The man at their head was carrying a large keg. When he
spotted the bobbing longboat, he motioned the procession to a halt, tossed the keg onto the sand, and sang out an invitation.
"Welcome to you, masters. There's a virgin pipe of Spanish brandy here we're expectin' to violate. We'd not take it amiss if you'd help us to our work."
He drew a pistol from his belt and swung its gold-trimmed butt against the wooden stopper in the bunghole, knocking it inward.
"No, Monsieur. Merci. Bien des remerciements. " De Fonte- nay's voice betrayed a faint quaver. "I regret we have no time. I and my good friend, the Anglais here . . ."
"I wasn't asking you to drink, you arse-sucking French pimp." The man with the pistol scowled as he recognized de Fontenay. "I'd not spare you the sweat off my bollocks if you were adyin' of thirst." He turned toward Winston. "But you and your lads are welcome, sir, whoever you might be. I'll wager no honest Englishman ever declined a cup in good company. My name is Guy Bartholomew, and if you know anything of this place, you'll not have to be told I'm master of the Swiftsure, the finest brig in this port."
Winston examined him in the flickering light. Yes, it was Guy Bartholomew all right. He'd been one of the original boucaniers, and he'd hated Jacques from the first.
"Permit me to introduce Capitaine Winston of the Defiance, Messieurs." De Fontenay tried to ignore Bartholomew's pistol. "He has asked me personally to . . ."
"Winston? The Defiance? God's wounds." Bartholomew doffed his black hat. "Let me drink to your good health. Captain." He paused to fill his tankard with the dark brown liquid spilling from the keg, then hoisted it in an impromptu toast.
"You don't remember me from before, Bartholomew? Back on Hispaniola?"