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He ran breathlessly down the lane stretching along the inn, he opened a back door and climbed the stairs.
The sounds downstairs got blurred, muffled. It was like going through a tunnel dug inside a mountain.
And at the bottom of the tunnel, the golden sparkle of the pirate’s teeth was shining.
“Mother?”, he called out, knocking at the flat door. He didn’t get any answer from the other side. “Mother, it’s me. I’m going to come in.”
The room was enveloped in absolute darkness. There was a sharp smell of sweat inside, mixed up to something like rusty iron.
He finally identified it.
Blood.
Panic-stricken, he looked for the oil lamp on a short night table next to the door. He found it at the second attempt. He inspected the surface of that piece of furniture once more. When his fingers brushed against the linchpin, he made it click. The lamp shone with a weak flame and the light trail started to stretch on the floor, till it got to the foot of the bed. He noticed something just then. A very slight movement. Someone was moving in the shadow.
He heard a rattle at that moment, followed by a coughing fit.
That was enough to turn his doubts into certainties.
Anne was lying on the bed, her untied, long dark hair spreading in a mess on the pillow. They reminded him of the carcass of a giant octopus brought to the shore by the streams. Johnny went closer to her and she raised her eyelids a bit. Her face was cerulean, beaded with sweat. The corners of her mouth were stained with red. A blood trickle was running down her cheek, falling on the pillow where it had made a lumpy stain.
“John, is it you?”, she asked, her voice just a bit louder than a whisper. Her breast was dancing at an intermittent rhythm.
“Yes, it’s me”, he answered.
“I can’t see. My eyes are blurred.”
The boy was shocked, he didn’t know exactly what he should say. He feared that anything coming out from his mouth, could sound unconvincing.
“You’ll see, it’s nothing”, he played it down, caressing her forehead. It was icy. “You’ll feel better tomorrow morning.”
“How are you?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
The woman tried to smile. She moaned a second time, so he caught her hand.
“You must rest”, he told her.
“I know”, Anne admitted.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“My throat is dry.”
Johnny went to the water basin and plunged a cup into it. He went back to his mother. He sat next to her softly, placing his hand on the back of her head to help her drink. The woman swallowed the liquid greedily.
“You’ve been working so much these days. You must sleep. Sleeping will help you.”
“I’m scared”, she rattled.
“There is nothing to be scared of.”
Am I trying to convince her…or myself?, he wondered.
“Just relax”, the boy went on, trying to hide his anxiety. “I’ll go downstairs and talk with Bartolomeu now. He must need some help in the kitchen.”
“Don’t go away.”
“I’ll be back soon.” Anne’s eyes turned bright. A tear fell down her face. “I’ve already lost your father. Don’t leave me alone.”
“All right. I’ll stay here with you.”
Johnny kept listening to the woman’s breathing, which was becoming regular again, till she fell asleep. He grasped her hand once more. Only then, he allowed himself to rest.
***
The governor’s carriage took Rogers to the harbour, following the track he had suggested to the coachman along the way. A strange paranoia had started peeping out inside him. The town was swarming with spies and the last thing he wished for was being tailed by one of Morgan’s lackeys. Of course, the postilion was going to get back and he could tell him everything… so he threw a bag full of money to him, when he got down the coach.
“You have understood, haven’t you?”, he warned him.
“As clear as a starless sky, captain”, the man answered.
“So tell me again what you are going to report”.
The postilion looked around. “If someone asks me, I must say I took the captain to the crossroads between the ancient walls and the main street. The one following the cape southward. I saw him get into a brothel, intending to spend some of His Excellence’s money in sweet company.”
The corsair felt satisfied. He gestured in agreement to the coachman, who left very quickly, leaving behind himself a trail of dust and crushed stones. He waited for him to disappear, then he walked along a lane leading down to the docks. There were no more than ten old buildings in terrible conditions and everything was plunging in a ghostly silence.
“Captain.”
Rogers didn’t need to turn. He could identified that catarrhal tone anywhere. “I’m pleased to see that you’re watching the area, O’Hara. Has anything happened during my absence?”
“Nothing important.”
“What about the rest of the crew?”
“They are sleeping.” O’Hara slipped out of the darkness and turned out next to him. “You took longer than expected. Has anything gone wrong?”
“We’d better discuss it privately”, Rogers cut it short. He could feel on himself the eyes of all the people spying on them behind the half open shutters.
Without adding anything else, they turned a corner. They walked along a narrow and stinking lane, till they could hear the sea washing. An old and neglected warehouse appeared in front of them, almost overhanging the docks.
“I left Husani on guard”, O’Hara explained, in a hoarse hiss.
The pirate smiled satisfied.
Of all the members of his crew, he would have entrusted just two people with his own life. The first one was James O’Hara himself, whom he had met several years before in Cuba. He was famous for being a loyal killer and his typical voice was due to the fact that his throat had been cut. His enemies had thought he was dead, without even checking it. On the contrary, nobody knew how he had survived. The second one, whose name was Husani, was a very big man, a slave in a cotton plantation in Virginia. He had been able to escape and sign up on a ship. Rogers had met him in Port Royal, where he had been charmed by the physical strength the African man had shown in a fight. Many people criticized him for the way he chose the men making up his crew. He didn’t care at all. He very much preferred working with gallows-birds similar to the ones he was hunting, rather than with spruced up and unexperienced soldiers.
After they had knocked at the door, they waited for Husani to come and open it. They didn’t have to wait for a long time. The door half-opened and a large dark face, with a grim look, peeped out in the opening.
“Good evening, captain.”
“Good evening to you”, Rogers answered.
The room was dirty. A low snoring echoed everywhere. Husani picked up a candle end and took his mates to a nearby table, being careful to avoid treading on the rest of the crew who was sleeping on the floor. Rogers sat down and O’Hara sat in front of him. He showed off the white slash of a scar under his chin. Husani stood at attention, but only after he had placed the candle on a rough canopy and filled three jugs with some dark liquor.
“So what, captain?”, he asked him.
Rogers searched through the pockets inside his jacket. He took out another bag, larger than the one he had thrown to the coachman.
“This is the first half”, he said. He threw it carelessly in the middle of the table. The coins inside it tinkled. “The rest when your work is done. As usual.”
“What shall we do?”, O’Hara inquired.
The corsair kept staring at the flickering flame of the candle. Time passed by. He finally answered in a far-away voice. “At first I thought that Morgan was making fun of me. Then I understood he wasn’t joking at all. And that was probably the worst moment.”
“Make yourself clearer.” O’Hara had started snapping his fingers. “What else does he want from us, after Wynne’s arrest?”
“The only problem is Wynne himself”, Rogers explained. “The governor had his own reasons for ordering us to look for him.” He stopped. “Do you remember what he was holding in his hand, when we found him?”
“A map”, the African answered decidedly.
“You have an excellent memory”, Rogers congratulated him. He searched through his pockets once more, he took out the roll Morgan had entrusted him with and placed it in front of himself.
O Hara stopped tormenting his knuckles. He put on an inquiring look. “Where should it lead to?”
Rogers turned his eyes from the map and laid them straight on him. He did it with no hurry, trying to find the right time to answer him.
“To the Devil’s Triangle”, he finally exclaimed.
There was a moment of silence, during which the only noise that could be heard was the continuous snoring of the crew. Husani and O’Hara cast each other a quick, surprised glance. Then the latter threw his head back and sniggered, showing his scar in all its length. It was a horrible noise, a sharp screech, like a blade scratching on a rusty surface.
“Do you find it funny?”, Rogers asked him seriously.
“I didn’t know your sense of humour was so sharp”, the other man answered.
“No humour.” The captain tapped his finger on the map. “Wynne really seems sure about what he has drawn. And so does Morgan. That’s enough for me, as far as the governor is ready to pay.”
“For Judas’s blood!”, Husani burst out. “Have you considered at least that it could be just a crazy man’s frenzy?”
He nodded and did his best telling in a detailed way how things had gone, starting from his morning meeting with Morgan and his talks with Wynne.
Meanwhile Husani had grasped one of the chairs and had sat down on it. “How are you going to persuade the rest of the crew?”
“They don’t need to know the truth at the moment”, Rogers replied. And he suddenly remembered the warning Wynne had lavished on him: There is a price to be paid by the ones searching for the treasure.
He felt himself sinking into distress, as if the sword of Damocles was swinging over his head. He tried to push it away. He couldn’t allow himself to show any kind of hesitation. O’Hara’s providential intervention came to his help.
“Which warranties is the governor granting us?”, he inquired.
Rogers smiled. The disfigured side of his face twisted into a grimace which could make even the bravest man shiver. “This mission will be made in an absolutely legal way. After the execution, Morgan is going to give me a new letter of marque.”
“God save the King!”, Husani burst out in a scornful voice.
Some men stopped snoring, muttering incomprehensible words in their sleep. Then they started making deep noises again.
“Nobody knows the governor’s real intentions”, Rogers whispered. “Not even His Majesty. If Wynne is telling the truth, this map will lead us to an incredible treasure.”
O’Hara lifted his jug in the air. He hadn’t drunk a drop since they had started plotting. “May luck help us.”
“To our health!”, Rogers whished, imitating him.
The African giant joined the toast too. “May the devil take you, captain!”
They spent most of the night discussing the organization of the journey. They agreed about the fact that it would take them five days at least to get the Delicia ready. By the way, there was enough time to plan the expedition. However, a vague foreboding kept troubling Rogers’s heart. In spite of the apparent calm atmosphere, the fear he had been feeling all evening came back again and again. Besides the warning of the French man, Husani’s exclamation echoed in his ears.
May the devil take you, captain!
***
The bells of the only church in Port Royal echoed with a deafening clangour at the first light of dawn.
Johnny woke up accompanied by that sound. He had a terrible headache, a clear sign that he had slept too little and badly. He half-closed his eyes. He saw a face hovering in the air just before him. He didn’t identify it at first. Anne’s lying body was hiding a part of his sight. He was able to focus on it at last and heard Bartolomeu greeting him in his usual drawling accent.
“Try to speak English at least”, he begged him. “I haven’t closed my eyes almost all night long. My head is hurting.”
The other man burst out laughing. “You’re right. Sorry.”
Johnny got on his feet with trouble. His numb legs were threatening to give way. He was able to avoid a disastrous fall, just because the Portuguese was ready to help him. He caught him by his arms and put him at the foot of the bed.
“I can do by myself”, he said and went to open the shutters. A breath of fresh air got into the room. The sun filtered and his features stood out against the early morning light.
He had a sharp face, surmounted by a mop of dark hair which he kept tied in a ponytail. His dark and deep eyes gave him a threatening look, stressed by his thick black eyebrows which joined each other. His upper lip was framed by a sparrow-hawk moustache.
“How is your mother?”, he wanted to know.
“Not well”, Johnny answered.
They both looked at Anne. She was still sleeping. In spite of her relaxed breathing, she might have gone through a hard night. That could be understood from the painful look she had.
“Let her have some rest”, Bartolomeu went on. “There is nothing we can do.”
“But…”
“No objections”, he warned him. “Come with me. We must talk.”
The boy agreed, but unwillingly. He went downstairs, where Bartolomeu had him sit down on a stool placed behind the counter.
