On Stranger Tides by Tim Powers Page B

white-sand shore of a conveniently deep inlet a hundred yards south of the main cluster of tents; and Chandagnac was plodding up the beach in the company of the pirates, reeling from exhaustion as much as from the novelty of having a motionless surface underfoot, for the pirates had cheerfully assumed that as a new member of the crew he ought to do the work of two men.
    â€œAh, damn me,” remarked the toothless young man who was stumping along next to Chandagnac, “I smell some lively grub.” Chandagnac had gathered that this young man’s name was Skank.
    The ship behind them groaned loudly as her timbers adjusted themselves to the new stresses, and birds—Chandagnac supposed they must be birds—cawed and yelled in the dim jungle.
    â€œLively’s the word,” Chandagnac agreed, reflecting that, considering the flames, smells and shouting up ahead, it seemed that the dinner being cooked was not only still alive, but unsubdued.
    To Chandagnac’s left, visible above the palm fronds, was a rounded rock eminence. “The fort,” said his toothless companion, pointing that way.
    â€œFort?” Chandagnac squinted, and finally noticed walls and a tower, made of the same stone as the hill itself. Even from down on the beach he could see several ragged gaps in the uneven line of the wall. “You people built a fort here?”
    â€œNaw, the Spaniards built it. Or maybe the English. Both of them have took turns claiming this place for years, but there wasonly one man, a daft old wreck, on the whole island when Jennings came across the place and decided to found his pirate town here. The English think they’ve got it now—King George has even got a man sailing over here with a pardon for any of us as will quit wickedness and take up, I don’t know, farming or something—but that won’t last either.”
    They were in among the cooking fires now, weaving around clusters of people sitting in the sand. Many of these diners had barrels or upright spar sections to lean against, and they all shouted greetings to the new arrivals, waving bottles and charred pieces of meat. Chandagnac nervously eyed the firelit faces, and he was surprised to see that about one in three was female.
    â€œThe
Jenny
’s moored over there,” said Skank, waving unhelpfully. “They’ll have got a fire going, and with luck scrounged some stuff to throw in the stewpot.”
    The ground still felt to Chandagnac as if it were rocking under his boots, and as he stepped over one low ridge of sand he swayed as if to correct his balance on a rolling deck; he managed not to fall, but he did knock a chicken leg out of a woman’s hand.
    Jesus, he thought in sudden fright. “I’m sorry,” he babbled, “I—”
    But she just laughed drunkenly, snatched another piece of chicken from an apparently genuine gold platter and mumbled something in a slurred mix of French and Italian; Chandagnac was pretty sure it had been a half-sarcastic sexual invitation, but the slang was too unfamiliar, and the tenses too garbled, for him to be certain.
    â€œUh,” he said hurriedly to Skank as he resumed his lurching pace, “the
Jenny?
”
    â€œThat’s the sloop we took your
Carmichael
with,” said the young pirate. “Yeah,” he added, peering ahead as the two ofthem crested another crowded, littered sand ridge, “they’ve got a pot of sea water on the fire and they’re flinging some junk or other into it.”
    Skank broke into a plodding run, as did the rest of Davies’ men. Chandagnac followed more slowly, peering ahead. There was a fire on the beach, and the cooking pot resting on the blazing planks was almost waist-high. He saw several chickens, headless and gutted but otherwise unprepared, arc out of the darkness and splash in, and then a man lurched up and dumped a bucket of some lumpy fluid into it. Chandagnac suppressed a gag,