Pirate Souls

I - Chapter 6 - Board! Board!

We are nearing the galleon. It is enormous. Near to, the great vessel is impressive with its three square-rigged masts. We can but surmise the extreme weight of such a vessel. This one has sixty cannons. It must be 160 feet long and 32 feet wide. I can see three decks. Even if this ship is carrying the gold and silver of the American colonies, I am convinced that its architecture is its true treasure. How can one wish to send such a wonder to the bottom of the sea?

They have hoisted the sail, in the hope of being able to escape. It is obvious that they can no longer master their path.

"We spare when we can," orders Steven. "We crush and mutilate if needs be. I want the Spaniards to curse the name of the Anarkhia to the ends of hell. Send out the fire ship!"

For some time, the only preoccupation on board our ship is our position in relation to the current and the direction of the wind. We are far enough not to be exposed to cannon fire, but near enough to release our dangerous boat. This small crewless vessel has been loaded with inflammable materials and gunpowder. I had not noticed this small rowboat on the stern of our ship. Once rid of its cumbersome burden, the deck seems empty. And what do I feel in my breast? Emptiness.

Steven is right. It is in their interest to succeed. They are putting the few riches they possess in peril. The fire ship, three barrels of oil, which, as far as I can fathom, do not belong to them. They are playing with fire and confounding the reality of life with a game of dice.

In front of us, the drifting ship tries to correct its position to expose its sides and its bulwarks. They are not able to. It must be atrocious to see your end nigh and not be able to act.

Of course it is terrible! It is precisely what I am experiencing at this moment.

Come on, Florence, take courage!

Why is it that when I speak inside my head, I hear my father's voice?

The Marquis des Acres de l'Aigle was a good man. His father had built the Château de l'Aigle on the site of the former fort. He loved the simple pleasures of life: hunting, good food and amusing conversation. He had nothing in common with Mother. They nevertheless produced four living children. Three girls and one boy.

I knew him little. He took me hunting once. I was so proud.

When I was twelve, he joined an expedition to the New World. Our fortune was well established. He had no need of another title. Was it that he was in need of something else? To discover new horizons? To flee a cantankerous woman and his responsibilities?

We learned of his demise more than a year after the shipwreck. He died on the Saint-Laurent River.

In the cold.

In the mist.

Far from his loved ones.

My father is right. I must arm myself. Not with courage. But with a cutting blade or a pistol. I cannot remain passive in such conditions. To hell with my paralysis!

"Steven..."

"Not now."

He does not look at me; his attention is fixed on the fire ship a few yards from the galleon. Cook is ready to fire. His gun is poised on his forearm.

"I want a weapon."

"Not now," he repeats.

"A dagger and a pistol."

"Soon..."

"When?"

"NOW!"

The shot is fired. The power of the shot grazes my eardrums. But it is nothing in comparison to what is taking place aboard the enemy ship.