It is only around midday that I begin to come to my senses. I am so tense that my jaws send painful twinges to the nape of my neck. My hatred must not allow me to lose my concentration.

A passer-by approaches me with a garland of pheasants hanging around his neck, which makes me think that my stomach has only seen bad beer since yesterday. Murderous thoughts submerge me again. But now, they must help me to go forward.

Cook has calmed down. He waits, seated despondently on the dock, his head in his arms. I almost feel pity for the giant of a man.

"Get moving," I order. "We must find a ship."

The only answer I obtain is one of his usual grunts.

"What are you going to do?" he asks as we veer South along the harbour.

"We have to follow them."

"They are far away now."

"No matter."

"And where are you going to find your ship, my old friend?"

"I have a few pieces of eight left in my purse," I reassure him. "All we have to do is find the right fellow."

Cook stops, obliging me to do the same and turning around.

"What are you up to?"

He looks as if he wants to say something to me. His hesitation is getting on my nerves.

'Hurry, man!"

"Steven..."

"Captain," I interrupt. "It makes no difference."

"None of that with me, Kelly. Aye, everything has changed. We have lost the Anarkhia. Marcelin will put a price on your head. It would be wiser to get away from here. There is work inland."

"Out of the question. We are not going to let them get way with robbing us, Gibs. I will take back what is mine, even if I die doing it. You're with me or you go. I never forced you to follow me. Up until now, you have done well by it. Now you must choose : either come or get lost."

You might have thought that it was Cook who protected me when we were children. In truth, I was the one who watched over him. He believed himself to be invincible with his imposing build and his ugly mug. I got him out of trouble I know not how many times.

One evening when we were about ten years of age, we were wandering the alleys of Cork looking for petty thefts to commit. The idiot had promised me an easy raid. A baker's shop near the harbour. He claimed to know the owner's habits and said that he left for one hour at nightfall to drink beer with the dockers. He left two youths in charge of the shop. Cook, who was still called Gibs at the time, wanted to go in, threaten them with a knife and leave with a few pieces of eight and three loaves of bread.

It was a rocky plan. Hunger got the better of me. I gave in. How stupid could we have been! Trembling with fear, I entered the modest shop. It was dark. My blunted dagger slipped in my hands which were sweating with terror. The baker's apprentices were at least five years older than us. They were well fed. I remember their powerful arms used to kneading dough. This did not deter us. At the start, they cooperated. But one of them grabbed a rolling pin. I saw him lift the object towards my friend's head.

I took immediate action. My agility compensated for my weak muscles; an aptitude developed to escape my father's blows when he had downed too much poteen.

Before the young baker could strike my companion, I planted my blade in his back. I had thought that he would cry out. The yell of pain never came. His breathing became short and hoarse. He turned around and stared at me, an unfathomable look of despair in his eyes. His heavy body collapsed. The other kid tried to help him stay upright. Gibs started to beat him up.

So much blood...

My empty stomach was racked with painful spasms as if it was I that my comrade was hitting with his enormous fists. The stir was attracting bystanders. We had to move fast. I pulled Gibs behind the counter.

"Let go of him." I ordered. "Do what I do."

We grabbed some greyish aprons and plunged our hands into a bag of flour before soiling our clothing and our faces. I hoped that it would cover the blood and dirt.

A bystander came into the shop. He did not have time to analyse the bloodbath.

"Everything is all right," I said. "We managed to send those dirty thieves packing. Make haste, Cook, I am going to find the master. Go call a soldier!"

I thought that the stranger would believe me if one of us had a nickname that had something to do with the profession. I caught Gibs' arm and we ran off down the dock. We ran as if death was chasing us. Our lungs on fire, we stopped on the bank of the Lee River to rid ourselves of our disguises.

That was the sort of stupidity of which Gibs was capable. Since then, proud of his first great act of banditry he has always insisted that I call him Cook.

For myself, I felt not one ounce of pride. A mixture of shame and disgust blackened my soul that day. I passed my tongue over my lips. They tasted of tears and fresh flour.

It did nothing to quench my appetite.

Cook follows me. He knows that he is nothing without me. His sexual urges do not affect our relationship. We have been friends since childhood and not once has he tried to lure me to his bed.

No, if he needs me, it is because he is not one of those who leads. Alone, he would not know where to go, what to do, who to kill. Despite his limited intellect, he is discerning enough to admit that he is incompetent in many fields.

On the way, I make a list of people in Louisiana, clients or tavern friends, who are likely to help me. I choose the least virtuous and the most corrupt of them: Renault Durand, the keeper of the officers' inn in Rue de Bienville. His scruffiness does not inspire trust. To eat in his inn is sometimes an ordeal for the intestines. Florence would give a shiver on seeing his long greasy hair and his nails black with dirt. I must stop thinking of her.

"Good day my friend," I say, seating myself at the counter.

"Mister Kelly! To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence at such an early hour? Business?"

The curious fellow loves gossip. He knows all there is to know about everything and everyone. After having served a pint to Gibs and myself, he stands in front of us. It transpires that I have come to request information.

"I'm on to something," I lie. "You wouldn't by any chance know a captain who would be ready to join me in a profitable deal?"

"I know a lot of things, my friend," he mockingly agrees.

The message is clear. I take out a gold coin and roll it on the table. Before he can even stretch out his hand to grab it, I place my fingers on it.

"The information first."

"Guillaume Carpentier. He did a big search on a ship moored at La Balise. It is said that he is negotiating with Vaudreil's cabinet to replace the captain."

I know the fellow. An ambitious civil servant with a large network who is easy to bribe. I've already worked with him. He is not usually afraid of breaking the law. But all being said, it is one thing to flog illegal goods but to steal a ship is another. Too bad. I have to give it a try. He is well placed and knows of all that enters or leaves the port of New Orleans.

Here, a large part of the trade is carried out behind the bureaucrats' backs. We smugglers strive never to leave a trace in writing. But the town is young. Thirty-two like myself. It is still learning and struggling to survive. Its residents look unceasingly for new markets. Ideal for the Caribbean pirates who can offload their wares in its port at the mouth of the Mississippi River and all unbeknownst to the French and Spanish authorities.

Gibs and I leave Monsieur Durand to make our way back to the docks. In the early afternoon, the smell of the docks reminds me of Cork. A mixture of damp and the day's catch of fish. We pass by the slaves' huts, empty at this hour of the day. Some of them are busying themselves to our right near the gunpowder magazine. This big building, protected night and day by guards, stores gunpowder, munitions and explosives for military use. There is no way we can get supplies here, even though I would have liked to stock up on weapons before chasing the Anarkhia.

The pistol I wear at my belt holds only one bullet, and enough powder for one shot only. I know who it will be for.

My murderous thoughts are blinding me. I realise that I am walking towards the burgers' guard house instead of the navy hangars. Cook slaps me on the back. I pull up the collar of my jacket to hide my face in it. I don't want one of the gendarmes to recognize me.

At last, we arrive outside the wooden shacks of the customs officers, located at the southern tip of the town, near the fortifications. I catch sight of my man who is standing against barrels of confiscated cargo. From time to time, he must ensure a seizure so as not to raise his superiors' suspicions. The tall, slim man with a relaxed manner is detailing his search and scribbling in a threadbare old notebook.

"Captain Kelly," he hails. "And what brings you here? I did not expect your visit. I thought I saw your brig leaving a while earlier."

"That is precisely my reason for being here, Monsieur Carpentier. A very sorry affair. Can we talk in a more... private place?"

I give him a half-smile. Not to convince him to have a drink with me. In truth, I am quite proud of myself. My way of speaking has changed greatly from the manner in which I used to express myself when I was only a street nipper in Ireland. I watch. I listen. And then I mime. Gestures, intonations, words. My talent lies not so much in knowing how to negotiate. It is more that of managing to pass myself off as a trader. I am a very clever imposter. Deep down, we all are. The secret of success is to play it to the full.

"Of course, my old friend. Follow me."

Gallantly placing himself to one side, he points at the small officers' barracks. I enter. The stuffy smell of mould invades my nostrils. The room is furnished with a large desk and several chests of drawers to accommodate documents and paperwork.

We sit down on wooden chairs. The stitches on my belly make me wince. Even though Florence did excellent work after the attack of the Spanish galleon, healing is slow and painful.

My counterpart does not miss my grimace. With his impeccable uniform, his long jet-black hair tied back with a bow and his perfectly trimmed beard, nothing shows this man to be the perfect crook he is. He gets out two glasses and pours a swig of rum into them. My empty stomach growls at the idea of being set alight with alcohol.

"So?" he asks, handing me a glass.

If I were to admit that a woman had stolen my brig, I would be thought a weak man. I sip the beverage, as I prepare a forceful response.

"I must find a fast ship, men who make no matter of marine rules, and all before the end of the day."

Carpentier bursts out laughing.

"That's all?"

"If there were to be victuals on the vessel, it would be even better," I assert, looking him up and down.

"Your destination?" he asks lifting his glass to his mouth.

"Not too far, if I obtain what I need somewhat promptly."

"I need more details," he argues nonchalantly.

From this conversation, it is easy for me to deduce that 'details' means 'money'. He is deluding me by making me believe that he can agree to my request so that I announce my price. If I give my tariff, he will find me a rowboat and two drunkards to steer it.

"Before I give you an amount, I must know what you intend to sell me, my friend."

"I see that we speak the same language, Captain Kelly," he guffaws. "Know that I may have a good deal to offer you. But I must fix certain conditions."

"I am listening."

"Just what you need: a sloop and a crew of forty men."

"Too good to be true," I spit, pretending to get up.

"No, it is the truth. Wait! The captain was arrested a few days ago. He was carrying indigo illegally and his sea chest contained several flags that he would hoist according to his needs. Vaudreuil did not appreciate the imposture."

"Say rather that he did not want to pay the tax you impose on him, and that you snitched on him."

Carpentier turns his head and tweaks his apparel. I have hit home.

"Anyway," he continues as if nothing had changed. "The old ship is used by governors to exchange missives, orders and notices. It only has one row of canons, but it's better than nothing."

"OK. I'll take it. The price and conditions?"

Carpentier straightens up and places his two hands on the table. His left eye twitches nervously. He is frightened of me. Excellent.

"The first is fifty-fifty on Basselin's chest."

I hadn't seen that one coming.

"How..."

"I know," he taunts me. "This is my town, and these are my docks. It's my job to know everything about this sort of thing."

I look him up and down. I consider killing him on the spot. If he knows about this deal, what else does he know about me?

"I saw you leaving the inn in rue de Toulouse, with a chest under your arm. The girl with the scarred face was no longer with you," he says, unfolding his long legs under the desk. "The rest is easy to understand. Your sailors have stirred up a mutiny. They have left with the money, haven't they?"

"Correct," I agree.

He does not need to know the whole truth.

"The second condition is that I embark on the sloop as captain. In that way, I am assured of getting back what is rightly mine when we have found your vessel. Basselin is rolling. There must be quite a sum in that chest, am I right?"

I almost choke on my rum. Carpentier is too greedy. In the world of piracy, that sort of attitude leads straight to the gibbet. Even if Renault Durand has informed me of his wish to become captain, I do not understand why the blighter would leave his position as customs officer with good money just for a sea chase?

"Someone denounced you," I say.

"The sloop captain drew attention to me. I have no intention of reimbursing what I owe if there is a fine, nor the wish to visit the cells of the prison. It is time for me to get out."

"And the sailors, why would they follow us?"

"It is up to us to convince them, Kelly. We will have to pay them. With your gold, not mine, of course. I have an idea about how we shall go about it. I need an advance of fifty pieces of eight."

Another nasty blow I don't like the sound of. If all goes well, I get the Anarkhia back without a penny in my pocket and I'll still be in debt to Marcelin. If things go badly, the bastard takes off with my money, warns the soldiers of my presence and hands me over to the English.

"It is agreed," I accept, shaking his hand. "The name of the sloop and where it is berthed?"

"No, no, no," he says in fun. "Forgive me, but I do not trust a pirate. You will wait for me here, while I find myself a convincing argument before speedily taking my leave."

"Very well," I consent.

"Now, let us take care of the final details..."

I hate this man. He has understood that I have no choice. He talks too much. I hear the words he says as he rambles on and let them flow over me. His voice echoes in my head like a death knell.

But, at least, I have what I wanted. A ship and a potential crew. I will see about the rest later. If things go wrong, I will kill Carpentier, kill the damned inhabitants of this town one after the other and find Sirena and make her pay for everything she has done to me.

The fire of my anger willconsume everything I come across.

The Spanish authorities considered New Orleans to be a smuggler's paradise (K. j. BANKKS, 'Communications and imperial absolutism... ', thesis quoted, p.320, n.55