The Guns of Tortuga

The Guns of Tortuga by Brad Strickland, THOMAS E. FULLER Page A

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Authors: Brad Strickland, THOMAS E. FULLER
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for my uncle Patch to go stamping out, had two hard-boiled eggs and a chunk of almost fresh bread for breakfast, and then boldly marched out the door and into the teeming life of Tortuga.
    For hours, it appeared that I would have no luck at all. Up to a likely-looking man I would go, tugging at my hat. “Beg pardon,
monsieur,
I am looking for anEnglish prisoner. I have an important letter for—”
    A rattle of French, which most probably was, “Away with you, brat!” And sometimes I would have to duck a cuff aimed at my ear as I immediately vanished back into the crowd. I had not expected to succeed right away, but neither had I expected every third person I asked to try to thump me.
    A fat, sweating merchant, beaming after successfully haggling over some bargain, was my next target. I sidled up to him and said in an imploring voice, “Please, sir, an English officer? I have a letter to deliver, but I can’t remember the address. My master will beat me if—”
    This one spoke English. “Out of my way!” And he had a better aim than the others. He swatted me a good one as I turned away.
    â€œ
Monsieur!
” I said, trying to sound as if he had nearly killed me. Truth to say, the kick hurt my pride more than anything else. I looked about for someone else to ask.
    The marketplace of Cayona Town was a sprawling, open square, with everything in the world for sale. Booths, wagons, and stalls served for shops, and some merchants did with even less, with a trayhung round their necks or with a blanket spread on the ground. Behind them every other building seemed to be a tavern.
    I stumbled over the rough cobblestones. A barrelchested horse snorted at me. He was hauling a cart loaded with kegs that smelled of rum. My idea had seemed so simple back at the Royale, but out in the chaos of Cayona, I began to feel discouraged. Still, when I thought of Captain Brixton and reflected that some other officer might be in the same condition, I did not want to give up. I would keep looking.
    Three more attempts, and no luck. Four. Five. Sure, and I was beginning to despair. At last I fetched up near a particularly villianous-looking tavern with a sheep’s skull nailed to a board. I had heard some of the sailors talking of the Ram’s Head, and that, I supposed, was where I was. By that time, it was afternoon, with the sun beating down and the people of the town going inside to escape the worst of the heat. Perhaps, I thought, I might have better luck if I went in as well, and so I crept into the tavern.
    The room was dark and hot and smoky. Comingfrom the blaze of day outside, I was nearly blind. I heartily wished I had lost my sense of smell as well. The place reeked of too many unwashed bodies and of much spilled rum and beer.
    I stood blinking until the room became visible. The ceiling, like the door, was low and supported by long, heavy beams salvaged from some wreck. The smoke came from a dozen or so crude candles stuck on various surfaces. Men slumped around rough tables, playing cards or drinking. At the far end, almost lost in the gloom, was a long bar composed of boards laid across four barrels. One of the largest men I’ve ever seen was behind it, wiping tankards with a grubby towel. I squared my shoulders, put on my simplest look, and marched up to him. If I kept my distance, he couldn’t hit me from across the bar.
    â€œEx … excuse me, sir,” I began.
    â€œGet out of my tavern,” the man said, his voice revealing him to be Irish, though he had picked up an outlandish French accent that made his words strange. “Shame on you, coming in a place like this!”
    â€œAh, I swear by the saints that it’s not for drink that I’ve come in,” I said, putting as much ofIreland in my own voice as I could. “Saints help me, but ’tis lost entirely I am.”
    â€œAye, so are we all. We’re but lambs in the wilderness, so Father Finnegan

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