Pirate Blood. Eugenio Pochini

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.

      “Bennet was here yesterday evening.” Bartolomeu had started fumbling about a dusty bottle of rum. “I don’t care about what you do, nor about the stories you are forced to invent to avoid making your mother worry.”

      He had forgotten it all, after the latest events. He instinctively pressed his forefinger on his nose. The swelling had decreased, as well as the pain. Luckily Anne didn’t seem to have noticed it.

       How could she do it, in her bad shape, he wondered.

      “She is a very strong woman”, the innkeeper underlined. “But you don’t have any right to do those silly things. The boy who is bothering you today, will turn into the drunkard who will stab you tomorrow.”

      “Is that one of your precepts?”

      The Portuguese frowned at him. He didn’t seem to like the mocking tone he had just been addressed by. He started swallowing the liqueur.

      “No, it isn’t”, he answered with a sneer. “I’ve just made it up.”

      Johnny had been fearing till then that he would been given a new telling-off and he was ready to spring up. He didn’t care about anything, except his mother. That simple joke was enough to make him change his attitude.

      “Come on, have a drop too”, Bartolomeu encouraged him soon after. He handed the bottle to him.

      “In the morning?”

      “You’ll have to turn into a man sooner or later. Let me see what your nature is. Be brave!”

      The full and dense smell of the rum got to Johnny’s nostrils and he couldn’t hold back a disgusted grimace. He brought the jug softly to his lips and threw his head back. The liqueur slipped hot and sweetish down his throat. When it got to his stomach, it took fire with all its force.

      “It’s burning!”, he exclaimed. A series of powerful coughing started twisting his chest. It went on like that for a while, before the amused eyes of Bartolomeu, who couldn’t stop laughing at all.

      ***

      The governor was used to being an early-bird. Especially when he had to watch an execution. In those cases, he could hardly ever fall asleep, waiting impatiently for the moment he would go to the gallows square.

      It was different that time.

      After having dismissed Rogers, he had preferred to withdraw into his rooms, without touching any food.

      He had ascribed his insomnia to his too spiced meals, besides anxiety. Foreboding that he wouldn’t fall asleep anyway, he had ordered Feller, his personal butler, to bring him one of the black maids who worked in the kitchen.

      “You must be Abena”, he had said as soon as he had brought one of them to him.

      The slave had just bowed slightly and had kept standing next to the door, looking around herself with a puzzled look.

      “Don’t be afraid, my dear. Come here.” The governor had shown a predatory smile off. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

      “Now, Your Excellency?”

      “Yes.”

      That sounded simple and Abena had started undressing. Morgan had examined her with curiosity, just like a child observing an unknown phenomenon. Then he had started undressing too. He had taken her by force and Abena had let him do it. It hadn’t lasted long, but he had looked satisfied anyway. Then he had fallen asleep.

      The next morning Feller got into the room holding a tray with a glass of wine and all the things Morgan needed for his toilette: a basin of fresh water, another one full of rice flour, a series of jags with make-up and sweet-smelling clothes.

      “Good morning, Excellency”, he said.

      Morgan mumbled something. He took the glass and gulped the wine down, without deigning to taste it. Even if he was recognized as the most important authority in charge in Port Royal, many people still considered him as a mean and shabby pirate.

      “A perfect day for a hanging”, Feller stated. He pulled the window curtains back and placed all the necessities for the day on a baroque-style cupboard.

      “Where is the girl?”, the governor asked instead. He had reached his arms out, sure he would find her still sleeping next to him.

      Feller didn’t lose his composure. He picked up the wig and powdered it with the rice flour. “She came out of your room without even asking for your leave. One of the gardeners saw her going back to the slaves rooms at night. These niggers are really impudent. I’m sorry I brought her to you.”

      “It doesn’t matter”, he mumbled. He got up from the bed and moved to the cupboard. “Take her to the jails and let her be whipped.”

      “As you wish.”

      Morgan started wiping his face. When he had finished, he kept looking at himself reflected in the mirror. “Have you questioned the coachman?”

      The butler spread a cloth and helped him get dry. “Captain Rogers seems to have stopped at a brothel. He probably wanted to spend some of your money.”

      “That’s possible.”

      “Do you trust him?”

      Feller’s question seemed impudent to him. Morgan had always considered him as a small person, not only for his physical aspect but also for his character. He rarely let himself go to personal considerations.

      “Absolutely not”, he answered. “In spite of that, he is the most skilled pirate who has ever sailed the Caribbean Sea.” He unscrewed the lids of the jars and rubbed a thick layer of greasepaint on his neck and face, giving them a noble paleness. Then he put some red colouring on his lips and cheeks. “Is our carriage ready?”

      “Certainly”, Feller answered.

      “Very well”, Morgan commented and started dressing up with the most formal and smartest clothes he owned: a white silk shirt and a leotard the same colour. All that was matched by a blue doublet. He completed his outfit by his unfailing wig, which was going to cover his thin reddish hair.

      Once