order to catch better prey, because a medium-size merchantman was a dangerous challenge for any of them on their own.
Even knowing they were doomed to lose, they'd dared the Phantom, two to one, to see who found and sacked a Spanish merchantman first. But the storm coming down the Windward Passage had forced them back to Port Royal.
They were talking with Marina and Morris to agree when they would set sail again, since the Jamaican pataches couldn't weather hard squalls, when Morris glanced down and elbowed Marina.
"Oh, oh," De Neill muttered, looking down as well.
"What?" the girl asked.
"Gerrit is playing dice with a redcoat," Morris replied, his eyes on one of the tables at the ground floor.
"And the boy doesn't look happy," Jean said.
"Damn Gerrit!" Marina grumbled. "One of these days he'll try his cons when we're not around to have his back. And I will congratulate anyone who beats him down."
"You bloody cheater!"
The cry interrupted all the conversations and attracted all the looks.
"Here we go," Marina grunted. "I'll leave him without grog for a whole week."
Morris stood up only to sit on top of their table and get a better view of the ground floor. The others stood by him at the edge of the gallery. Behind them, Marina finished her cider, still talking to the Englishmen, oblivious to what happened below them.
A young officer stood up and grasped his pistol, pointing it at Gerrit's head. Across the table, the pirate was still seated, busy picking up his loaded dice and the bunch of coins he'd earned.
"Give me back what you've stolen from me, you son of a bitch!" the officer shouted.
The customers at the nearby tables stepped away from them. The group of officers drinking at the other end of the barn stood up, alarmed.
Gerrit looked up at the Englishman and showed him the coins in his fist. "Do you want them? Try and get them."
"What do you want to do, pearl?" Morris asked, not the least bit worried.
"Let it run. Maybe a thrashing teaches him more than my scolding."
Morris shrugged and turned to the show downstairs again.
Still holding his pistol, the officer grabbed Gerrit's wrist. But when he tried to open his fingers, the pirate jumped to his feet and punched him in the face with the fist full of coins. The officer staggered back and his finger pulled the trigger unwillingly. The bullet whistled by the head of another filibuster. The man jumped to his feet first and on the officer a heartbeat later, punching him too. The other officers scampered to the rescue, and their shoves as they tried to reach their colleague pissed the Jamaicans, who stood in their way in purpose. Soon blows and punches flew in all directions.
"Fifteen to fifty," said Maxó. "It's going to be interesting."
"They've got guts, you have to give them that," said De Neill.
"We're all heroes when we're drunk," Morris replied.
Downstairs, Limping Paul loaded his harquebus in a hurry, and the giant Pete stormed into the barn. But the owner saw Morris' sign from the gallery and stopped his man.
"Pearl?" Morris insisted, glancing back at her from over his shoulder.
"Coming," she grunted.
She stood up and Jean gave her way to go up to the edge of the gallery. De Neill handed her a pistol, chuckling under his breath. She watched the scuffle a moment longer and fired the pistol pointing up, to the roof. The shot froze everybody.
"Brethren of the Coast, we're leaving," she ordered, not raising her voice.
The Phantom crew stepped back at once. The Jamaicans made way for them while the officers regrouped in the rubble of broken tables and stools at the center of the tavern.
The one who had started the fight tried to go after the filibusters. When his colleagues stopped him, he shouted, "There go the faggot frogs! After their whore boss!"
An uproar filled the tavern, coming from both locals and filibusters, and all of them jumped on the officers again.
"Stop!" Marina ordered, raising her voice.
Used to hear her during the battles and close fights, her crew obeyed right away. Jamaicans kept beating their own soldiers until Marina spoke in English.
"Stop, dammit!"
The girl grabbed a thick hawser hanging from the ceiling as a part of the decoration and slid down to the ground floor, landing gracefully on top of a table. Morris and the others jumped after her.
The fight was interrupted again, and the officers heaped up in a tight bunch. Since they still had some mistakes left to make, all of them wielded pistols. In a heartbeat, a hundred barrels pointed at them, even Limping Paul's harquebus.
Jean and Morris pushed men out of the way among those cornering the officers, that didn't dare to even blink but wouldn't lower their weapons.
Marina stepped on a stool to come down from the table and followed her friend, escorted by Maxó, De Neil and the two Jamaican privateers.
"You want them, pearl?" asked another privateer, cocking his pistol only inches away from a redcoat's head.
"Thank you, Brimstone. I'll deal with this myself." Marina reached the inner circle bristling with pistols and muskets and flashed a scornful glance at the officers, until her eyes fell on the one who had started it all. "Was it you who insulted me?" she asked, and her cold tone caused concerned looks around her.
The young officer stepped up with a smug gait. "Telling the truth is an insult?" he replied.
Another menacing murmur spread among the men. Marina stretched her arm to stop Morris, who tried to grab the Englishman, swearing black and blue.
"Come, bitch, here's what you like," the officer said, grabbing his crotch.
Before he finished his last word, Marina killed the three steps between them. Her knee sank into the officer's groin, crashing all the fingers it found in its way up. And when the officer bent over himself with a loud groan, she backhanded him so hard, his chin hit his shoulder. The young man fell face to the floor, his nose bleeding, his fingers broken, in a ball of groaning agony at Marina's feet.
Around her, all men grimaced in sympathy, while the girls traded mocking giggles. Marina looked up at the officers. Still holding up their pistols, they took a collective step back.
"Jean, our things, please," she said, still glaring at them.
"Aye, aye, pearl."
"Brethren of the Coast, we're leaving," she repeated curtly.
Her men lowered their weapons while the Jamaicans kept the officers cornered. She glowered one last time at the young, pale faces, where the fight had washed away any sign of alcoholic glee. Morris handed her hat over. She wore it while Maxó wrapped her cloak around her shoulders. Only then she looked away from the officers. She turned her back to them and walked down the human corridor the Jamaicans opened, knuckling their foreheads at her. When she reached the counter, she removed one of her earrings and threw it to Limping Paul, who caught it in the air.
"For the damages, Paul. And for the cider keg you're sending me tomorrow."
"Aye, aye, pearl!"