It had not been possible to tip him overboard on the voyage, as he had intended, because Fitzgerald had kept to his cabin, only emerging when Katherine had docked in Tangier. And after that, George had been more concerned with adapting to his new life than in monitoring his former master. But the day had come when he had gone to town to sell some livestock, and then he had made his move.
He had acquired more of the yellow dust he had used in the past, and it had not been difficult to gain access to Fitzgerald’s bedroom: the man was so certain that no one would dare move against him that security was minimal. He had blown the powder into Fitzgerald’s face, and when the pirate had been blinded by the sneezing that followed, he had plunged a knife into his black heart.
As he stared at the stars, George thought about Chaloner. Would he know who had delivered the fatal blow, or would he assume that robbers were responsible, which was the tale that was flying around Tangier? George smiled. Chaloner would guess, and perhaps sleep a little easier at night because of it. George hoped so. 480