Chapter Fifteen: Treasure

She was still staring hopelessly at the door when Storm opened it, swaying slightly and looking rather pale beneath his fallow tan.

“Francis!” He cried, catching sight of Florencia, “Fetch me a drink like a good boy!”

He patted her on the head like a favoured dog as he stumped by and returned to his chair.

Florencia gratefully ran away. It was a muggy day, and the wind failed to blow low enough to keep the deck cool. The pirates appeared hung-over from the day before, as well as exhausted from having battled with empty bellies as they sat beside their smoking cannons, wiping their brows and peering around dully. She ran past them nonetheless and jumped through the hatchway. The gun deck was gloomy and empty as Florencia climbed down to the second deck, taking a left at the ladder and coming face to face with the galley door. It nestled in the space between the ship’s wooden side and the middle of the foremast, warped with age and battered with use.

She swallowed, and gingerly stepped closer, stretching out a tentative hand to take ahold of the tarnished knob, which she pulled on. She winced as the door hinges creaked, for the noise echoed in the narrow space. A dim, yellowy wash of light, which had stuck out under the door, now flooded the dingy passage, revealing the Dark Horse’s tiny galley.

A mountain of wooden bowls helped the room feel cluttered. She spied a small cabinet stocked with trumpet glasses, opposite which was a rack nailed to the wall. From it hung iron ladles, spatulas and forks beside a black blow-tube, quivering slightly as the ship sped south-west.

“Flower?”

The man in question had his back to her. He seemed to be stirring something in a small copper boiler that hung, swaying a little, over a brick pit that served as a fireplace. The bitter, burnt smell of coffee wafted over to her, underlain by the reek of rotting fish. She waved her hand to get rid of the stench, knocking over a basket of dried ackee as she backed into the table. The noise caught his attention, and the cook turned around, looking surprised to see her.

“Florencia!” He cried, “What on Earth-?”

“Da capdain wands a drink,” she told him nasally, pinching her nose against the smell.

“Let go,” he told her, reaching over and gently shaking her hand loose, “you’ll get used to the smell, then.”

She breathed normally, but the air remained foul.

“Why are you making coffee?” Florencia asked him curiously, as she stood on tiptoe and peeped over his shoulder, “I thought you hated-”

“The captain’s got the rum fits,” Flower explained simply, “Pass me the ladle, would you?”

She did so and watched as he ladled a quantity of the gritty, piping hot brown liquid in an old copper flagon, which he put aside in favour of a hefty pewter pitcher.

“What’s ‘rum fits’?” She asked him, somewhat puzzled, as he filled the said pitcher with the last of the coffee.

“Some call it’ ‘the shakes’,” he answered patiently, his earlier anger with her completely forgotten, “but in polite society, I think they call it the ‘trembling madness’.”

She looked at him, still bemused.

“It’s what becomes one if you drink immoderately.”

He put his ladle down.

“Hold this,” he said, holding it out, “Careful, it’s hot-”

Flower wiped his hands on his apron and then took it off, throwing it aside before reaching up and pulling a box down from a shelf above his head. It was full of paper, which he pushed aside and burrowed amongst until he found what he was after, for he unstuck a nearly black bar of something that whiffed vaguely of cinnamon.

Florencia gasped.

“Chocolate!”

The cook smiled.

“It is,” and he broke a corner off, handing it to her.

She balanced the pitcher awkwardly on her hip in order to take the exotic treat from him. She shoved the little piece into her mouth, moaning happily as it melted and made her teeth and tongue all sticky.

“Just don’t tell anyone,” Flower warned her, “Because if they don’t eat it themselves,” he nodded at the ceiling, “they’ll sell or trade it for something better.”

Flower left the galley with the flagon and returned shortly without it.

“This way,” he said, taking his lantern, which was glazed with horn for safety.

He led Florencia along the second deck, which was one long corridor except at the other end, where she saw another, open, door. He pushed it wider and revealed a tiny, musty room with one three-legged chair propped uselessly against the wall. The room itself was divided in half by a sailcloth curtain, which Flower grasped the edge of and tugged aside, raising his lantern up as he did so.

“In here.”

Florencia stepped through. There was barely enough space left for them to stand side by side, for a man on a heap of old, damp straw lay on the floor, groaning softly with pain.

“Mr Thomas,” Flower said, half to her and half to the old mulatto, “he’s too old to be at sea, but he’d be begging on the streets otherwise. The captain’s only kept him because he’s educated and good at reading charts, but the poor man’s just taken a splinter to the face, which, at his age…”

She looked sadly at the old man, whose snowy beard was matted with crusting blood.

“Can you not take it out?” She asked Flower quietly.

The latter shook his head, replying grimly, “I’m not qualified to. The only experience I’ve had is with making chicken for dinner. Besides, he might bleed to death, and the wound will fester either way.”

He sighed sadly and took the pitcher from her, bending to help the old man drink. He handed it back and removed what was left of the chocolate from his pocket, pressing it instead into the pirate’s paling hands.

“The others-” Florencia began.

Flower shook his head.

“I doubt that anyone will come down here-too afraid of catching something. Mr Thomas always loved sweet things, so it’s the least I can do.”

He ushered her out and led her back up top, where they sun had finally burnt through the cloud, throwing everything into sharp relief. He handed the flagon to a man with curly brown hair and a bulbous nose. A warty friend of his sidled over and they shared the coffee as the rest of the crew hollered at Flower in Patwa. Florencia squealed as one of the pirates’ near her opened his mouth and showed her his assortment of jagged teeth.

“They’re hungry,” he comforted Florencia, smiling slightly, “and don’t worry-they’re not cannibals as far as I know.”

His words did not comfort her. She looked away and caught sight of a rise on the horizon.

“Look!”

Florencia pointed and everybody followed her finger to where she was pointing out sea.

“Rum Cay,” Flower breathed, and the other pirates gasped as one body.

“What cay?” She repeated.

He did deign to say, but simply said aloud, “It appears as if we’ve reached our destination.”

She looked back at the island. It was the same sort of sage green colour as Watling, but there was a lot more of it and no houses as far as she could see with her naked eye.

“We’ll probably be stopping overnight,” Flower added, sounding a little apprehensive, “But at least we can patch up the ship-”

He looked over at Newland, who was still clinging to the helm. The little man was steering them closer and closer to the island, his teeth gnashing together in concentration.

“Are we berthing there?” Flower called out to him.

Newland jerked his head, which Florencia took as an affirmative. The former grunted something and Flower replied in English; they argued briefly and then the cook approached the great cabin.

He knocked on the door and entered before reappearing sharply.

“You heard him,” Flower told the crew, “Weigh anchor!”

He began pointing at certain men as Greer and Rufus clambered down in the very belly of the Dark Horse.

“Wallace, Wardell, Warwick,” he said to a strikingly identical set of triplet mulattos, “man the rowboat. Bandy, Taffy and Hardy-go with them.”

The six men were armed to the teeth as they climbed into the jollyboat that their fellows had gotten ready for them, and soon, they were little more than a speck riding on the choppy sea.

“Use this,” Flower told Florencia, as she squinted at the island. He gave her Storm’s own spyglass, which was a heavy brass thing that she nearly dropped, but with Flower’s help, she managed to hold it aloft for long enough to see out of.

The island suddenly appeared to be much closer, so much so that she almost thought she could step onto the dunes that were blown against a thin line of dead looking palm trees that seemed to form some sort of wall. The water was quite rough, and ringed the island in white foam.

“Rum Cay,” Flower said again, “a favoured drop off and rest point for pirates-”

Florencia jumped as the cabin door banged open and Storm strode out, looking both groggy and angry in his dishevelled clothes. He gripped the jamb for support and snatched his spyglass back in order to stare, hard, at the island.

“I sent men to see if it’s still standing,” Flower said, “just like you ordered.”

He pointed at the line of grey trees, at which Storm sneered.

“I’ll need the keys, sir,” Flower added quietly, his voice heavy with a sort of wary respect that did not pacify his captain, whose head snapped around to face his with a terrible glare twisting Storm’s slightly tanned features.

“Yer’ll not!” He snarled viciously, “They’ll stay with me!”

He possibly grasped at the ring of keys on his belt, and, after shouting for Greer, led the huge man down below, keys and money clinking with every furious step. The crew, along with Flower and Florencia, waited in silence for the two other pirates, at which pint the rest began buzzing like frenzied bees.

Greer was carrying a large, wooden chest. His apish face was mottled red-white with the strain of raising it from the hold, and despite that he put it down beside the hatchway as softly as he could, it landed with such a heavy thud that the planks visibly trembled. He stepped out, breathing out in relief as he cleared a path for Storm amongst his fellow pirates, who swarmed around the chest, the lid of which was branded with the letters ‘WK’.

Florencia, hemmed in by the dozen sweaty, jostling men, heard them whisper such things as, “Kidd’s gold!” and “Spoils from the Quedah!” amongst other things. She squeezed her way to front of the feverish rabble, and saw that the chest looked unremarkable up close, despite its size. The majority of the amber coloured varnish had been scraped off, leaving bare grey wood behind, bound in iron and dusted lightly with sand, she noticed, almost as though it had been dug up at some point.

“Move aside!”

Everybody parted immediately, as though someone had cracked a whip over their heads. Storm barged through, bending down swiftly to slot a nondescript iron key into the ward lock. He twisted it, and there was a rusty clunk sound.

Storm grabbed the lid, but did not throw it back. Instead, he lifted it slowly, almost as though he was uncertain; everyone held their breath as the contents of the chest gradually came to light, ripping awed gasps and greedy cackling from the pirates.

The treasure was magnificent. It shone with the light of a small celestial body as the sun glinted off the scores of gold maravedis, plate and silver chalices. A pearlescent glint drew Florencia’s attention to the strings of pearls and the glassy emeralds. She did not notice when Storm threw in her aunt’s rings, for her attention was captivated by the stone on top. It was a ruby, two inches long and the vivid red colour that she had ever seen.

Storm slammed the lid without a world of warning, shutting off his starry swag from prying eyes. He locked the chest, stuffed the key into his pocket and turned to shout at Greer, who lumbered forward and struggled to lift the chest for a second time.

“Pick it up, yer fool!” His captain bellowed at him, hand on his sword.

A pair of brothers came forward and helped Greer carry the chest over to the side, where, with some difficulty, they tied a rope around it and lowered it into a waiting boat.

“Empty yer stores,” Storm ordered Flower, “all of them. I want every drop of drink taken ter ashore, an’ bring that corpse up ‘ere too!”

The cook dutifully disappeared and took a scarred man whom he called Peter with him, whilst Storm grabbed Florencia by the shoulder. He propelled her along with him and forced her to climb down in to boat before him, where they waited, sweltering in the sun. A large, aggressive looking man sat with them. He was, so Flower had told Florencia, the bo’sun, or the man in charge of the rigging and keeping the ship in decent repair. He did not speak to them, nor Rufus, who climbed down holding an armful of plates. The men that came with him carried a shovel and bedding between them, whilst the scarred man brought a keg of rum.

Flower, meanwhile, joined them belatedly with a basket brimming with a score of onion bottles and French ones, and a look of misgiving upon his olive face.