“Sir Henry?”
“Like a Admiral,” explained the buccaneer.
“Ah. And what’s the third kind?”
“I don’t mind telling you. I was cruising one time. I was with an English crew, too. And four of our men went ashore there, near Cape Codera. They didn’t come back, so we went to look for them. We found ashes, where a fire’d been. And we found hands, lying in the ashes.”
“Hands?” said Perrin.
“With fingers on them, some of them,” said the pirate calmly. “Some of them was ate all off. And there was a skull lying. And bits of one man tied to a tree. I’ve never liked Indians from that day, not what you might call love them.”
“So that’s the third kind,” said Captain Margaret. “I take it that these two last kinds don’t suffer much from the Spaniards?”
“Not unless sometimes they get a tough one,” said the pirate, “they don’t.”
“And the other kind, the first kind?”
“They’re melancholy ducks. No use at all,” said Cammock. “Of course they suffer. It’s a wonder to me they don’t get it worse. They’d ought to. If it rained soup they’d be going out with forks. They ain’t got the sense we have, or something. ‘O Sieur,’ they say. The French taught ’em that. ‘O Sieur.’ ‘Come and kick us,’ that’s what it really amounts to.” He looked at Olivia, half fearing that she would be shocked.