The following day, everyone on board emerges around midday. The Irishman is weak. He would do well to stay in bed and get some rest. His obstinacy will be the death of him! He wants to organize life on board because his band of sailors has been halved in number.
After a rapid inventory, it seems that there is not enough drinking water to permit a serene trip to Tortuga. Some of the men must have been helping themselves during the night. We shall even lack wine.
John and the captain fear a mutiny. The prisoners are nevertheless kept under watch. The threat comes from the crew of the Anarkhia. Together they have decided to offload the Spaniards as fast as possible to preserve the few victuals they have. There is no dinghy. They will have to swim to the island which is about fifty yards from our brig.
A wave of panic overtakes the poor men. Not all of them can swim. It breaks my heart. It is sad to see. The first of them jump.
Leaning over the bulwark, I see that there is a sort of solidarity among the Spanish sailors. Cook sends them empty barrels to help them reach dry land. Pirates will always surprise me. One day they can kill in cold blood, and the next, they will show compassion.
Or perhaps it is the shared fear of drowning that guides this benevolent act? Perhaps Steven wants to forge a reputation for himself in the world of banditry? He must leave survivors if he wants the story of his attack of the galleon to spread over the seas.
The last soldier has to jump. Tension is mounting. He is terrified. He will not jump. Bappé orders him to hurry. My Spanish is not good, but in such a situation, one may easily guess the prayer uttered. The sailor mumbles incomprehensible words in his beard.
"Wait!" I shout.
What am I doing?
I think I have seen too many deaths. I do not want this day to be marked by the demise of a frightened man.
"Recruit him," I suggest as I try to control my panicked shaking. "The man is strong. He is a mountain of muscle, look at him. He will be a boon to your crew."
The Spaniard turns round and blurts out a whining "gracias ."
"He's another mouth to feed," says Steven irritated. "And it is not really in our interest to take on a seaman who is afraid of water."
The pirates guffaw. I smile too. Steven is on my side. I am sure of it. He is pretending to be against my suggestion so that his lieutenant can oppose him.
It works.
"I think it is a good idea to take him as far as Tortuga," announces John. "He can wash down the deck and scrape the hull. He will only have a half ration every day, only sea biscuits. And he will sleep outside, here, with the ship's boys. And when we arrive, we'll sell him to the brethren, if needs be."
The weather-beaten faces of the bandits nod one after the other. How I loathe the man, even when he serves my purpose!
"Let's keep him," approves young Nick.
He gives me a friendly wink. I have earned his respect during the fight with the galleon. The pirate with the rotten teeth stands beside me to show his support for my proposal. I am really astounded to see two sailors oppose their captain so openly because of me. It makes me proud.
"That's it. Weigh anchor! Bappé, explain all this to our new friend. But one suspicious move on his part and he will go to the bottom before he has even set foot on l'Ile de la Tortue."
I stop holding my breath.
Victory!
I am excited as I try to hide my joy. Suddenly, the survivor throws himself at my feet and blathers a series of unfathomable words in his singsong language. His eyes slant downwards. This gives him a gentle face despite his imposing physique and his thick black beard.
Bappé gives a bark of laughter.
"What is he saying?" I ask him, suspicious.
"He is telling you that he is devoting his life to you. I think that you have just gained yourself a flatterer. He calls you "Sirena." He declares that a sea goddess has saved him from his nightmare."
Goodness gracious! A lunatic admirer. Better than nowt. Because I have nothing. And my happiness has not been sullied. I have triumphed against violence and pirate tyranny.
A man once assured me of his love and unending devotion. I was thirteen. Mother had taken my sisters and myself to the Court of Versailles. Father's death had changed things. We needed to guarantee brother Thomas's legacy on the Château de l'Aigle, which had been claimed by a remote cousin of my father's from our good king. The stupid viscount, an influential member of the French army, had made the most of his acquaintance with René-Louis de Voyer, Marquis d'Argenson, and also minister to Louis XV, to attempt to obtain the Domaine des Acres. He defended triumph and merit over heredity with exemplary vigour.
A rich young earl, Thibault Duchaffaut, had succumbed to my charm. Full of his twenty-five years, he did not hesitate to make decidedly embarrassing advances. But I must admit that they also flattered me. We exchanged but one chaste kiss in the Galerie des Glaces. Yes, I confess; I played with him for the pleasure of feeling desired. I knew full well that I would not let him have that which he so ardently desired.
Thibault continued to insist, but it was more than I could give.
Of course, he asked for my hand, with the consent of his rich father, Comte Duchaffaut. Mother refused immediately. She had other preoccupations. The marriage of her youngest daughter was in no way a priority. And besides, he was no more than new nobility. Nothing in his blood, just a few heroic military deeds his father had performed.
Today, I am sure she regrets it.
A few weeks ago, I also regretted it.
But no more.
I greet the Spaniard who has introduced himself as Jaime[1] and then leave Bappé to see to showing him his new job on board.
Back in the cabin, the Irishman checks his stitches, grumbling.
"It hurts?"
"Yes, and it itches."
"I think that's a good sign. It means you are healing."
"What do you know of this, you're not a physician," he huffs.
"Well, you're still alive. And it is thanks to me."
His face hardens, but he does not frighten me. I have saved his life twice. A debt that will be difficult for him to honour now. Even lawless pirates take this sort of thing into account. I move slowly towards him.
"Thank you for the Spaniard," I whisper in his ear.
I am throwing him a hook.
"Normal," he whispers with a gentleness I did not know he possessed.
He is rising to the bait. I think I know how to get my way with him. Jérémiah was an excellent teacher in matters of seduction.
"I thought that you were going to refuse from jealousy," I murmur, casually stroking my hands over the wood of his desk.
"Jealous, me? And of what?"
"That I can pay attention to another man.
"Well, no…"
"I know," I interrupt. "I know. You already know that my whole vigilance is devoted to you, Steven. Or at least to your care."
"All the better."
He is disconcerted and tries to compose himself.
"Yes, I have noticed that "muscle mountains" do not interest you," he continues with raised eyebrows and a malicious look.
My most playful smile is painted on my lips. His eyes stare at me with intense curiosity.
"You like the rich," he sneers before leaving the cabin without turning round.
My cheerfulness is still intact. He likes to win his battles. He is a man. I have to let him believe that he still has the power to reach me. His dig, which was supposed to throw me, does not affect me. Much to the contrary.
My net is cast.
He will swim into it.
There are times when the Irishman reminds me of my father. The same fighting spirit. A born victor. The hunt is etched in my memory. We tracked our prey for hours. I was exhausted and breathless on my beautiful chestnut mare, but I did not show the slightest sign of weakness. I wanted him to be proud of his daughter. Early in the evening, we cornered it. A beautiful doe whose leg had been wounded by gunshot. My father handed me a crafted dagger. I needed no explanation. The animal and I looked at each other for a long time. A tear ran down her muzzle and she closed her eyes. She knew it was all over. As for me, I did not falter. I had no wish to finish her off, but I kept going. She was suffering. One stab was enough. I placed the point of the blade over her heart and pushed it in hard.
It is ridiculous, but for a long time I believed that killing that innocent beast had condemned me to some dark spell. She had paid for my desire to be recognized and my cowardice. If I had the power to go back, I would have kept the weapon and plunged it into my mother's icy heart. It would have exploded into smithereens before spreading its wreckage on the ground. Would the Marquis have had more respect for me if I had dared to defy him?
I had my father's high cheekbones and bright blue eyes. But he had the self-assurance I lacked. Normal. He had been brought up as a man. Like my brother Thomas, of whom I was atrociously jealous! He was destined to inherit our family home. My house, my home. My sisters and I were condemned to live under the yoke of a husband. Either rich or a nobleman. Or worse, shut up in a convent.
How many women suffer the submission of this well-thinking society? How many of us have to bear the transparency that is imposed on our image?
To be beautiful and docile are no longer enough for me. On the Anarkhia, I am forging for myself the masculine education I lack. I am becoming stronger and ridding myself of my resilience. That which Mother did not grant me, I take at the price of abandoning my fears of yesterday.
Like a pirate discovering a treasure, I dig deep down inside me to find the strength that I had been forced to ignore.
Yes, it is good to say no.
It is even a delight.
[1] Pronounced "Raïmé"