Pirate Blood. Eugenio Pochini

him.

      “You are going too far, Bennet”, Bartolomeu warned him. However, he didn’t lift a finger to prevent him from doing what he had in his mind.

      “Desperate situations require desperate remedies!”, Avery stated, catching Johnny’s hand. He pressed it on the table and lifted the knife.

      The boy screamed with fear. The blade’s reflection pierced through him with its cruel glare. He knew he would soon feel it penetrating into his flesh. The thought that Avery could do something like that was frightening him more than the action itself. He didn’t think about it twice. He burst out crying. He told them what he had heard, in between sobs. When he had finished, the two pirates cast a furtive glance at each other. Then they started laughing their hearts out. Johnny was stunned and he couldn’t really understand what was going on.

      Then he finally understood.

      “You didn’t mean to hurt me”, he said, feeling very ashamed. “You did it just to force me to speak.”

      “That’s true”, Avery admitted. He let him go and sheathed the knife. “That’s an old trick I use to draw out information.”

      “Attack is the best form of defence”, the Portuguese said.

      The two men started giggling again. Johnny joined them with no reason, sharing that odd connivance. He didn’t care about having been teased by them anymore. Fear had given place to an undefined satisfaction. A vague sense of membership. As if he had come back home after a long journey and had embraced his family again.

      “I had to do it”, Avery said. “I had to teach you a lesson.”

      “The question is different”, Bartolomeu added drily. He untied his long black hair and started playing with one of his locks. “What are you going to do, as you know the truth about us now?”

      The boy surprised them.

      “I want to get to know more about it”, he stated.

      Nobody talked for a few moments. The two sea wolves were studying each other, puzzled. They looked as if they were hiding some more secret information.

      The old man was the first one to break the silence.

      “Alright”, he said. “I’m really struck by your firmness, so, if you heard our conversation, I don’t need to add anything else. You watched Wynne’s execution too, anyway.” He poured some more rum into his glass. “I think the time has come to tell you something about him. He wasn’t as crazy as he wanted people to believe. And he left a map showing how to get to the Devil’s Triangle.”

      “I can remember him talking about a map”, Johnny ventured.

      “I’m not referring to that.” Avery took out his pipe, filled the bowl with a large pinch of tobacco and slipped it into his mouth. He waved to the boy, pointing at a candle end. Johnny handed it to him. After he had lit the pipe, he started smoking slowly and rhythmically. “Wynne had a glass eye. He had lost his own during a boarding. Following the agreement between Edward Teach and the shaman, this one offered to cast a spell on him, so we would be able to sail those seas.”

      The Portuguese smiled, without any cheerfulness. “Do you mean you are talking about magic, Bennet?”

      “Exactly”, he answered with determination.

      “I can’t believe it”, Johnny commented.

      “You should, instead.” Avery had trepidation in his eyes and his glance was full of bewildered excitement. “As nobody had noticed it, I decided to exhume the body. That’s the reason why I was late. I was at the cemetery.”

      The Portuguese crossed himself. “You’re crazy, Bennet Avery! I’m talking seriously.”

      “Thanks”, the old man replied, turning his attention to Johnny. He was smiling greedily. “And I think I’ve found someone as crazy as me, who will help me exhume Wynne’s body. A pair of strong arms are just what I need.”

      ***

      A shade was moving stealthily at the foot of Fort Charles’s walls. He was carrying a bulging sack on his back.

      He followed the perimeter of the fortress, going round a rampart after the other, till he got to the side overhanging the sea. He carefully slipped to the beach section between the cliffs and the walls.

      He took some steps, then he stopped.

      He suddenly heard some voices above himself.

      He raised his eyes and saw the soldier patrol on its rounds. He waited for them to move away, then he went on, till he reached the first cannon battery. They were standing out like brass poles on the stone floor, smoothed by the usual bad weather coming from the south. Climbing there barehanded was impossible. He had brought a strong rope luckily, with a hook on one end. He opened his sack: the rope came suddenly out.

      He had arrived in Port Royal twenty days before. The sloop he had used to land there hadn’t been noticed and bribing the local officer had been enough for him to get a small dock far from impudent eyes. Before he started on that mission, the captain had made it clear: he had to find out everything he could about Wynne. And he had succeeded in doing it. The pirate’s execution had enabled him to carry out his task, but also to study the fortress’s defences.

      He whirled the rope and threw the hook towards the highest side of the wall. The metal hit the stone and a slight tinkling reached his ear. He tugged at the rope. The hook fell to the ground. He coursed silently, stopping to listen. No sounds, nothing showing that someone had heard it.

      He threw the rope for the second time, watching it fly over the walls. He pulled again and he had to move, to avoid being hit by the piece of iron falling back.

       I’m taking too long, he thought angrily. I must keep calm… and hurry up.

      He scanned the open sea. The darkness of the night was merging with the black colour of deep waters. He knew that the vessel was waiting somewhere over there. The captain was probably watching him at that moment. He could imagine him standing on the quarterdeck, with his unsheathed spyglass and a sardonic grin spreading on his face.

      He tried for the third time and the hook gripped. A moment later, he could hear another patrol chattering as it approached. He held his breath, hoping they wouldn’t notice the sharp piece of iron stuck into the stone. He saw them move away as if nothing were the matter. He then started climbing. That wasn’t easy at all: the sack on his shoulders was heavy and it made climbing difficult. He had to use the cannons he found on his way, as if he was climbing among tree branches. He got to the bulwark, he crouched down and took the rope.

      Fort Charles was deep in silence, apart from the low voices of some guards. Some of them looked drunk, while non sign of movements came from the cabins around the main square.

      He slipped over the battlements softly, enveloped in darkness. The cannons on the first terrace were aiming at the open sea silently. He remembered very well that three more footbridges had been built underneath, each of them with a battery ready to fire. And the powder magazine lay below them.

      He had seen it during the execution. A pair of soldiers stood on guard at the cabin with a self-confident look.

      Later, thanks to the mess following the pirate’s horrible death, he had been able to slip closer: one of the guards had opened the door and he had seen almost fifty barrels full of gunpowder. The Englishmen had made his task easier again: if he made them blow out, the deflagration would make the terraces burst out, damaging the guns.

       It couldn’t be easier, he thought.

      He moved forward, hidden by the familiar shadows. He made some short stops, just to prevent anyone from approaching him. He walked down the stairs carefully at last and got to the square.

      No sign of guards.

      “They might be inside”, he mumbled. He got to the cabin and leant his ear on the door. He could hear a deep snoring coming from inside. Without