Pirate Souls

II - Chapter 2 - Gibs

It is only around midday that I begin to come to my senses. I am so tense that my jaws send painful twinges to the nape of my neck. My hatred must not allow me to lose my concentration.

A passer-by approaches me with a garland of pheasants hanging around his neck, which makes me think that my stomach has only seen bad beer since yesterday. Murderous thoughts submerge me again. But now, they must help me to go forward.

Cook has calmed down. He waits, seated despondently on the dock, his head in his arms. I almost feel pity for the giant of a man.

"Get moving," I order. "We must find a ship."

The only answer I obtain is one of his usual grunts.

"What are you going to do?" he asks as we veer South along the harbour.

"We have to follow them."

"They are far away now."

"No matter."

"And where are you going to find your ship, my old friend?"

"I have a few pieces of eight left in my purse," I reassure him. "All we have to do is find the right fellow."

Cook stops, obliging me to do the same and turning around.

"What are you up to?"

He looks as if he wants to say something to me. His hesitation is getting on my nerves.

'Hurry, man!"

"Steven..."

"Captain," I interrupt. "It makes no difference."

"None of that with me, Kelly. Aye, everything has changed. We have lost the Anarkhia. Marcelin will put a price on your head. It would be wiser to get away from here. There is work inland."

"Out of the question. We are not going to let them get way with robbing us, Gibs. I will take back what is mine, even if I die doing it. You're with me or you go. I never forced you to follow me. Up until now, you have done well by it. Now you must choose : either come or get lost."

You might have thought that it was Cook who protected me when we were children. In truth, I was the one who watched over him. He believed himself to be invincible with his imposing build and his ugly mug. I got him out of trouble I know not how many times.

One evening when we were about ten years of age, we were wandering the alleys of Cork looking for petty thefts to commit. The idiot had promised me an easy raid. A baker's shop near the harbour. He claimed to know the owner's habits and said that he left for one hour at nightfall to drink beer with the dockers. He left two youths in charge of the shop. Cook, who was still called Gibs at the time, wanted to go in, threaten them with a knife and leave with a few pieces of eight and three loaves of bread.

It was a rocky plan. Hunger got the better of me. I gave in. How stupid could we have been! Trembling with fear, I entered the modest shop. It was dark. My blunted dagger slipped in my hands which were sweating with terror. The baker's apprentices were at least five years older than us. They were well fed. I remember their powerful arms used to kneading dough. This did not deter us. At the start, they cooperated. But one of them grabbed a rolling pin. I saw him lift the object towards my friend's head.

I took immediate action. My agility compensated for my weak muscles; an aptitude developed to escape my father's blows when he had downed too much poteen.

Before the young baker could strike my companion, I planted my blade in his back. I had thought that he would cry out. The yell of pain never came. His breathing became short and hoarse. He turned around and stared at me, an unfathomable look of despair in his eyes. His heavy body collapsed. The other kid tried to help him stay upright. Gibs started to beat him up.