"(Hoot-hoot.)"
"Governor, how do I get the atoms to line up? How do I link blood and iron?"
Sawney drained the bottle and then put it down and began to sing,
Bendita sea el alma,
Y el Senor que nos la manda; Bendita sea el did
Y el Senor que nos lo envid.
Again Shandy translated mentally: Blessed be the soul, and the Lord that keeps it in order; blessed be the day, and the Lord that drives away.
He tried for at least another minute to get a coherent answer to his question, but the rum had extinguished the brief spark of alertness in the old man's eyes, and eventually he gave up and got to his feet.
"So long, governor."
"Keep well, lad. No chickens."
"Right." Shandy started away, then paused and turned back. "Say ... what's your name, governor?"
"Juan."
Shandy had heard several versions of the name the governor claimed, but it had always been something like Sawney or Ponsea or Gawnsey - he hadn't heard Juan before. "What's your full name, governor?"
The old man cackled and grubbed in the sand for a bit, then looked up at Shandy and said softly but distinctly, "Juan Ponce de Leon."
Shandy simply stood there for several seconds, feeling chilled in spite of the tropical sun that was raising wavering heat mirages over the white sand. At last he nodded, turned, and plodded away, hearing the hooting start up again behind him.
Only after he had crested the rise, and was winding his way through the tangle of tents and huts, did it occur to him that the derelict he'd left hooting into an empty rum bottle really was, or had been, at least, governor of this island - as well as of every other island between here and Florida.
He was striding along between the tents, mentally calculating how much of Davies' money he still had after three months of spending it lavishly on rum, and wondering how long a voyage he could afford - of course it wouldn't have to be very long, Christmas was less than two weeks away, and Hurwood had said that he'd consummate the eviction of Beth from her body "come Yule" - when a figure stepped in front of him. He looked up, and recognized Ann Bonny. He remembered that she had started up a romance with another pardoned pirate, Calico Jack Rackam, very shortly after Shandy had sailed for Haiti, and that the two of them had tried, unsuccessfully, to get Ann a divorce-by-sale.
"Hello, Ann," he said, pausing, for he felt he owed her the opportunity to revile him a little.
"Well, well," said Ann, "if it ain't the cook! Crawled out o' the rum cask for once, eh?"
She looked both leaner and older - not surprisingly, for Governor Rogers had chosen to view the time-honored English common law custom of divorce-by-sale as the height of lewdness, and had promised to have her publicly stripped and flogged if she ever raised the subject again, and a couple of monstrously vulgar songs about that imagined punishment had sprung up and become very popular - but she still had the hot aura of sexuality in the way she stood and canted her head.
Shandy smiled cautiously. "That's right."
"And how long do you think it'll be before you crawl right back in?"
"I'm sure it'll be at least two weeks."
"I'm not. I give you ... half an hour. You're going to die here, Shandy, after a few years of being Governor Sawney's apprentice. Well I'm not going to - Jack and I are getting out of here, damned soon. I finally found a man who's not scared of women."
"I'm glad. I've got to admit they often scare me. I hope you and Rackam are happy."
Ann seemed disconcerted, and stepped back. "Huh. So where are you going?"
"Somewhere north of Jamaica. A ship's been seen there that I think is the old Vociferous Carmichael."
She grinned and seemed to relax, though at the same time she was shaking her head sadly. "My God, it's that girl, still, isn't it? Hurley?"
"Hurwood." He shrugged. "Yeah, it is."
"So will this trip be violating your pardon?"