CHAPTER 7 “God’s own terror.”
“Jim boy, it pains the soul to hear ye don’t trust old Andre.”
Bowie watched the man drain his tankard and slam it to the rough oak table. Andre’s one good eye reflected the burning coals of the tavern’s stone fireplace. He did not look at all pained.
“You’re a pirate,” Bowie said. “Name one man fool enough to trust you.”
Andre wiped foamy lips on the back of a sleeve. “A livin’ man, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Does me brother count?”
“You don’t have a brother.”
Andre raked gnarled fingers through his beard, and a spotted weevil poked its shiny head tentatively to the surface.
“What about me daughter?”
“You have a daughter?”
Without looking, the old pirate caught the weevil expertly between thumb and forefinger. He held it close to his one good eye, examinin
