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.
Cook's shot hit home. The fire ship explodes and opens the forward hull of the vessel. Its figurehead is blown to smithereens.
Our ship picks up speed. We are heading straight for the boiling water. The oil has burst into flame. The fire dances on the sea as it slowly consumes the galleon's wood.
We are fast drawing near. Too fast. The crew of the Anarkhia is startled. Their cries are supposed to strike fear into their enemies. It is working. Their cries frighten me.
The pirates' tactic is brazen but wise. They have managed to position the brig so that it is out of the cannons' firing line. A few shots are fired. Most fortunately, the balls fall a long way from our ship. Steven at the wheel steers his ship towards its bloody fate.
"Give me a pistol," I repeat, fully intending to die armed.
He throws me a little dagger that he keeps in his shoe.
"Go to my cabin."
I feign obedience. Once on deck, I branch off and hide between two barrels. No question of me hiding in his room. If the Anarkhia goes down, I must be able to extricate myself from there easily. I have an advantage over these miscreants. I can swim. I even think I have seen land to the East.
All hope is not lost
"Board! Board!" cry Steven and John together.
The hulls collide. I stumble and hit my head. The pirates are throwing ropes to tie up the ships. This is the start of the bloodbath.
From my hiding place, I watch the gory battle. I would never have imagined that men could commit such horrors.
Shots ring out. A thick smoke renders the air unbreathable. There is firing in all directions. The galleon is taller than our brig and nevertheless, the pirates of the Anarkhia manage to pull themselves onto the enormous ship. They cut, push and hit anything that moves. A man falls before me, his eye pierced by a stray bullet.
The Spaniards are more numerous. Two or three times our number. They were ready to confront us. They fight with the energy of the condemned. Their ship is in bad condition. Bappé was right; we are not the first pirates to have attacked them.
We?
The adrenalin circulating in my veins defies my rational thinking.
More and more Spaniards board the Anarkhia, yelling and brandishing their swords. Their galleon is lost. The brig is their sole chance of survival.
Cook is just in front of me. He cuts through legs and chests with a short blade. The pistol shots are becoming rarer. The men do not have time to reload. But the smell of burning is getting stronger. The flames are devouring the forward sails of the enemy ship and licking at the gigantic mast. The deck shakes under my feet.
We must leave before the mast which measures more than eight yards falls on the deck of the only vessel still capable of navigating. With the quantity of rum carried in the hold, the sailing ship will be reduced to cinders in a trice. Everyone is fighting. Nobody seems to notice that we shall die if we do not change our position.
I look for Steven, but can find him nowhere. Either he is on the galleon looking for gold, or he is already dead.
I must act. I get ready. At the moment where I am just about to stand up and release the mooring lines which maintain the two ships side by side, someone grabs me by my hair. I do not have time to see who it is. Pirate or soldier? My instinct causes me to react without thinking. My hand armed with the captain's dagger flies to my enemy's throat. The blade glances off his skin and does not pierce it. My fault. I panicked. I am not holding the hilt firmly enough. A punch hits my chin. No time to think about the pain; I try again. Harder, and this time I do it. His flesh parts. His warm blood runs between my fingers. At last, he releases his pressure on my hair. I push him backwards with all my strength, helped by the rocking motion of the ship on the sea. Another soldier races towards me. This one is taller. I know I am not strong enough to face him in hand-to-hand combat. I would be sure to lose.
I dive sideways. The corpse of the one-eyed dead pirate slows my fall. At his side, the body of a Spaniard lies against the bulwark, an axe planted in his back.
The weapon will be my salvation! It is difficult. My fingers are wet with blood and slip on the handle. No, I want it! I keep going and, at last, I am able to disengage it with a snap.
The tall Spanish soldier has been delayed by young Nick who he has sent crashing against the stairs of the poop deck. The warrior charges once again towards me. I am slim and agile. This must compensate for my weak muscles. I do not recognize my voice when I let loose a cry as I fall on him with the axe raised above my head.
The Spaniard falls to the ground before I even have time to strike. Behind him appears the vague silhouette of Steven in a cloud of smoke. He has shot him in the back.
The captain appears to be severely wounded. He holds his belly with his hand. Blood covers his shirt and face. It could be his or that of his victims. Fighting continues to rage all around us.
"The mast! It is going to fall on the Anarkhia!" I warn him scared, showing him the flames that are devouring the galleon.
A flash of terror can be seen in his eyes when he understands the danger. More Spanish soldiers jump onto our deck and rush towards him.
No time to wait. I want to stay alive. I have to face up to the fact that the land is too far away to be able to reach it swimming. I launch out. Five ropes keep us tied to the galleon. I cut them all in turn. When I reach the last one, I find myself face to face with John, the quartermaster, who has undertaken the same operation.
He cuts through the link with his cutlass. And together we push the hull of the flaming ship away. Others do the same. I do not like to work alongside this vile being. John then runs to the stern and begins to hoist a sail so that that we can outstrip the blazing vessel. Two men are locked in front of me in a death fight. I still have the axe in my hand. A quick glance at the deck tells me that there are more pirates than Spaniards. I choose my side.
I raise my axe and aim at the Spanish soldier's throat. Once again, I miss my target. The blade splits his skull with a loud noise. His grey brain matter spreads over the floor before my eyes wide in horror.
"Bravo, the captain's whore!" the same man who had rubbed my hair two hours beforehand congratulates me.
He gives me a toothy grin (well, with the few stubs left) and returns to the fray.
There is no one at the wheel to steer the Anarkhia. I rush to the poop deck as much to avoid fighting as to steer the ship and take it away from the galleon.
From my earlier observation of the Chinaman, I think I have understood how to find the currents. I turn the rudder to the left as far as it will go in the hope of picking up speed.
I know not by what miracle, but the tactic works! All the sailors on deck whether they are pirates or soldiers are almost thrown to the deck with the thrust I have just given the brig.
I am proud of myself. Particularly when I see the mast of the Spanish ship plummet at the very point that we had occupied a few seconds earlier.
A last shot rings out.
"An end to fighting!" yells Steven.
The few Spaniards still fighting lift their heads. Defeat can be seen in their eyes. Some of their comrades have already put down their weapons and are kneeling on the ground with their hands behind their necks.
From where I am, I can briefly sum up the situation. The Anarkhia has lost half its crew. There are less than twenty men left. And ten living Spanish soldiers.
Blood and corpses cover the upper deck. The dying cry out in pain. Steven bends down to pick up an object. When he straightens up again, he is holding a heavy steel casket.
This is what a pirate victory looks like.
Dead men, cries, cripples, blood and sweat and a locked casket.