by Kai Meyer
So the old fortress of the British colonial masters was enthroned high over Port Nassau and visible from a great distance, but it had been a long time since it had impressed anyone. Kendrick was the true ruler of the island, not the English governor, who seldom showed himself outside the fortress walls and passed his days with high living, with wine and women supplied to him by the pirates.
Port Nassau offered all the pleasures the freebooters could wish. The harbor was deep enough for their sloops and brigantines, but too shallow for the heavy warships of the navy. From the surrounding mountains there was a wide view of the sea, and attackers couldn’t approach unseen. In the island’s thick forests there was an abundant supply of wood for building new ships, tropical fruit, and wild pigs; not to mention the delicacies to be taken from the ocean in this region, the tasty fish, crabs, and sea turtles.
The place itself was a closely packed collection of shacks and wooden houses, mostly thatched with palm leaves, some only covered with oilskins. Everywhere there were miserable shanties and sheds in which the pirates lodged during their shore leaves. The traders who bought pirates’ hard-won booty had settled in an extensive tent city around Port Nassau. The supply of games of chance, taverns, and houses of pleasure was enormous—they were, besides the fencing of booty, the only source of income for the inhabitants of the island.
From time to time, danger threatened from hurricanes that now and then swept over the Caribbean Sea and leveled places like Port Nassau within a few hours. But even then, the pirates in their warm nest didn’t give up—the next day everything was built up again in a hurry, the dead were buried, and soon everyone was having a good time again, enjoying the advantages of pirate life and denying themselves nothing at all.
Jolly told Munk all she knew about the island as they sat in the harbor and waited for sundown. Munk had tried several times to talk her out of her plan, but she was determined. When he offered to go with her, she vehemently refused. Not even the prospect of a little helpful mussel magic was able to change her mind.
The Ghost Trader hadn’t shown his face since the morning. He hadn’t found it necessary to let them in on whom he had to see in Port Nassau, either. He’d merely gotten them to promise to look after each other—whoever had set the trap for Bannon on the high seas might also have spies and henchmen in New Providence.
Although the ghost in the crow’s nest had already reported the island on the afternoon of the previous day, the Trader had preferred to spend the night aboard and just out of view of the island’s mountains. It was only in the first gray of morning that the three had climbed into the small sailboat towed by the ghost ship and thus transferred to the island.
The boat now lay docked in the harbor of Port Nassau, among a multitude of rowboats and dinghies the freebooters used to go from their anchored sloops to and—and to one or another captured galleon.
Jolly and Munk were sitting on a couple of empty kegs and boxes not far from the water’s edge.
This wasn’t an extensively developed harbor like the big cities on Haiti or Jamaica but only a paved beach, along whose edge stood a row of taverns and shacks, interspersed with the tents of the traders. The steady wind from the sea wafted food vapors and stale beer smells inland; in fact, the shore was one of the few places in all of Port Nassau where the smells of the pirate hideaway didn’t hit you in the stomach.
Munk’s face was gradually getting its color back. Despite the prospect of Jolly’s nighttime expedition and his grief over his parents, a smile stole over his face occasionally, and sometimes even a look of outright fascination. Even if the majority of the pirates staggering around drunkenly in front of the taverns were degenerate individuals without worth or standing, there were still some among them who exactly fit Munk’s dream image of the noble corsair: men in expensive clothes, with knee-high boots, glittering swords, and feathers waving on their hats.
“Show me your tattoo?” he asked Jolly abruptly, after she’d been silent for a long time, observing the drunken goings-on by the taverns.
She laughed, and it made her earrings bump each other, jingling, “You want me to undress? Here?”
Munk turned dark red “I didn’t mean it that way, I just thought …” He fell silent, “’Scuse me, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, never mind,” With a wave of her hand, Jolly turned her back to him, still sitting, “Push the shirt and vest up. Then you can see it,”
“I should—”
“Don’t stand there stuttering, just do what I say,”
She felt him put both hands on her waist. Was she deceiving herself, or was he trembling? For heavens sake, she’d grown up among pirates, a crew of seventy men. Never had there been any personal remarks or suggestive looks—everyone had known he’d have to deal with Bannon personally.
Hesitantly Munk pushed up her linen shirt and vest. She held it in front with both arms crossed, but her back was soon bare,
“What is it?”
“That’s supposed to become a coral, Trevino, our cook, had just begun it when the lookout reported the Spanish galleon. It’s still not more than a few curlicues and lines, I’m afraid.”
“Are you going to leave it that way?”
“Maybe sometime I’ll find someone who has enough talent to finish it.” She turned around. He quickly pulled his hand back, and shirt and vest slid down again. “But at the moment, to be honest, I don’t think about it at all.”
“Of course.” He was still red, which for the first time since his experiences on the island made him look completely healthy again. A little excitement was much better for him than his dark brooding and meditating aboard the ghost ship. She must get him to think about other things, and now was the best opportunity: no Ghost Trader anywhere around to spread gloom with his doom-filled stories.
“Come,” she said, standing up. “We’ll go get something to drink.”
“You mean … alcohol?”
Jolly gave him her most winning grin. “You want to become a pirate.”
“Not a drunken pirate.”
“Well, that’s part of it too. You’d better get it behind you early.” She herself didn’t like rum, and beer was too bitter, but she had now and again had a cup of wine with the pirates. She didn’t know if Munk had any experience with it—but if not, it was high time. Lord, this was the Caribbean. Nowhere else were so many rules violated.
Munk’s astonishment turned to doubt. “You just want to keep me quiet so I’ll let you go tonight.”
“You’ll do that anyway, Great Magician.” She took his hand and pulled him across the beach to the first tavern.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” said Munk.
“Now, don’t be a coward.”
Jolly was heading for the nearest bar, when its door flew off its hinges with a loud crash, and a tangle of bodies sailed out in a high arc onto the sand Moaning and groaning came from the bunch of pirates, a curse over a twisted ankle.
Munk would have preferred to turn back, but Jolly stopped enthusiastically. “A fight!”
“Couldn’t you watch from a distance just as well?”
Jolly sighed as if he’d said something inconceivably childish. “But then you can’t see anything at all!”
“Especially if anything knocks you out—like fists, or heavy objects”
“You are so chickenhearted!”
He said nothing more and stayed there beside her while the knot of men untangled itself Just as the cursing men were about to stand up, another figure sailed through the open door, landed on top of them, and knocked them all to the ground again.
There were more outcries, and then from inside the tavern came the clatter of furniture falling, and a chair followed the last figure out the door—one of the heavy objects of which Munk had spoken. The chair missed the crowd on the ground and landed a yard ahead of Jolly with its back stuck in the sand.
“Had enough?” Munk turned away, ready to leave.
Jolly stayed where she was. Her e
yes huge, she was staring at the boy who’d been the last to fly through the door. “Griffin? Devil take me—that’s Griffin!”
Munk grimaced. “Who?”
Jolly kicked the chair aside and approached the men, who were hurriedly struggling to their feet. The first sought safety in flight as a powerful man walked out of the tavern door into the sunlight. He was bigger than all the others and so broad-shouldered that he had to turn his torso so as not to get stuck in the door frame. He wore black knee breeches and boots, but instead of a waistcoat, he’d put over his shirt a corselet of metal, such as were sometimes found in surrendered Spanish forts. But the most astonishing thing was the iron helmet that covered his entire head. The visor was closed, concealing his face. Knights in the old world had worn helmets like this. Jolly knew that from stories: men like St. George or Lancelot. But a pirate, and furthermore, in the humid Caribbean? That was more than unusual.
Meanwhile, the bunch on the ground had dispersed, leaving only two figures cowering on the sand: the man with the injured ankle and the boy Jolly had recognized.
“Griffin, good Lord …”
Munk crossed his arms. “Are you going to tell me who that is?”
“Griffin,” she said again. “Just about our age. He grew up on several pirate ships—and was thrown off just as many. He claims he was already a better card player at six or seven than all the pirates together.” She smiled. “He’s an awful loudmouth. I can’t stand him.”
Munk regarded her searchingly. “It doesn’t look like that to me. At all.”
Her smile grew broader. “Looks can be deceiving.”
Munk uttered a scornful snort, but now he watched what was going on with newly awakened interest.
The giant in the knight’s helmet stomped forward silently. He swept the injured man aside with a single thrust; the man landed a few steps farther down the beach, painfully worked himself to his feet, and limped away, protesting.
Griffin was holding his head dazedly. He was blond, like Munk, but he wove his shoulder-length hair in a dozen small braids, which twirled around his head like snakes when he moved. Slaves from Africa wore their hair this way, but Jolly knew no whites except Griffin who did. His clothing was the usual gaudy outfit of the pirate: knee breeches, boots, shirt, and instead of the waistcoat a blue frock coat of silk, which was mended in several places.
“He has a knife” whispered Munk. “Why doesn’t he defend himself with it?”
“This is a fight between honorable men.”
“Oh, of course.”
“Griffin probably tried to cheat the other one at cards. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
“And for that he’s going to let himself get killed now?”
Jolly had begun to have the same fear. The giant in the helmet didn’t appear to be open to a friendly agreement. His fists were as big as buckets, the backs of his hands covered with dark, bristly hairs.
Griffin was gradually getting his wits together. He hadn’t seen Jolly; his eyes were fixedly focused on the giant, who was standing astride him.
“Ehm, Buenaventure … really, that was an oversight. A little mischance. You understand, don’t you?” A broad grin appeared on Griffin’s deeply tanned face. His blue eyes sparkled like the ocean in sunshine. “Come on, you wouldn’t do anything to your old pal Griffin? We re friends. It was a fair game, wasn’t it? All except for that tiny thing at the end, maybe, but a person can forget something like that pretty quickly, don’t you think?”
Buenaventure said nothing, just looked down at the boy through the slit in his helmet.
Griffin shrugged. “Then have it your own way,” Immediately he shot his right leg up and kicked as hard as he could at the giants lower abdomen.
Sympathetic oohs and aahs went through the crowd of onlookers; some hands involuntarily twitched toward their breeches’ laces.
But Buenaventure didn’t move. No sound came from beneath the helmet. His fists remained clenched.
Griffin came scratching and scrambling to his feet. He was about to turn and run, when a powerful paw grabbed him by the shoulder, A second closed around his throat.
Jolly gasped. Munk stared spellbound at what was playing out in front of him. He uttered not a sound.
A noise came from under the helmet that didn’t sound like words. Buenaventure growled like a fighting dog.
Jolly considered whether there was a chance of helping Griffin. Against Buenaventure he had no chance on his own, that was clear. But Jolly wasn’t sure she wanted to take the risk. What she’d said was entirely true: She didn’t like Griffin particularly. Sometimes, at least. Now and then.
But next the giant’s paws felt into both pockets of Griffin’s frock coat, tore them out of their stitching, and seized the gold pieces that were in there. Then he let the boy drop, turned around, and walked away. A lane in the crowd immediately opened to let him through. Moments later, the giant had vanished into a gap between the huts.
Griffin jumped up, grinned at the crowd in embarrassment, murmured something like, “Everything’s all right! Nothing happened! I got rid of him!” and hurried away as fast as he could—just in time. For now the other men who’d sailed through the door with him took up the chase, also wanting back the winnings he’d fleeced them of. Amid the shouting and growling of the loitering pirates, Griffin ran, braids flying, along the beach and turned into a narrow street. The others chased after him. Soon the mob vanished from the onlookers’ sight. After a while, the angry cries of the pursuers died away too. The crowd dissolved.
Jolly shook her head. “Hell never learn.”
Munk eyed her skeptically. “You like him.”
“No!”
Yes, I can see it.
“Poppycock.”
“How long have you known each other?”
She sighed. “Half an eternity. He was cook’s boy on one of Bannon’s ships once—but then the steersman threw him overboard for cheating at cards.”
“Just like that? On the high seas?”
Jolly grinned. “Griffins a good swimmer—by necessity.” She wiped away the memory with a shake of her head. “Come on, we’ll go have something to drink.”
Resigned to his fate, Munk heaved a sigh, then followed her over the broken door and into the interior of the tavern.
Princess Soledad
Nights on New Providence were brightly lit with lanterns and open campfires. There were shadows only in the narrowest streets, the most secluded corners—and in the rear courtyard of the Fat Hen.
Jolly was balanced over one of the few tile roofs in Port Nassau. The block of houses around the inn lay below the English governor’s stronghold and, in contrast to the other parts of the city, consisted of stone buildings, some with two and three stories. The stone district rose out of the sea of palm-thatched roofs and one-storied huts like a fortress, higher and more massive than the rest of the city. In case of attack, passages and gates could be closed, turning the district itself into a small fortress in which Kendrick and his men could entrench themselves.
The tavern’s courtyard lay some eighteen feet below Jolly, a black rectangle from which a back door must lead into the interior of the Fat Hen. But it was too dark down there: Jolly could see neither the door nor the guard who was said to be posted there.
She tried listening, in vain. The only noise came from inside the tavern: the bawling and singing of the revelers, now and again a clatter or a shout, mixed with the screams of the barmaids.
She had no choice but to keep her eyes on the shadows and move hand over hand to one of the windows in the second story. Anyway, the pirate at the entrance seemed to have told the truth. There was only one man down there—any more and they’d have been talking, so she’d have heard whispers at least.
Nevertheless, she didn’t like the idea of climbing across the open, steep roof where she might be seen from below by invisible eyes. How long would the guard wait before he sounded the alarm? Until she was in the middle of the roof and utterly unpro
tected?
Just do it. Go. Now!
She inched forward, seeking for finger- and toeholds between the fragile roof tiles and doing her best to make no sound. The black chasm pulled at her, whispered to her to let go. You can’t do it, it whispered in her ear, you haven’t a chance!
She already had half the distance behind her when one of the tiles under her right foot cracked. Jolly froze. Hesitantly she looked down and saw that the clay tile had broken in two. The lower half had loosened and threatened to slide off the roof as soon as Jolly lifted her foot.
What now? She was stuck if she didn’t want to risk alarming the guard in the courtyard with the falling piece of tile.
If there was even a guard there.
But above all, she couldn’t wait here until they saw her. She had to go on, one way or the other.
She was just about to move when there was a creaking down in the courtyard, A band of light fell through the darkness; the noise from the inn suddenly became louder.
Someone had opened the back door. Jolly could now see for the first time that she was on the right wall of the house as she was looking at it, A man walked outside, swaying slightly as he walked and holding a beer pitcher in his hand. He stopped, lifted the pitcher, cursed in Italian when he found there was no more beer in it, and swung back to fling it against the wall.
“Hey!” bellowed a voice from the shadows before the man could throw the jug, “Kendrick wants that door to stay closed, I wouldn’t be spending the night sitting here otherwise. Go inside, will you! No one has any business out here!”
The pirate in the door uttered another oath, raged at the invisible watcher in the courtyard—and smashed the empty jug angrily against the opposite wall.
Jolly lifted her foot. The half of the roof tile slipped, slid scraping over the edge, and fell. She heard it break on the ground a few heartbeats later than the shattering of the clay jug. She clenched her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut. Held her breath.
