Pirate Souls

I - Chapter 7 - Scars

The crew of the Anarkhia is in a piteous state. The captain decides to sail his brig to the desert island located to the East and to moor there for the night. The seamen who are not too wounded busy themselves for a good hour under the Irishman's orders. The others tie up and watch the prisoners on deck. But others are dying.

The sea is calm. The wind is low. This is a piece of luck. When the massive anchor touches the sandbank, the ship steadies.

Around me I see only exhausted, shocked and wounded faces. It is difficult to sort the sleeping seamen from the dead bodies. Three men die early in the evening. Two from their wounds and the third killed by Steven himself. The ship's boy had his entrails pierced. His heart-rending cries were painful to our ears and our souls. When all was said and done, he died in peace in the arms of his captain.

All the bodies are thrown into the sea by the gentle light of the end of the day. The Spaniards are permitted to say a Catholic prayer for their comrades who died in combat.

Bappé speaks their language. A rapid inquiry informs us of their position in this location.

Our theory was correct. Three galleons and a caravel were on their way from the Americas to Spain. A fleet of English privateers had set upon them the day before. Theirs was the only ship to have survived the attack, but not without difficulty. They had already lost three-quarters of their crew and those who had survived were in a bad way.

The Irishman is only moderately satisfied. The casket is filled with silver coins. Not gold. No rubies. No golden retirement under the sun. This will cover the price of the destruction of the fire ship, the barrels of gunpowder and the oil. A bonus will be granted the crippled seamen. Cook will buy himself a tart on Tortuga.

So many dead for so little.

Even I am disappointed.

I had hoped that the casket would be full of riches, that it would be overflowing with precious gems. Steven Kelly would have been able to forget his contract. He would have let me leave without ado.

I am dreaming, I know.

I take part in the sea burial of the bodies. I help to clean the ship and then spend some of the evening drawing sea water to spray the deck. I take a moment to wash and change my clothes. Nobody is looking. Even the Spanish prisoners have gone to sleep at the foot of the main mast, tied to each other. Without asking for permission, to feel more at ease, I don men's clothing. As for the red dress, I throw it into the dark sea where it will join the bodies at the bottom of the ocean. After such a day, I no longer need to burden myself with illusions. I am no longer a young lady.

I do not know who I am. Nor who I have become since my abduction. A scrap of vermillion fabric cannot define what I wish to be.

Night has already fallen when I come back to the cabin. Steven does not expect to see me. He jumps.

"What are you doing here?" he rages with his back to me.

Horror of horrors, he is fondling his crotch with a flask of spirits!

He turns round, staggering. I was afraid of a terrible sight, but the truth is even worse. Steven is wounded; his skin is deeply cut in the groin and the wound rises up to his navel. He has lost a lot of blood. His pale face is frightening. He is sewing himself up.

"This is madness!" I cry out. "You need a surgeon!"

"I don't have one to hand."

He is as drunk as a lord. His wound is a serious one. Another strong shot of terror runs through my veins. My life is in the hands of this pirate captain, who is inebriated and half-dead.