The Guns of Tortuga Read Online Free PDF Page A

your sense of adventure, man?”
    â€œI left it behind in Dublin, where I should be as well!” snapped my uncle with a glower.
    The
Fury
was far ahead as we sailed eastward along the rugged northern coast of Hispaniola. Finally, the morning after our landfall, we sailed straight into the open arms of Tortuga Harbor, bold as brass and twice as bright.
    We followed a pilot boat through one of the two channels that led into the harbor. I could see batteries of cannons on either side of the headlands and the great fort on its hill over the town, in turn dwarfed by a more distant mountain that toweredabove it. The fort looked sullen and old and humorless. The sunlight barely illuminated its guns, black and hidden within the shadows of the fort’s walls. I felt they were staring at me. The town itself, called Cayona, was a ramshackle collection of stone houses and driftwood huts, the waterfront thronging with jostling crowds.
    â€œLooking for real pirates, Davy?” Uncle Patch rumbled with disapproval behind me. “Just keep an eye peeled, and you’ll see ’em all around you.”
    The harbor was thick with ships and boats of all shapes and sizes. Many were small sloops and brigs, clustered around the wharves and piers, but some were larger, including two merchantmen whose shabby sides were rough with peeling paint. One, at least, was well armed, for she had new gun-ports cut into her old sides.
    â€œPirate ships?” I asked, and my uncle nodded. “How can you tell?”
    Shaking his head so that his red ponytail swayed, Uncle Patch replied, “Saints, it would be easier to tell which ones aren’t, for there are not so many of them. Not so many years ago, Tortuga was wide open. The place made Port Royal look like amonastery. Then the French and the Dons signed a treaty saying piracy was a bad thing. And all the blessed piece of paper did was make the pirates less obvious. You can still buy anything and sell anything, no matter how crookedly come by, so long as you don’t ask or answer questions about the goods.”
    By noon, the
Aurora
was tied fast to one of the wharves, the
Fury
penned in front of us. Captain Barrel stamped around her deck, lashing out with his fist and delivering kicks with his wooden leg to encourage his crew. Then he stood on the
Fury’
s stern and grinned up at us.
    â€œAhoy, Cap’n Hunter!”
    â€œAhoy yourself, Captain Barrel!” Captain Hunter called back. “Here we all are, living proof that the good Lord has a love for scoundrels.”
    Barrel roared with laughter. “Aye! And at least we’re honest enough as scoundrels go. If ye wants to see a son o’ Satan, though, just cast an eye to larboard!”
    Our eyes followed his pointing hand. A galley, a vessel about the size of a sloop and equipped with long oars, was making its way across the harbortoward us. She was crusted with gilt, and I saw a huge French flag snapping from her single mast.
    Barrel called out, “I’ve sent a man in to say a good word for you, so p’rhaps Monsieur du Pont will leave you your small clothes!” He gurgled with laughter, then wiped his eyes and looked more serious. “Aye, for piracy you need nerve, but for real thieving you need a port official!”
    â€œWonderful,” muttered Hunter, staring as the oarsmen moved the galley toward us. “Whoever Monsieur du Pont may be, Captain Barrel’s description doesn’t bode well.”
    My uncle shook his head. “William, no port official bodes well. That must be the man himself standing in the prow. Smile for the greedy son of a rum-puncheon!” And so we did, myself included, as the galley came alongside and the port admiral of Tortuga hauled himself onboard.
    â€œCaptain Hunter,” the man said, spreading his mouth in a smile and looking around. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Charles du Pont, at your service.” From where I stood