“Look at this Spaniard, a natural-born buccaneer,” Jacques said. “You know, in tough times like these, the Portuguese sailors eat their own.” His face half grin, half snarl. “Are we ready to draw lots for Sal’s skinny little carcass, men?” Why did Jacques treat him like a kid?
“Jacques’ humor turns ugly when supplies get low,” Sal said. He should have known better than to say that to Dumas, who taunted him each chance he got.
“You know nothing about a man like Captain Jacques. You’re only a kid: get to work, keep your mouth shut,” Dumas said. Sal grabbed some rags to return to his swabbing.
“Listen here, Sal.” Jacques bent on his knee and spoke to Sal in a low voice. “Boy, if I was born one hundred years ago, I could have been a musketeer in my own land. Truth is, I like to fight for a good cause. But in these times, when our leaders turn against us, what can we do?”
He sounded sincere, almost fatherly. Then he rose to his feet with his fist in the air. “Ha, you become a buccaneer! Right men? And I can tell you; there’s not much loot this far north.” He held up a faded map of the coast. His finger, the one with a ruby ring, traced the ship’s route.
“Have you been north? Tell us about it,” Sal said. He imagined Jacques’ risky enterprises.
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