At the end of the afternoon of the following day, we dock at La Balise. The Anarkhia is not in sight. She has moved quickly. She knows that I am on her heels.
A short inquiry of the dockers tells us that they docked for only half a day. They have filled the hold and recruited fifteen or so sailors. Madness! Florence is in danger.
It appears that the fellows she has recruited are mercenaries, the sort which hire their services out to those who pay the highest sums. The eighteen thousand pieces of eight will be largely enough to remunerate them, if they do not decide to help themselves to the booty and wipe out the crew.
After having dined in a miserable inn, I go back to the stinking little room that I have to share with Cook. I am pursued by nightmares all night long.
I hate La Balise. The fort reminds me that the cruelty of sailors goes well beyond all the abuse that a nipper of eleven can imagine. After having embarked for the New World, I was whipped, denied food and forced to work both day and night. Obliged to perform foul tasks for ever fiercer masters.
Deep down, I had convinced myself that I was doing penance. For the deaths of the young baker, my mother and my father. For Brian. That is what kept me going.
My fucking guilty conscience.
And then slowly, things began to change. I survived the violence and brutality with Cook at my side. We became men. Aged fifteen and with our first pay, we followed our friends to a brothel in this supply port. Outside, a hurricane was raging. The fear of dying under the unchained elements made us drink more alcohol than our bodies could contain.
In truth, I was terrified. Not by the storm, but by the disfigured whores and their besmirched makeup. They proudly exhibited their wares and their flesh in this seedy inn frequented by travellers. Each time a prostitute took her client upstairs a kid washed the tables with an old cloth. He tried to make himself as discreet and invisible as possible. Drunk as a lord, I bumped into him. And then I slapped him. He didn't deserve it, but his sad look awoke the memory of my brother in me.
A woman came up to me. Much older than I. I did not dare say no. I followed her to a dingy room filled with suspicious smells. I didn't like her coarse face. I turned her over and mounted her as I had seen other sailors do. Yes, I forced myself to do it. I had to do it. I wanted to know.
She gave little cries, thinking that it would stimulate me. It was not so. I ordered her to be quiet. She would not shut up. She laughed. She was mocking me.
So, I faced her. I grabbed her by the throat and hit her. This excited me. I continued to fuck her, and strike her at the same time. I went berserk. The will to hurt her engulfed me.
My fists struck her face. Several times. Blood flowed from her mouth and nostrils while I forced myself on her. My first sexual relationship is the image of my life.
I climaxed in blood.
And hatred.
It's time. Still night-time. Cook and I go towards the docks, following Carpentier and his cronies. Even before he shows me the ship, I surmise that it is the one that is furthest from the middle.
'First mate Kelly, this is the Vindicta,' declares the customs officer, proudly.
She is magnificent. A small thirty-yard warship, armed with a battery of more than twenty cannons. Her three beautiful masts rise majestically above the deck. Contrary to my brig whose hull is rounder, her flat shape is more reminiscent of a longboat. I love her already. I surmise that she is light, fast and easy to handle, darting through the sea and cutting through the spume.
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.
Rage.
"Captain Carpentier, this sailor must be arrested."
"No, no, please," he stammers. "I have..."
He gives off a smell of fear and excrement. He has shat himself.
"Silence!" I interrupt him. "The success of our mission depends on the speed of this ship. You can think yourself lucky. Go!"
I stifle the compassion that I might feel for this terrified, disabled man. They have all got the message. Success. Many of them are busying themselves on deck. Around fifteen of them grumble their way to the gangplank. They are not fooled. Some of them claim that they are going to fetch customs officers and soldiers to shed light on this affair. If Carpentier has done his work correctly, they won't find anyone before we are far away.
I take my place at the helm beside my partner. Cook knows what he has to do. He mingles with the crewmen on deck, keeping his ears open for rumours and future demands. The success of our theft rests on cooperation from these sailors. Carpentier orders his companions to watch the shore.
"Who is this Monsieur Ravière?" I enquire of my new captain when the seamen are out of earshot.
"There is no Monsieur Ravière." He lifts his chin, proud of his trickery. "My forger is just an under-secretary."
"You do know that you are risking your life for a simple coffer of silver?"
"Better that than to die slowly of boredom, Kelly."
"So, you are ready to give up your little life as a privileged civil servant?"
The ship heels slightly. Ah, at last. The hull comes away from the dock.
"I am that!" he raves, intoxicated by alcohol and sea spray.
A moment of empathy pierces my chest. Maybe he's not such a bad fellow after all. He's dreaming of thrills and adventures. For these men, the New World is a huge playground. I shall feel some pity for him when I kill him.
A first sail is hoisted. The wind rushes onto on the deck and lifts my coat.
We've done it.
We're off.
I lied to Florence when I told her how I left Cork. I said that Cook and I were onto a big deal. It is not true. What deals could we have had? No, I had to disappear and escape this miserable life.
The more I grew, the more violent my father became. The pain he inflicted was nothing compared to his burning hatred for me. It was rotting me from within.
When my brother was around, I would place myself between my father and him to take the slaps in his place as my mother used to do. I believed it to be my role. I cursed Brian for it. He had not done anything, the poor fellow. He suffered as much as I did.
He was hungry. All the time. I couldn't bear him.
One night, I went mad. My father had just given me a beating. Then he collapsed on the ground, filthy drunk, in our modest home. Brian was crying. I could have killed him just to shut him up. I ordered him to get out, to get away from the house. He started screaming even louder, but I managed to kick him out. In my haste, I actually thought of throwing him the ratty blanket that our mother had knitted for him. He left, alone, in the icy darkness of the night.
My mind was made up. I had to do it. I had been planning this in my dreams for months.
I picked up the small lamp which lit our house. I poured the little oil we owned all around my father. Then, I did the same with his brandy. I even drank some, to give me courage. Then I did it. I took a candle and ignited our linen with the flame. The fire spread rapidly. I was surprised.
My hands were shaking with terror but my heart was singing. At last, I was avenging the blood and tears shed because of this father who had never loved me.
The flames started to lick the walls. I had to get out. I left him there in the burgeoning blaze. He awoke. I heard him shout out. He called for help. I think I even heard him say:
"Get my sons out of here!"
How ironic... He never imagined that it was I who had set fire to the house. I, the subservient son. His nipper, only fit to take the blows of his anger.
He died. I felt at peace.
Unfortunately, the fire spread to the house next door which was also made of wood. And to another. And still another. In just a few minutes, the whole street was aflame. People were yelling, crying out, running for shelter. I contemplated my work, delighted to see that my actions could cause concern among bystanders to whom I was invisible. For the first time in my life, I felt alive. My act had generated something which would have an impact on the lives of those men and women. The ones who ignored me or looked the other way when they saw me begging. Oh yes, I was proud!
That was when I saw it. My little brother's blanket. I had sent him away to protect him. He must have come back, frightened at the idea of wandering around on a moonless night. He must have been hidden under the staircase which led down to the buildings' common cellar.
No use looking for his body. I knew. I could feel it. His soul was no longer there.
After that, there was no way I could stay in Ireland. Cook and I embarked on a frigate. We signed papers. We were promised a new life in America. Dreams of glory and riches. At the time, we did not know that we were to become the slaves in the employ of the Company for three years.
I thought that nothing could beat my father's cruelty. I was wrong. The barbarity of men can know no limits, particularly when there is only the black wave of the ocean to witness their atrocities.
"Where are we heading?" asks Carpentier.
"Eastward."
"And you are convinced of this because..."
" know where they are going."
"And I surmise that you do not wish to share this information with me."
I shake my head.
"You can leave me the helm, Captain. I am taking you safely to our destination, trust me."
"Very well," he agrees with a dark look.
Poor fool! He is condemning himself to a certain death. As soon as his minions' backs are turned, I will deal with him. That's how it goes at sea. There is no room for pity.
Neither for him nor foranyone else.