The Guns of Tortuga Read Online Free PDF Page B

what M. du Pont had said to Mr. Hunter: “The expenses could be lower, Captain Hunter. Call it a favor for a favor. A rich man here in town, Monsieur Gille, a good friend of the governor, has a … special guest. Like your vessel, this guest has suffered an accident, has run upon a reef, so to speak. His life is despaired of, but if your ship’s surgeon can save him, then I believe I can guarantee speedy repairs and fair prices.”
    So Captain Hunter had made his bargain: Uncle Patch would treat this mysterious guest, and we wouldn’t have to sell the
Aurora
to pay her port fees. My uncle’s surgical kit was wedged between us and bounced back and forth, slamming our shins as we jounced from rut to rut. The streets were terrible, but the French only shrugged their shoulders.
Le bon Dieu,
they said, had ruined the streets with bad weather, and
le bon Dieu
could repair them, for no one else would.
    Cayona was a strange mix of substantial stone and tabby buildings and haphazard wooden shacks and canvas tents. Everywhere I heard French being bellowed, being shrieked, being flung upon the sultry air in what might have been jokes or curses, for all I knew. We left the town behind and rumbled up a twisting road between trees whose roots spread out over what looked like solid rock.
    Indeed, what it was that M. Gille grew on that stony ground I could not guess. The plantation house the carriage driver took us to was a stone affair, square and two-storied, with a red tile roof. To reach it, we had to pass through a barred iron gate in a tall stone wall. A silent servant opened it for us and closed it behind with a clang.
    Uncle Patch muttered, “Saints, but that bears a frosty sound, like the clapping to of a cell door!” Ahead, down a long lane lined with palm trees, stood the house. It had been whitewashed recently, and it fairly shone in the light of the afternoon sun.
    A purple-liveried servant met us at the door andsilently gestured for us to follow. The driver walked behind us with the surgical kit. Our footsteps echoed on the cool tiles until we reached a low, dark room. I thought we were alone until a man emerged from the shadows.
    He was tall and slim and as pale a man as I had ever seen. The long white wig he wore made his face look even more bloodless. His suit was neat and well tailored but brown as cured tobacco and just as drab. His voice, however, was soft and smooth, like honey strained through silk, and it was an English voice, not a French one: “Good day to you, Dr. Shea. I am Robert Meade, Monsieur Gille’s estate manager. My employer sends his regrets but he is unable to attend to you personally. He hopes you understand.”
    â€œPerfectly,” snapped my uncle. “He’s a grandee and doesn’t want to spot his hands with the blood of this poor wretch I’m to treat.”
    Mr. Meade smiled a wintry smile. “It is good that we understand each other. Cesar will remain here. Your boy may carry your instruments. This way, if you please.”
    I didn’t see him move, but suddenly a section ofwood paneling behind him slipped aside, revealing a dark room barely lit by candlelight. I took the case from the driver, and for the first time noticed that he wore a cutlass at his side. He stood with one hand on the hilt, as if he had changed from servant to guard.
    The hidden room was lit only by a single candle and one high, very narrow slit of window. There was a table, two chairs, and a long bed with a straw mattress. A man lay on this, moaning softly.
    Mr. Meade raised a hand to hold my uncle back. “A word first. You will speak to no one of your patient. You will treat him, doing whatever you feel necessary, and then you will report to me. Should you need any assistance, please inform Cesar.” He dropped his hand and walked out with a strange elegance that totally belied his dull attire.
    Uncle Patch went straight to the feverishly thrashing figure on