"Who would have thought that it could be so simple?" Cook laughs when I tell him of my discussion with Carpentier in front of a chicken pie in a tavern on Rue Sainte-Anne.

The inn is teeming with drunken soldiers and fleabag dockers whose noses are wedged deep in their tankards. Installed in a corner, near the window, we do not attract attention. In this way I can see the officers coming and going from the government building.

"Not as easy as all that," I reply, annoyed. "The crew is on the level. Some of them won't be bought."

"What do you intend to do?"

"Commandeer the ship, I' faith. And let them believe that this whole story is legal. Carpentier has a pen-pushing contact who works in Vaudreuil's private cabinet. With a bit of luck, he can get us a lettre de marque against the pirates on the Anarkhia."

"All in a day?" He is surprised.

He's right. I too smell a rat.

"Yes, we must leave tomorrow morning by launch for La Balise. Our sloop awaits us there."

"I don't like that fellow Carpentier," he adds, biting into a loaf of bread.

"Neither do I. A scumbag. But Florence is already too far ahead of us."

He grunts. We have no means of knowing which direction she has taken. If she has set sail for the Spanish colonies, I will never find her. We are adding more and more evidence to the charges against us. If we are caught, the gibbet is guaranteed. Theft of a vessel, use of fraudulent documents, embezzlement. And also, my past as a pirate and murderer.

It is actually a stroke of luck that such a misadventure befell me in this fortified city. I have spent much time here and I know the town like the back of my hand. The border of swamps, forests of cypresses and plantations in the North are ideal places to hide illegal wares. It was here that I met Basselin for the first time.

He brought me to his magnificent mansion on one of the rivers that flow into Lake Pontchartrain. Used as I was to the sea, I loved seeing this thick, dense vegetation, teeming with life, insects and animals.

The person piloting the canoe warned us of the crocodiles. I took on a serious expression, but I have to admit that I dreamed of seeing one! I was also excited by the idea of the future encounter. A veiled man had approached me in a tavern to offer me a highly hazardous mission that, according to him, could bring me in a lot of money. Naivety is not one of my vices and I therefore simply told him to get lost. He then advised me to come to Monsieur Basselin's indigo plantation. It was a name I knew. The fortune of this Louisiana fellow is well-established.

We went there, Cook, Nick, Bappé and myself. At the beginning, we believed it to be a holding like so many others, with large numbers of slaves toiling in the fields. And then we saw the house. The house? Master Basselin's mansion. I had never seen such an abode in my life. Big, white and majestic. We crossed the threshold and I was struck by the luxury inside. To see what I had never been entitled to hit me hard in the chest. Warmth, elegance and beauty.

My men and I stood out like a sore thumb in these superb surroundings. Here was everything that I wished to possess. Lace at the windows, oil lamps on the walls, embroidered tablecloths and carpets on the parquet flooring. I, the Irishman, the pirate, ready to damn himself for flowers and doilies. What a joke!

Olivier Basselin received us personally in a small withdrawing room. I settled on a green sofa with black wooden moulding. He outlined the contract to me. I pretended to refuse, just to see if I could raise the price. But he had an argument. He knew. About New Providence. How? I do not know. I had cleaned up before leaving. And I had never again set foot in a colony belonging to the English crown. It would not be an easy task to retrieve the young lady in Charleston.

The sum of money he promised me was to keep me free from want. Eighteen thousand piastres. Those pieces of eight were supposed to be my salvation. My absolution. My plan was a simple one. Take the money, sell the Anarkhia, drink, make merry and purchase a plot of land. A quiet life at last.

I signed.

The contract became a talisman to ward off demons, violence and darkness.

It is clear to me. I will follow the Anarkhia and kill anyone who gets in my way. It is well worth it. On the other hand, Carpentier's motivations for taking part in the affair are still a riddle to me. Even if he is likely to incur a penalty for his abuse of authority in matters of customs trafficking, he must realize that he has more risk of dying at sea than of seeing Basselin's money.

The afternoon and the evening seem to stand still. Cook and I wait patiently. When the sun goes down, I decide to stretch my legs in the open air and walk down rue Sainte-Anne to watch the darkness unfold its wings over the Mississippi. I must move with regularity if I do not want to be tormented by the wound in my belly.

I love this town. New Orleans is devoid of any social, political or religious structure. It gives a heightened feeling of freedom. The many Indians to be seen here intensify this feeling of being free from morality. I have always admired them. The colonists call them savages. But is that really what they are?

I would love to ask thousands of questions about the plants contained in their bags and the coloured powders with which they daub their bodies. They are an undiluted mystery, as if they had access to secrets that were refused to my clouded eyes.

Florence and I could have stayed here. We could have settled down and made ourselves a home.

I am mad. I am delirious. As if it was still possible to remove the brutality from my life.

It is too late.

I have committed too many horrors. The blows, pain and blood are etched into my soul in the same way as the ink sticks to the skin of the Choctaws who pass before me.

I was born into violence. My father used to beat my mother. She would not leave him. Apparently, in his heyday, he had been the most handsome young man in the town. I inherited his pretty face but not his red locks. Mine are more of a light chestnut.

Dan Kelly was no monster. At least, when he had finished beating her, he would buy bread and peas to seek forgiveness. We were poor, but we had a roof over our heads and one meal a day.

In all, I had seven siblings, but only Brian and I lived past the age of five. As the eldest, I saw them all be born, grow up, suffer and die.

My mother threw herself into the Lee River. It was too much. Little Lianna only survived two weeks. Mam couldn't bear it. Father claims she slipped, that she accidentally fell into the cold, black torrent of the river. Brian and I both knew the truth. We had understood it from the way she said goodbye to us that morning. There was no way we could have held her back.

After that, life became hell on earth. My father took it out on us. One day his rage was so uncontrollable that he grabbed me by the hair. He smashed the only window pane in our dwelling by putting my head through it.

That is where I got the scar across my face. Florence stroked it, once, when I was asleep. I pretended not be wake up. Her fingers snaked down my scored skin and her lips deposited a kiss on it.

Sirena cannot rewrite the past. She just managed to dress a wound that had been bleeding since childhood.

The early autumn night is chilly. The inn-keeper has at last closed. It had been a long time since Cook and I had slept outside. My friend went to sleep, rolled up against a tangle of ripped fishing nets. I prefer to walk and think. From time to time, I lift my head to watch the full moon. I tell myself that somewhere along the reaches of the Mississippi, Florence is amusing herself by gazing with her deep-blue eyes at the shining orb. Why am I stubbornly striving to find links that would still hold us together?

At last, in the early hours of the morning, Carpentier appears around the corner of an alleyway. His long blue coat flaps around his hips. There are three men with him. They are not clothed in official apparel, but I recognize one of the customs officers. I never forget a face.

"Kelly," he calls out aggressively. "I have unearthed some more seamen for our journey. Let me introduce Jean, Luc and Baptiste."

The halfwit is drunk as a lord. He'd better hold his tongue. I await a mimic that will tell me that this is all a joke. But I understand that it is no pleasantry. The numbskull must feel safe, accompanied by his miserable apostles. Thus, his cowardice knows no limits. He is incapable of assuming his choice of becoming a pirate. If he also wants to destroy the lives of these men, so be it. They are no angels themselves.

"Very well, show me the document."

"Show me the document, Captain," he taunts me.

I shall kill him. I breathe slowly to calm the murderous thoughts that take hold of me.

"The document, Captain," I curse.

Carpentier rummages in his shirt and brings out a leather-bound parchment. I do not have the capacity to decode what is written there. Nevertheless, I can analyse the quality of the strokes of the letters, and that of the flourishes and embellishments. It presents well. The moon's reflection lights up the black ink with a single word that I know for having seen it on board my ship. The

Anarkhia.

"So, it is time. To the sloop," giving an order that requires bears no rejoinder.

I kick Cook awake and follow the band onto the docks. A rowboat awaits us there. The pilot is a slave hired for the occasion.

We leave the harbour. La Balise is a hundred miles away. And Sirena is a day ahead of us. With Leng at the helm, they are sure to arrive before us at the goods wharf. I did not fill the hold in New Orleans. This means that they must stop to take victuals on board for the voyage. Whatever their destination...

Lack of sleep gets the better of me. I fall asleep, rocked by the movements of the small craft on the powerful currents of the river. It took us over four days to reach the town with the brig. This is an exploit of Leng's making alone. He masters the coastal eddies like no other. Some Indians work their way up the network of rivers in two days, sailing on the calm waters of the Barataria when the larger vessels fight for weeks against the current before docking in New Orleans. The Mississippi is unpredictable and dangerous for those who do not know of the sandbar in the middle that can block the most imposing ships. It was for this purpose that the French built La Balise and it was to become the main port of New Orleans. If the boatman is a good one, tomorrow morning we will alight there.

Perhaps Florence is regretting having chosen to leave me here. She may await me there.

Stop thinking this way! An end to the dreams of sweet love, peace and prosperity. All that matters now is revenge.

Is it a dream or a nightmare? I drift along on the Anarkhia. My chest aches. My breath is short and broken. Something is wrong. Florence is there. Not beside me but at the front of the ship. She is the figurehead, proudly leaning against the boat's hull. Her bare breasts and her mermaid's tail are washed by the spray of the waves.

Sirena rules over the ocean in all her glory. She is truly beautiful.

This irritates me. It is unbearable. The Anarkhia heels under the weight of my growing anger. It breaks. The wood of the ship's hull scatters around us. Florence is engulfed by the dark waves. I cry out. I am terrified. I will drown. I fall in turn into the black icy wave. My heart explodes in my chest.

An arm reaches out to help me. Gwewa.

No, not her.

My fear becomes terror. Snakes twist and turn in her dishevelled hair. I try to let go of her hand and her nails embed themselves in my skin. My flesh is pierced as was hers when she embarked on my ship in Tortuga. She is taking her pound of flesh. After all, it is only fair. Or revenge.

Lordy, it is obvious!

I know where she is going!

I wake up with a start. Darkness has stretched its shadow over the river. We moor against the banks of the Mississippi for the night. The little beach is clearly used by the smugglers to hide their cargo from the eyes of the authorities. Carpentier really does know all the most dishonest strategies for bringing illegal wares into his town and receiving bribes.

I am shivering with cold and burning with impatience. I have only one idea: to share with Gibs my incredible discovery.

Her. The mermaid. Her body was a temple. A man defiled it. Marcelin.

"Cook," I call out. "Come over here."

Busy mooring a rope around a large tree trunk, he drops everything nonchalantly at the feet of one of Carpentier's companions and walks towards me with his heavy tread. We move a few steps away into the bushes.

"I know where they are going," I revel, trembling with emotion. "Tortuga..."

"No, they won't go back there. If they have the gold, it's only logical that they should head for the Spanish colonies. They won't put their head in the lion's mouth."

"Leng will refuse to set foot on Spanish territory. We shall have to see if he has left the ship at La Balise. But the argument makes sense. Sirena knows of nothing else in the New World. She is going to kill Marcelin. For me. For her, I mean. She knows that he will never stop demanding his money. She will not be free to sail the seven seas as long as the bastard is alive."

I am struck by a revelation: she loves me. She is going to kill him for me. I am convinced of this. The idea is intoxicating. My heart fills with joy. A childish joy. A fantasy certainly. It is so good.

"It's too twisted a plan!" my comrade objects.

"No, I am sure of this. She is inhabited by a demon that we master well, Cook."

"Which one?"

"Revenge, my friend. Revenge."

Marquis Pierre de Rigaud de Vaudreuil was governor of Louisiana from 1743 to 1753.

The Choctaw is a native American tribe living in the South-East of the United States (Mississippi, Alabama and Louisiana).