Two pirates flanked the chosen one, each gripping one of his tanned, tattooed arms. The watchdog on his left had drawn a bowie knife and held it ready at his side; the other had a long-barreled revolver pressed against the doomed man's ribs.
No mutiny so far, at least. Kidd let himself relax a bit and get into the spirit of the thing.
He recognized the chosen man, of course. The brotherhood wasn't so large that any of his subjects were unknown to him by sight. The long scar down the man's left cheek was a result of brawling in the camp itself-a quarrel over looted whiskey, if memory served. Kidd knew the man as Fetch, but he could not have conjured up a Christian name to go with that if his own life depended on it.
"You are summoned to observe the punishment for violation of our laws," Kidd told the crowd. As he began to speak, the muttering among them ceased entirely, and you could have heard a palm frond whisper to the ground. "What is the rule on sharing up of booty?"
"Fair and square on the return to port!" one of his pirates answered, echoed by another handful in the ranks before the noise died down.
"That's right!" Kidd said. "But this one chose to take his piece before you others even had a fair look at the goods. By his example, others were encouraged to do likewise. Some here would have had first crack at these-" he turned and waved a hand toward the three wenches, huddled to his left -but now you've lost that chance."
An angry murmuring arose and made its way around the clutch of pirates, back to where Kidd stood. He waited, letting those who had remained ashore that day check out the women in their baggy, borrowed clothes, imagining the sight of them undressed, the feel of them before another's grimy hands had blazed the trail.
"What punishment is fit for one who breaks our law?" Kidd asked his men.
"Castration!" one of them called back, the captive crewman losing several shades of tan at that.
"Let him be drawn and quartered!" cried another.
"Keelhauled!"
"Death!"
The latter vote caught on, became a chant, the pirates warming to it, seeming generally happy to condemn their fellow sea wolf without specifying how he ought to die.
"So say you all?" Kidd asked them, shouting to be heard above the din.
A rousing cheer came back at him, and now the prisoner began to struggle, trying to escape his guards, to no avail. The pirate on his right swung the revolver hard against his skull and dropped the doomed man to his knees, blood trickling from a small wound on his scalp.
"Then death it is!" Kidd told the cheering crowd, their racket multiplied by his assurance that they would have blood for supper.
Stepping forward, Kidd removed the big Colt semiautomatic pistol from its holster on his hip. He had relieved a red-faced Yankee yachtsman of the pistol three years earlier, before he cut the bastard's throat and fed him to the sharks off Martinique. Since then, the Colt had served him well on raids at sea, and twice before in matters relative to discipline.
There was no need to aim at point-blank range, but Kidd still took his time. There was a certain ritual to be fulfilled, including one last look into the dead man's eyes before he pulled the Colt's trigger, opening a keyhole in the pirate's forehead, scattering raw brains behind him in the dust.
"I swear-"
The echo of a gunshot snuffed out the dead man's protest, and a cheer went up from those assembled on the sidelines. Kidd stepped back and holstered his pistol, making sure he had the safety on.
"Fish food," he said. "So finish all who break our laws."
His men were cheering as the captain turned and walked back to his hut, Teach and the women falling in behind.
PUERTA PLATA TRANSLATED into Silver Port. Remo had no idea who gave the northern coastal town its name, or why, but he was guessing that the only silver seen in Puerta Plata during recent years had come from tourists.
Some tourist dollars came to the Dominican Republic, thanks to several big beach resorts. Still, most of the tourist dollars went to the Bahamas, St. Kitts, Jamaica and the upstart Union Island, which was suddenly the Caribbean tourist destination of choice, stealing business from all the others. Hispaniola sweltered in the sun and took leftovers.
Santo Domingo was the capital and main seaport of the Dominican Republic, which was notably more prosperous than Haiti, its impoverished neighbor on the west side of the island. That wasn't saying much. Hispaniola had been Christopher Columbus's first landfall in the New World, and Santo Domingo, founded four years later, was the oldest European city in the Western Hemisphere. France, Spain and the United States had jockeyed for control of the island over some 250 years, until Haiti and the Dominican Republic won their respective independence in the 1930s. Three decades of brutal dictatorship under Rafael Trujillo ended with the strongman's assassination in 1961, and the subsequent popular election of a president led to years of turmoil, finally suppressed, for good or ill, by a return of the United States Marines. "Stability" had reigned since 1966, but there were still complaints of fraudulent elections, and most of the republic's eight million citizens still scraped by on a yearly income that averaged three thousand U.S. dollars.
"Not exactly where you'd go to find wealthy tourists," Remo said, trying to ignore the seaport smell.
"So why are we here?" Chiun asked.
"This is where Richard and Kelly Armitage made their last known stop, and Smith thinks this is where they picked up the strange and mysterious Enrique," Remo said. "It's all we've got to go on."
"White man corrupts the black man, then complains of his corruption," Chiun declared. The Melody was entering Puerta Plata's crowded anchorage.
"Black man accepts corruption from the white and then bemoans his fate as persecution. It is all so... Western."
"I know for a fact that Koreans breed with Chinese and Japanese-hell, even Native Americans," Remo answered, watching Chiun and preparing to duck behind the console even as he spoke. "Look how good that turns out."
The Master Emeritus of Sinanju heaved a mighty sigh, frail-looking shoulders lifting with the effort. Never mind that those same shoulders had the power to clean and jerk a hippopotamus or a stretch limousine; there was a kind of resignation-even sadness-in the simple gesture.
"Even the most perfect race has deviants and traitors," Chiun replied. "There are always those who seek accommodation with an enemy, in place of offering resistance as they should. Your Arnold Benedict is an example."
"Not my Arnold Benedict," said Remo. "Anyway, you've got the names reversed. His name was Benedict Arnold, at least according to a Brady Bunch episode I saw once." That wasn't quite true. Remo remembered learning about Benedict Arnold in history class. In fact, he remembered a lot more than he gave himself credit for.
"Ah, yes," Chiun said. "The Western custom of reversing names, instead of stating them in proper order. I forget sometimes."
Now that was a bald-faced lie. Chiun forgot nothing, not in all their years together. Chiun was old, and he had already been old when Remo first began to study with him. Forgetfulness, like physical infirmity, was one of several dodges that Chiun employed to mask his physical and mental powers from the world at large. But he wasn't hiding anything from Remo. Remo hoped.
A minimob of street urchins was waiting for them as Remo nosed the Melody into a berth. Deft, dark hands caught the stout line he pitched, and it was made fast to the dock. Another handful of coins scattered the ragged, half-dressed children. Remo turned to find the Master Emeritus of Sinanju watching him, a little frown wrinkle between his eyes.