Part 75 (1/2)

”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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 d.a.m.ned guards, that he's not been done away with long before now.” He turned back to Winston. ”The b.a.s.t.a.r.d'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 s.h.i.+fted 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 wh.o.r.e.”

”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 s.h.i.+ps' 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 p.i.s.s-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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d.” Bartholomew caught Winston's arm, and his voice grew cautionary. ”G.o.d 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e, headed up the muddy, torch-lit roadway leading between the cl.u.s.ter of taverns that comprised the heart of Ba.s.se 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 pa.s.sengers 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 sh.o.r.e.”

”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.”

Winston laughed. ”I expect he does.”