I curled my lip. “Lucky old King George, eh? Having a piss-pot like you flying his flag.”
That made him spit. “Oi, skulk,” he said. The saliva gleamed on his lips as he leaned forward and huffed the sour smell of week-old booze over me. “I’ve seen your face before, haven’t I? You’s mates with those pirates down in Nassau, ain’t yer?”
I froze and my eyes darted to where Bonnet stood with his back to me, then around the rest of the inn. It didn’t look like anybody had heard. I ignored the drunk next to me.
He leaned forward, insinuating himself even further into my face. “It is you, isn’t it? It is . . .”
His voice had begun to rise. A couple of sailors at a table nearby glanced our way.
“It is you, isn’t it?” Almost shouting by then.
I stood, grabbed him writhing from his seat and slammed him against a wall.
“Shut your gob before I fill it with shot. You hear me?”
The sailor looked blearily at me. If he’d heard a word I said, he showed no sign.
Instead, he squinted, focused, and said, “Edward, isn’t it?”
Shit.
The most effective way to silence a blabbermouth jack-tar in a Havana tavern is a knife across the throat. Other ways include a knee in the groin and the method I chose. I slammed my forehead into his face and his next words died on a bed of broken teeth as he slipped to the floor and lay still.
“You bastard,” I heard from behind me, and turned to find a second red-faced sailor. I spread out my hands. Hey, I don’t want trouble.
But it wasn’t enough to prevent the right-hander across my face and next I was trying to peer through a thick crimson curtain of pain shooting across the back of my eyes as two more crewmates arrived. I swung and made contact, giving me precious seconds to recover. That Edward Kenway side of me, buried so deep? I exhumed him then because wherever you go in the world, whether it’s Bristol or Havana, a pub brawl is a pub brawl. They say practice makes perfect, and while I’d never claim to be perfect, the fighting skills honed during my misspent youth prevailed and soon the three sailors lay in a groaning heap of arms and legs and broken furniture fit only for kindling.
I was still dusting myself off when the cry went up. “Soldiers!” In the next moment I found myself doing two things: first, running full pelt through the streets of Havana in order to escape the beetroot-faced men with muskets; second, trying not to get lost.
I managed both and later rejoined Bonnet at the tavern, only to discover that not only had the soldiers taken his sugar but the pouch I’d taken from Duncan Walpole as well. The pouch I was taking to Torres. Shit.
The loss of Bonnet’s sugar I could live with. But not the pouch.
TWENTY-FIVE
Havana’s the kind of place where you can loiter without attracting much attention. And that’s on a normal day. On a day they’re hanging pirates, loitering’s not only expected in the square where the executions are due to take place, it’s bloody well encouraged. The alliance between England and Spain may well have been an uneasy one, but there were certain matters on which both countries agreed. One of them being, they both hated pirates. Another one, they both liked to see pirates hanged.
So on the scaffold in front us of stood three buccaneers with their hands tied, staring with wide, frightened eyes through the nooses in front of them.
Not far away was the Spaniard they called El Tiburón, a big man with a beard and dead eyes. A man who never spoke because he couldn’t: a mute. I looked from him to the condemned men, then found I couldn’t look at them, thinking, There but for the grace of God go I . . .
We weren’t here for them anyway. Bonnet and I stood with our backs to a weather-bleached stone wall, looking for all the world as though we were idly watching the world go by, awaiting the execution, and not at all interested in the conversation of the Spanish soldiers gossiping nearby. Oh no, not at all.
“Are you still keen to look over the cargo we confiscated last night? I hear there were some crates of English sugar.”
“Aye, taken from the Barbadian merchant.”
“Duncan,” said Bonnet from the side of his mouth, “they’re talking about my sugar.”
I looked down at him and nodded, grateful for the translation.
The soldiers went on to discuss last evening’s brawl at the tavern. Meanwhile from the stage a Spanish officer was announcing the execution of the three men, announcing their crimes and ending by intoning, “You are hereby sentenced to be hanged by the neck until dead.”
At his signal El Tiburón pulled the lever, the trap-door opened, the bodies fell and the crowd went, “Ooh.”
I forced myself to look at the three swinging corpses, finding that I held my breath just in case what I’d been told about the loose bowels was true. Those bodies would be displayed in gibbets around the city. Bonnet and I had already seen them on our travels. They had little tolerance for pirates here and wanted the world to know it.
I was hot in my robes but at that moment I was glad of the disguise.
We left, our expedition to the scaffold having given us the information we needed. The cargo was in the Castillo. That, then, was where we needed to be.
TWENTY-SIX
The vast grey-stone wall rose above us. Did it really block out the sun or was it just an illusion? Either way we felt cold and lost in its shadow, like two abandoned children. I’ll say this for the Cubans, or the Spanish, or whoever you’d say was responsible for building the grand Castillo de los Tres Reyes Magos del Morro, they know how to build an intimidating fortress. Around 150 years old, it was built to last too and looked as though it would still be there in 150 years’ time. I looked from its walls out to sea and pictured it bombarded by the broadsides of a man-of-war. What impression would the steel balls of mounted guns make? I wondered. Not much.
Either way, I didn’t have a man-of-war. I had a sugar merchant. I needed a more covert way of gaining entry. The advantage I had was that nobody in his right mind actually wanted to be on the inside of those dark, brooding walls, for in there was where the Spanish soldiers tortured confessions from their prisoners and perhaps even performed summary executions. Only a fool would want to go in there, where the sun didn’t shine, where nobody could hear you scream. Even so, you couldn’t just walk right in. “Oi, mate, you couldn’t tell us where the loot room is, could you? I’ve lost a pouch full of important documents and a weird-looking crystal.”
Thank God, then, for prostitutes. Not because I was feeling randy but because I’d seen a way to get inside—inside the fortress, I mean. Those ladies of the night, who sat on a fortune, well, they had good reason to be on the other side of those walls, so who better to get us in?
“You need a friend, gringo? You need a woman?” said one, sidling up with a bustle of tits, ruby-red lips and smoky eyes full of promise.
I ushered her away from the castle walls.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Name, señor?”
“Do you speak English?”
“No, no English.”
I smiled. “But gold is a language we all speak, no?”
Yes, as it turned out, Ruth did speak gold. She was almost fluent in gold and so was her friend, Jacqueline.
Bonnet had been hanging around, looking shifty. Introductions were made and a few minutes later we were walking, bold as brass, to the front gate of the castle.
At the top of the approach I looked back to where the hustle, bustle and heat of Havana seemed to recede, kept at bay by the forbidding stone and tall watchtowers of the Castillo, which radiated a kind of malignancy, like the mythical monsters sailors said lived in the uncharted depths of the deepest oceans: fat and deadly. Stop it, I told myself. We had a plan and needed to see if it played out.
In the role of burly minder, I banged my fist on the wicket door and we waited for it to open. Two Spanish soldiers, carrying bayoneted muskets, stepped outside and gave us the long look up and down: me and Bonnet, with especially l
ascivious looks reserved for Ruth and Jacqueline.
I played my part. I looked tough. Ruth and Jacqueline played their parts. They looked sexy. Bonnet’s job was to speak the lingo, some of which I could understand, the rest he filled me in on later.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m afraid neither of my two lady friends speak Spanish, thus I’ve been asked to speak for them, and my colleague here”—he indicated me—“he is here to ensure the ladies’ safety.”
(Lie! I held my breath, feeling as though there was a sign above our heads advertising our dishonesty. Lie!)
The two soldiers looked at the girls who, fortified with gold, not to mention several glasses of rum, preened and pouted so professionally that anybody would think they did it for a living. It wasn’t enough to convince the guards, though, who were about to wave us away and let themselves be swallowed up once again by the squatting grey beast, when Bonnet said the magic words: El Tiburón. The girls had been called for by El Tiburón, the executioner himself, he explained, and the guards paled, sharing a nervous look.
We’d seen him at work earlier, of course. It takes no skill whatsoever to pull a lever, but it does require a certain—how shall we say?—darkness of character to pull the lever that opens the trap that sends three men plummeting to their deaths. So it was that El Tiburón in name alone was enough to inspire fear.
With a wink Bonnet added that El Tiburón likes the girls from Portugal. Ruth and Jacqueline, continuing to play their parts well, giggled and blew mock kisses and adjusted their bosoms flirtatiously.
“El Tiburón is the governor’s right-hand man, his enforcer,” said one of the soldiers suspiciously. “What makes you think he will be in the Castillo?”
I swallowed. My heart nudged up against my rib-cage and I cast Bonnet a sideways look. So much for his information.
“My dear man”—he smiled—“do you really think this assignation would meet the approval of Governor Torres? El Tiburón would need new employment if the governor were to discover him consorting with prostitutes, and as for doing it on the governor’s own property . . .”
Bonnet looked from side to side and the two soldiers craned to hear more secrets.
Bonnet continued. “I need hardly say, gentlemen, that being in possession of this information puts you in a most—how shall we say?—delicate position. On the one hand you now know things about El Tiburón—Havana’s most dangerous man, let’s not forget—he would pay, or perhaps kill . . .” Here he paused just enough to let this information sink in. “. . . in order to protect. Depending on how you want to conduct yourselves in possession of this information would no doubt dictate the level of El Tiburón’s gratitude. Do I make myself clear, gentlemen?”
To me it sounded as though he was spouting twaddle, but it seemed to have the desired effect on the two sentries, who at last stood aside and let us in.
And in we went.
“The mess hall,” said one of the guards gesturing to walkways looking down upon the courtyard in which we were standing. Tell them you’re looking for El Tiburón, they’ll point you in the right direction. And tell these ladies to behave themselves lest you inadvertently reveal the true nature of your business here.”
Bonnet gave his best greasy smile, bowing as we moved past and giving me a sly wink at the same time. We left two thoroughly hoodwinked guards in our wake.
For me the first stop was the loot room and I left them to it as I climbed steps, hoping for all the world that I looked like I belonged in the fortress. At least it was quiet: apart from the sentries there were very few troops about. Most seemed to have congregated in the mess room.
I headed straight for the loot room, where I almost cheered to find the pouch with all the documents and the crystal present and correct. I pocketed it and glanced around. Bloody hell. For a loot room it was woefully empty of any actual loot. All there was apart from a pouch containing a few gold coins (which went into my pocket) were crates of Bonnet’s sugar. It occurred to me we had no contingency for their rescue. Sorry, Bonnet, it would have to wait for another time.
A few minutes later I’d rejoined them: they’d decided not to risk the mess room and instead had been loitering on the walkways nervously awaiting my return. Bonnet was too relieved to see me back to ask about the sugar—that particular pleasure would have to wait until later—and wiping nervous sweat from his brow, he ushered us back along the passage and down the steps to the courtyard, where our friends the sentries shared a look as we approached.
“I see. Back so soon . . .”
Bonnet shrugged. “We asked at the mess hall, but of El Tiburón there was no sign. Possibly there has been some mistake. Perhaps his desires have been satisfied elsewhere . . .”
“We will tell El Tiburón that you were here, then,” said one of the guards.
Bonnet nodded approvingly. “Yes, please do that; but remember, be discreet.”
The two guards nodded; one even tapped the side of his nose. Our secret would be safe with them.
• • •
Later we stood on the port with Bonnet’s ship nearby.
I handed him the pouch I’d filched from the loot room at the Castillo. It seemed the decent thing to do—to make up for his lost sugar. I wasn’t all bad, you know.
“Oh, it’s no great loss,” he said, but took the pouch anyway.
“Will you stay long?” I asked him.
“For a few weeks, yes. Then back to Barbados, to the tedium of domesticity.”
“Don’t settle for tedium,” I told him, “sail to Nassau. Live life as you see fit.”
By then he was halfway up the gangplank, his newly acquired crew readying themselves to set sail.
“Haven’t I heard that Nassau is crawling with pirates?” He laughed. “Seems a very tawdry place.”
I thought of it.
“No, not tawdry,” I told him. “Liberated.”
He smiled. “Oh, God, that would be an adventure. But no, no. I’m a husband and a father. I have responsibilities. Life can’t be all pleasure and distraction, Duncan.”
For a moment I’d forgotten about my assumed identity and felt the tremor of guilt. Bonnet had done nothing but help me. Quite what possessed me, I wasn’t sure. Guilt I suppose. But I told him.
“Hey, Bonnet. The name’s Edward in truth. Duncan is only an alias.”
“Ah . . .” He smiled. “A secret name for your secret meeting with the governor . . .”
“Yes, the governor,” I said. “Right. I think I’ve kept him waiting long enough.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
I went straight to Governor Torres’s residence, a vast mansion set behind steep walls and metal gates well away from Havana’s hubbub. There I told the sentries, “Good morning. Mr. Duncan Walpole of England to see the governor. I believe he is expecting me.”
“Yes, Mr. Walpole, please enter.”
That was easy.
The gates squeaked, a hot summer’s day sound, and I stepped through to be awarded with my first glance of how the other half lived. Everywhere were palm trees and short statues on plinths, and from somewhere the sound of running water. It was a marked contrast to the fortress, opulent where that had been grimy, gaudy where that had been forbidding.
As we walked, the two sentries stayed a respectful but watchful distance behind, and my limited Spanish picked up fragments of their gossip: apparently I was a couple of days late; apparently I was an “asesino,” an assassin, and there was something about the way they said the word assassin that was odd. The way they stressed it.
I kept my shoulders back, chin held high, thinking only that I needed to continue the subterfuge for a short while longer. I’d enjoyed being Duncan Walpole—it had felt liberating to leave Edward Kenway behind, and there were times I’d considered saying good-bye for good. Certainly there were parts of Duncan I wanted to keep, souvenirs, keepsakes: his robes, for one, his fighting style. His bearing.
Right now, though, what I wanted most was his reward.
We came into a courtyard, which was vaguely reminiscent of the fortress, except where that was a stony drill square overlooked by shadowed stone walkways, this was an oasis of sculpture, lush-leaved plants, and the ornate galleries of the palacio framing a sky of deep blue, a sun that smouldered in the distance.
There were two men already there. Both were well-dressed, men of class and distinction. More difficult to fool. Close by them was a rack of weapons. One of them stood aiming a pistol at a target while the other cleaned a pistol.
At the sound of myself and the sentries entering the courtyard the shooter looked over, annoyed at the interruption. With a little shake of his shoulders he composed himself, squinted along the line of the pistol and squeezed off a shot.
The sound rang around the courtyard. Applause came from startled birds. A tiny wisp of smoke rose from the dead centre of the target, which had rocked slightly on its tripod. The shooter looked to his companion with a wry smile, received an impressed eyebrow-raise in return, this the vocabulary of the wealthy. Then they turned their attention to me.
You’re Duncan Walpole, I told myself and tried not to wilt beneath their scrutiny. You’re Duncan Walpole. A man of danger. An equal. Here at the invitation of the governor.
“Good morning, sir!” The man who had been cleaning the gun smiled broadly. He had long greying hair tied back, and a face that had spent many an hour in the sea-breeze. “Would I be correct in thinking you are Duncan Walpole?”
Remembering how Walpole had spoken. Cultured tones.
“I am indeed,” I replied, and I sounded so false to my own ears that I half expected the gun cleaner to point his pistol straight at me and order the guards to arrest me on the spot.
Instead he said, “I thought as much,” and still beaming strode across the courtyard to offer me a hand that was as hard as oak. “Woodes Rogers. A pleasure.”
Woodes Rogers. I’d heard of him, and the pirate in me paled because Woodes Rogers was the scourge of my kind. A former privateer, he’d since declared a hatred of those who turned to piracy and pledged to lead expeditions aimed at rooting them out. A pirate such as Edward Kenway he’d like to see hanged.
Assassin's Creed: Black Flag Page 12