Anne of the Indies Page #5

Perhaps for a woman I hope

some day to meet.

See to your scraping

and caulking, Mister...

...and keep a watch working tonight.

Aye, Captain.

Well, good afternoon.

Why aren't you at work?

Dougal's there.

May I help, Captain?

Bear a hand with these lines astern.

They won't pull up properly.

Aye, Captain.

Avast hauling, there. Do you

think I'm made of iron?

A wench who would be fashionable

endures this every day of her life.

Let me see.

There, that's the proper

hour-glass figure.

Wenches are mad. How can

they move clewed up like this?

They don't.

They wait for the men to make the moves.

That's much better.

Do men like this?

Any man would be a fool who didn't.

Why?

Well, it's the nature of men.

You mean a man sees a woman like this...

...and he wants to make love to her?

Yes.

How?

Well, surely you've seen them in Nassau.

Those sea-lice.

They take their women as they

take their rum, by the barrel.

How does a Frenchman

make love, a gentleman?

Captain!

Captain!

Captain, I...

Well? What is it, Mr. Dougal?

There's a sail bearing

down up on the island.

A sail!

Give me the glass.

It's the 'Revenge'. Blackbeard ship.

I'd know the cut of

his tops'ls anywhere.

Now what could he want here?

Make ready. Broach a barrel

of prime Jamaica rum.

Aye, Captain.

Here, help me out of this.

What's the jest?

Blackbeard. He'd tear the hide off me

if he ever caught me in such a rig.

Toss!

Toss!

Little sea-hawk.

Welcome ashore, you old sea-eagle.

Dougal.

Mister Franois.

Doctor.

Well, must an old friend

stand dry in the hot sun?

I looked for you in Tortuga and

through the Windward Passage.

Then I guessed you were here to careen.

You came fast.

The 'Revenge' sails sweet when she must.

Not as sweet as the 'Sheba Queen',

but then she carries more guns.

Drink hearty, mates.

Barbados.

-Jamaica.

I saw your guns on the headland.

You remember everything

I taught you, lass.

Everything except one thing.

Yes?

I thought I learned you never to put

your trust in any son of Adam...

...unless I signed his papers first.

Traitor scum!

Traitor? What're you saying?

Let him tell you.

Tell her it isn't true,

Mister Pierre Franois.

Lieutenant Pierre Franois

La Rochelle of the French Navy!

I should have known him

that night at Nassau.

Remember, Lieutenant?

Remember Martinique?

Where you Frenchies hanged

Sam Austin from a yardarm?

You didn't know I was there,

did you? But I saw you.

You were lined up along the wharf...

...with the other officers

in you golden epaulettes...

...while poor Sam kicked

from the end of a rope...

...over your stinking perfumed heads.

You heard what I swore

I'd give the lot of you.

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