spotted the bobbing longboat, he motioned the procession to a halt,
tossed the keg onto the sand, and sang out an invitation.
"Welcome to you, masters. There's a virgin pipe of Spanish brandy here
we're expectin' to violate. We'd not take it amiss if you'd help us to
our work."
He drew a pistol from his belt and swung its gold-trimmed butt against
the wooden stopper in the bunghole, knocking it inward.
"_No, Monsieur. Merci. Bien des remerciements_." De Fontenay's voice
betrayed a faint quaver. "I regret we have no time. I and my good
friend, the Anglais here . . ."
"I wasn't asking you to drink, you arse-sucking French pimp." The man
with the pistol scowled as he recognized de Fontenay. "I'd not spare
you the sweat off my bollocks if you were adyin' of thirst." He turned
toward Winston. "But you and your lads are welcome, sir, whoever you
might be. I'll wager no honest Englishman ever declined a cup in good
company. My name is Guy Bartholomew, and if you know anything of this
place, you'll not have to be told I'm master of the _Swiftsure_, the
finest brig in this port."
Winston examined him in the flickering light. Yes, it was Guy
Bartholomew all right. He'd been one of the original _boucaniers_, and
he'd hated Jacques from the first.
"Permit me to introduce Capitaine Winston of the _Defiance_,
Messieurs." De Fontenay tried to ignore Bartholomew's pistol. "He has
asked me personally to . . ."
"Winston? The _Defiance_? God's wounds." Bartholomew doffed his black
hat. "Let me drink to your good health. Captain." He paused to fill his
tankard with the dark brown liquid spilling from the keg, then hoisted
it in an impromptu toast.
"You don't remember me from before, Bartholomew? Back on Hispaniola?"
The boucanier stared at him drunkenly. "No, sir. I can't rightly say as
I do. But yours is a name known well enough in this part of the world,
that's for certain. You wouldn't be planning to do a bit of sailing
from this port, would you now? 'Twould be a pleasure to have you
amongst us."
"Monsieur," De Fontenay was edging on up the hill, "Capitaine Winston
is a personal friend of our commandant, and we must . . ."
"A friend of Jacques?" Bartholomew studied Winston's face. "I'd not
believe any such damn'd lies and calumnies of an honest Englishman like
you, sir."
"I knew him many years past, Bartholomew. I hope he remembers me better
than you do. Though I'm not sure he still considers me a friend after
our little falling out."
"Well, sir, I can tell you this much. Things have changed mightily
since the old days. Back then he only stole from the pox-eaten
Spaniards. Now he and that French bastard de Poncy rob us all. They
take a piece of all the Spaniards' booty we bring in, and then Jacques
demands another ten percent for himself, as his 'landing fee.' He even
levies a duty on all the hides the hunters bring over from Hispaniola
to sell."
De Fontenay glared. "There must always be taxes, anywhere. Jacques is
commandant now, and the Chevalier de Poncy has ..."
"Commandant?" Bartholomew snorted. "My lads have another name for him,
sir. If he ever dared come down here and meet us, the Englishmen in
this port would draw lots to see who got the pleasure of cutting his
throat. He knows we can't sail from any other settlement. It's only
because he's got those guns up there at the fort, covering the bay, and
all his damned guards, that he's not been done away with long before
now." He turned back to Winston. "The bastard's made himself a dungeon
up there beneath the rock, that he calls Purgatory. Go against him and
that's where you end up. Few men have walked out of it alive, I'll tell
you that."
De Fontenay shifted uneasily and toyed with a curl. "Purgatory will not
be there forever, I promise you."
"So you say. But you may just wind up there yourself one day soon, sir,
and then we'll likely hear you piping a different tune. Even though you
are his _matelot_, which I'll warrant might more properly be called his
whore."
"What I am to Jacques is no affair of yours."
"Aye, I suppose the goings-on in the fort are not meant to be known to
the honest ships' masters in this port. But we still have eyes, sir,
for all that. I know you're hoping that after Jacques is gone, that
Frenchman de Poncy will make you commandant of this place, this
stinking piss-hole. Just because the Code of the _boucaniers_ makes you
Jacques' heir. But it'll not happen, sir, by my life. Never."
"Monsieur, enough._ Suffit_!" De Fontenay spat out the words, then
turned back to Winston. "Shall we proceed up to the Forte?" He gestured
toward the hill ahead. "Or do you intend to stay and spend the night
talking with these Anglais _cochons_?"
"My friend, do beware of that old bastard." Bartholomew caught
Winston's arm, and his voice grew cautionary. "God Almighty, I could
tell you such tales. He's daft as a loon these days. I'd be gone from
this place in a minute if I could just figure how."
"He tried to kill me once, Master Bartholomew, in a little episode you
might recall if you set your mind to it. But I'm still around." Winston
nodded farewell, then turned back toward the longboat. John Mewes sat
nervously waiting, a flintlock across his lap. "John, take her on back
and wait for us. Atiba's coming with me. And no shore leave for anybody
till morning."
"Aye." Mewes eyed the drunken seamen as he shoved off. "See you mind
yourself, Cap'n. I'll expect you back by sunrise or I'm sendin' the
lads to get you."
"Till then." Winston gestured Atiba to move alongside him, then turned
back to De Fontenay. "Shall we go."
"_Avec plaisir, Capitaine_. These Anglais who sail for us can be most
_dangereux_ when they have had so much brandy." The young Frenchman
paused as he glanced uncertainly at Atiba. The tall African towered by
Winston's side. "Will your . . . _gentilhomme de service_ be
accompanying you?"
"He's with me."
"_Bon_. "He cleared his throat. "As you wish."
He lifted his lantern and, leaving Bartholomew's men singing on the
shore, headed up the muddy, torch-lit roadway leading between the
cluster of taverns that comprised the heart of Basse Terre's commercial
center.
"How long has it been since you last visited us, Capitaine?" De
Fontenay glanced back. "I have been _matelot_ to Jacques for almost
three years, but I don't recall the pleasure of welcoming you before
this evening."
"It's been a few years. Back before Jacques became governor. "
"Was this your home once, senhor?" Atiba was examining the shopfronts
along the street, many displaying piles of silks and jewelry once
belonging to the passengers on Spanish merchantmen. Along either side,
patched-together taverns and brothels spilled their cacophony of songs,
curses, and raucous fiddle music into the muddy paths that were
streets.
Winston laughed. "Well, it was scarcely like this. There used to be
thatched huts along here and piles of hides and smoked beef ready for
barter. All you could find to drink in those days was a tankard of
cheap kill-devil. But the main difference is the fort up there, which
is a noticeable improvement over that rusty set of culverin we used to
have down along the shore."
"I gather it must have been a very long time ago. Monsieur, that you
were last here." De Fontenay was moving hurriedly past the rickety
taverns, heading straight for the palm-lined road leading up the hill
to the fort.
"Probably some ten years or so."
"Then I wonder if Jacques will still remember you."