Part 76 (1/2)
Was that, he wondered, the dungeon Bartholomew called Purgatory?
Suddenly he felt an overwhelming sense of anger and betrayal at what Jacques had become. Whatever else he might have been, this was the man whose name once stood for freedom. And now . . .
He was turning to head down and inspect Purgatory first-hand when a welcome sounded from the platform above.
”_Mon ami! Bienvenue_, Anglais. _Mon Dieu, il y a tres long-temps!_ A good ten years, _n 'est-ce pas_?” A bearded face peered down, while a deep voice roared with pleasure. ”Perhaps you've finally learned something about how to shoot after all this time. Come up and let me have a look at you.”
”And maybe you've improved your aim, Jacques. Your last pistol ball didn't get you a hide.” Winston turned back and reached for the ladder.
”_Oui_, truly it did not, Anglais. How near did I come?” He extended a rough hand as Winston emerged.
”Close enough.” Winston stepped onto the platform of the citadel.
In the flickering torchlight he recognized the old leader of the _boucaniers_, now grown noticeably heavier; his thick beard, once black as onyx, was liberally threaded with white. He sported a ruffled doublet of red silk and had stuffed his dark calico breeches into bucket-top sea boots of fine Spanish leather. The gold rings on several fingers glistened with jewels, and the squint in his eyes was deep and malevolent.
Le Basque embraced Winston, then drew back and studied his scar. ”_Mon Dieu_, so I came closer than I thought. _Mes condoleances_. I must have been sleepy that morning. I'd fully intended to take your head.”
”How about some of your French brandy, you old _batard_? For me and my friend. By the look of things, I'd say you can afford it.”
”_Vraiment_. Brandy for the Anglais . . . and his friend.” The boucanier nodded warily as he saw Atiba appear at the top of the ladder. After a moment's pause, he laughed again, throatily. ”Truly I can afford anything. The old days are over. I'm rich. Many a Spaniard has paid for what they did to us back then.”
He turned and barked an order to de Fontenay. The young man bowed, then moved smoothly through the heavy oak doors leading into Jacques's residence. ”You know, I still hear of you from time to time, Anglais.
But never before have we seen you here, _n 'est-ce pas_? How have you been?”
”Well enough. I see you've been busy yourself.” Winston glanced up at the brickwork house Jacques had erected above the center of the rock.
It was a true citadel. Along the edge of the platform, looking out, a row of nine-pound demi-culverin had been installed. ”But what's this talk you chased off the English planters?”
”They annoyed me. You know that never was wise. So I decided to be rid of them. Besides, it's better this way. A few were permitted to stay on and sail for me, but La Tortue must be French.” He reached for a tankard from the tray de Fontenay was offering. ”I persuaded our _gouverneur_ up on St. Christophe to send down a few frigates to help me secure this place.”
”Is that why you keep men in a dungeon up here? We never had such things in the old days.”
”My little Purgatory?” He handed the tankard to Winston, then offered one to Atiba. The Yoruba eyed him coldly and waved it away. Jacques shrugged, taking a sip himself before continuing. ”Surely you understand the need for discipline. If these men disobey me, they must be dealt with. Otherwise, no one remembers who is in charge of this place.”
”I thought we'd planned to just punish the Spaniards, not each other.”
”But we are, Anglais, we are. Remember when I declared they would someday soil their breeches whenever they heard the word '_boucanier'_?
Well, it's come true. They swear using my name. Half the time the craven b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are too terrified to c.o.c.k a musket when my men board one of their merchant frigates.” He smiled. ”Everything we wanted back then has come to pa.s.s. Sweet revenge.” He reached and absently drew a finger down de Fontenay's arm. ”But tell me, Anglais, have you got a woman these days? Or a _matelot_?” He studied Atiba.
”An Englishwoman is sailing with me. She's down on the _Defiance_.”
”The _Defiance_?”
”My Spanish brig.”
”_Oui_, but of course. I heard how you acquired it.” He laughed and stroked his beard. ”_Alors_, tomorrow you must bring this Anglaise of yours up and let me meet her. Show her how your old friend has made his way in the world.”
”That depends. I thought we'd empty a tankard or two tonight and talk a bit.”
”_Bon_. Nothing better.” He signaled to de Fontenay for a refill, and the young man quickly stepped forward with the flask. ”Tonight we remember old times.”