I could not have dreamed of better reunion. I forget the hold, the theft of my vessel, Tortuga. All I see is her.

All the plans that I had devised fall through. I was crying out for revenge and now all I want is to able to contemplate her splendour. I want to touch her skin, kiss her lips, breathe in her wheaty smell. She is driving me mad.

As usual, she takes the lead. Without a word, she grasps my hand and leads me towards my cabin. I catch sight of Leng and Léon. Even they do not have the power to bring me back to reality. I move forward like a drug addict looking forward to his last pipeful of opium.

Florence leaves me on my own in the closet adjoining my bedroom. Two buckets of seawater have been left there as well as some clean clothes. She is like that. I have always known that she hated dirt.

The wash revives me and clears my head. I must demand an explanation for her behaviour and reparation for the harm she has caused me. Fired up, I come back into my cabin to hear her reasons.

As is her habit, she manages to disconcert me. Florence is waiting for me naked on the bunk, her clothes carefully folded on the chair behind my desk. She is lying on her side, her head nonchalantly laid on her forearm and she is looking at me with her magnificent clear blue eyes. I feel as they are piercing my flesh. She can tell exactly what I am thinking.

No lies. No illusions. Must I still hide my feelings for her? I have helped steal a French army vessel, sailed across the Caribbean Sea and travelled the island of Tortuga on foot to find her. I both love and hate her. Our love-making is the expression of these contradictory emotions. We bring both pleasure and pain to each other.

I am the first to be incapable of controlling my devouring passion. I throw myself on her and roll my fingers around her neck to force a kiss. Her panting breath encourages me to explore the curves of her anatomy. I could just fondle her breasts. No, it is not enough. I bite her and pinch her. I wedge her against the wall with the full weight of my body. She cannot move. She is mine.

Florence is not going to make it easy for me. Her response is to claw at my back and grab me by my hair. We face each other for a moment, her eyes deep in mine. Her hot breath rebounds on my face.

Exquisite.

My right thumb touches her full lips. They reply with a tender smile before she tries to bite me.

My mouth moves slowly towards hers. This time, our tongues stroke each other gently. Just as I was beginning to consider a calm embrace, Sirena pushes me away. I fall on my back on the cabin floor, my head narrowly missing the leg of my desk. A second later, she is on me, tearing off my shirt.

For a brief moment, I have a vision of Fisherman dead on his back in this cabin five years previously. The image fades from my mind, illuminated by Florence's beautiful face. I try to get up, but she is in control here. She blocks my wrists and holds them down on the floor.

"I promised you that I would continue," she murmurs in my ear before leaving a kiss on it.

Her tongue explores my chest. She kisses each scar on my belly, awakening sensations which have been dormant for a long time. She moves down. And even lower.

Ecstasy!

But it does not satisfy me. Much to her surprise, I straighten up and push her over on her side. I place my penis before her face and take hold of her thighs, opening them wide. Does she really think that I shall let her taste me without me doing the same? Does she not want to be my equal?

Our tongues run wild and match each other's prowess. My passion is growing with each second that goes by. It is hard to control myself. But I hold back. I want this passion to last for ever.

Florence gives in before me. I feel her come under my lips. Her legs contract. She is trembling.

My turn! I stand up and help her do the same. I remove what is left of my clothing and face her. We are both naked. We observe each other in the half-light. I don't need to ask her for what I want. She understands.

I guide Florence so that she turns around and bends forward. She leans on the bunk. Her curves are not as round as when we first met. I enjoy feeling their newfound firmness. I slowly slide my member into her. I am invaded by her warmth. My thrusts become violent. I am hurting her. Should I stop there? I cannot. I love it. I need it.

I withdraw. Florence turns her head to look quizzically at me. In response, I force my index finger into her mouth. When I think it is wet enough, I send my finger to the only place in her body that I have never dared explore.

Her tension rises. Her breathing becomes faster. She wants it. Is she afraid? I have no intention of reassuring her. Her fear makes me feel strong. I rejoice. I exult. And, at last, I penetrate her. Inch by inch. Never before have I done this. Nor even dreamed of it. My body no longer obeys me. I keep going to the point of exhaustion. When I collapse on her back, my arms wrap themselves around her belly and her breasts. At last, she is mine. All mine.

I am transcended by the orgasm. Florence gives a moan of release. I imagine that she is going to slap me, punish me for my acrimony and my violence.

But no. She moves away a little to face me.

A smile. A kiss.

"I have missed you, Irishman."

Tonight, our bodies are as one. Even after having made love, we match caress for caress. Sleeps draws us in. I feel as if we are dreaming together. Of us. Of our souls. Of our lives.

Apart from Cook, Leng was the pirate I liked best on the Anarkhia. Discreet. Hard-working. Solid sea knowledge. I would not have gone as far as to trust him, I admit. But I liked the fact that he admired me for my qualities as a leader and seaman. His betrayal has damaged my ego more than it has hurt me physically.

I thought that I had obtained his everlasting respect in San Juan, on the island of Porto Rico on Spanish territory. By chance, John, Cook and I were walking across the town square when we heard the announcement of a future hanging.

Pirates had been captured by the men of Colonel Juan José Colomo who wanted to reaffirm his position against the smugglers abounding in the Caribbean. As usual, we remained discreet as we delivered the stolen goods we were carrying.

The crowd began to fill the large fortified square. Then the condemned men were brought forward. Why did I stay to watch these men be killed? Why observe a fate that will perforce be mine when the English authorities catch me?

We followed the rabble, the good citizens, all hypnotised by the dread of the coming spectacle.

I was used to seeing corpses. Murders, beatings, I had observed several and taken part in some. But that day was different. Watching society sentence these poor devils to be hanged turned my stomach. I kill in combat, instinctively. I avenge. Here, it is deliberate. Thought out. Encouraged by the crowd. I was not disgusted but really revolted by the general passiveness. These good citizens only saw the condemned men as dirty stains on the perfect picture of their life portrayed by lies.

Tension was at its highest when the men climbed the steps of the gibbet one after the other. I had heard it said that hanged men shat themselves before dying. I had no wish to find out if this was true.

When the last man was preparing to put his foot on the first step, I tripped up the Spanish soldier who was holding him. Stupid. Ridiculous. I know.

The passiveness of the crowd had made me angry. A rage that I did not comprehend took hold of me. I could not contain it. As he fell, the idiot had pressed the trigger of his musket and a shot was fired, killing a woman who had come to attend this obscure masquerade. The spectators panicked and stampeded. The soldiers hastened to secure the gibbet, forgetting the last man who was supposed to join his accomplices in death. Leng is small. I grabbed him by the nape of his neck, pulled him against me and headed for the nearest exit, which leads to the docks.

The gendarmes were not able to calm the movement of the crowd. I myself squashed the limbs of a few onlookers who had fallen on the ground in the scramble. Without an ounce of pity.

John held my reckless act against me for a long time. Or at least, until the Chinaman revealed his navigational talents.

The memory fills me with pride. Not because I saved Leng. I couldn't give a damn for this poor fellow who I will kill as soon as I have my ship back. If I am proud, it is because I opposed them. The good citizens. Those who look at me and keep their mouth shut. The powerful people in this world commit heinous crimes with complete impunity. Like that of chaining up and molesting an African from birth to death with no other reason than the profit they will make from him. It is of no problem to them. But, if a few poor wretches decide to try their luck at free trade to escape poverty, they send privateers and soldiers to hunt them down. The bastards!

I am a pirate, a real one. A scoundrel, a murderer, an assassin. I do not hide behind a curtain of twaddle. I may not be a bearer of light, but I explode with truth. I am the decent folk in the story.

Unfortunately, the night's passion does not last until the early hours. I awake alone in the cabin. I hear Sirena's footsteps on deck. She is giving orders to the crew. My sailors. On my ship.

Anger engulfs my mind. It galls me. She comes into the bedroom just as I finish dressing. I slip my pistol into my belt.

"I think this is yours," she smiles, throwing my three-cornered hat on the desk.

"How dare you?" I rail nastily.

Her face shows her surprise. She obviously was not expecting such a reaction from me. Nor was I. I thought I would awaken as I had gone to sleep. Bewitched by the smell of her body and possessed by carnal desire.

The rays of the early morning sun have dissipated the previous evening's magic. They express exasperation, rancour and words unsaid.

"Do you expect a real answer or do you simply wish to create an argument?" she asks as she seats herself on my chair behind my desk.

"This amuses you, doesn't it?" I yell, smashing a jug of water smash against the door. "You are doing it on purpose. It was not enough to be disrespectful to me, you had to humiliate me too!"

No comment from Sirena. She simply smiles. Her attitude annoys me even more.

"How did you manage to convince my men to follow you?" I continue, banging my fist on the table. "What have you promised them with my gold? I am warning you. The masquerade is over. By your fault, Cook is in the hands of a corrupt New Orleans officer. Believe me, I have no intention of letting him rot at the expense of that arsehole because you have decided to play at being a pirate."

"I am not against the idea of getting Cook back," she announces calmly.

She drums her fingers on the wooden table as she did during the negotiation with Marcelin. She is exasperating.

"It will not be a wanton act," I explain, passing my hand nervously through my hair. "Carpentier knows that the Anarkhia is carrying eighteen thousand pieces of eight."

"Fourteen thousand," she corrects me.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Fourteen thousand. I had to pay the mercenaries."

"For Tortuga?"

"Yes."

"No, Florence! It's not true!"

My anger is so great that I move away from her to drive my fist into the wall. If I look at her, I know that I may get violent. Despite everything, I do not want to hurt her. Not that way.

"Four thousand pieces of eight! You've frittered away four thousand pieces of eight in less than three weeks!"

Her nod makes me feel faint.

"You should consider the fact that I saved double the amount by cancelling your debt towards Marcelin."

"That foul act has condemned us all! Do you really think that the French army will let that pass? Your ship will be hunted down. The men will be hanged."

"We are fast and already far ahead."

"This means that you do not intend to get Cook back," I am getting worked up.

"Not necessarily. Will you stop making suppositions, I pray?"

She has a gift for making lose all control of my emotions. A gift or a power. She-devil!

"How did you bewitch my seamen?" I ask her fiercely. "What did you do?"

"You are once again accusing me of witchcraft!" she says, losing her temper all of a sudden.

She stands up and places her hands flat on the table. The desk is between us. Fortunately, because I have the impression that she would like to fall on me.

"You are putting me down because I have been better than you! Steven, how can you be so blind? And then what, are you going to do the same as the others? Sentence me to being burned at the stake? No, I am no witch. I have no magic."

"I do not believe you. Bappé, Leng, Jaime, Rick, Léon... They are all mad about you. How? Have you slept with them too?"

"And now, that's your jealousy speaking! That was the only vice left to perfect your paraphernalia of the perfect toad! Yes, I am a learned and liberated woman. And yes, the church and patriarchal society disapprove of my lifestyle. As you do, pirate!"

She is right. My ego refuses to give in. There is no way I will let her win with that argument.

"The slave cast spells on you during your fever," I blather on, knowing full well that I am venturing even further into the realms of stupidity. "A dark force is at work, or else why would my men have followed you to the port of New Orleans? And then to the hell of the inn on Tortuga?"

"For freedom!" she retorts as she straightens up to come round the desk. "The thrill! Even if you are eager to believe that I am a powerful magician, why should I be a threat? Does my independence frighten you so? The marginalised demand the right to live their life free from the judgment and ill-will of the men of this world."

"What happened at Marcelin's was in goodwill?!"

"He paid for his crimes. Claiming a right to freedom does not mean bowing down before evil. You condemn us for getting into bed with Satan as soon as something goes wrong. Hmph. The devil only exists in your minds, you poor souls!"

Florence pauses. Her breasts go up and down with her jerky breathing. I force myself to look away to not be distracted from our conversation and tear off her corset.

"On that point, you are right, Irishman. At Marcelin's inn, things got out of hand. We were submerged by a murderous madness. My desire for revenge has eaten away at my very being. It was painful. When I skinned him alive, I understood that the act in no way freed me from the suffering of having been a downtrodden woman all my life. I am the only one who holds the keys to those miserable chains. And then I killed him so that you could be liberated from your debt. The staging was intended as a threat to all those who imprison the bodies and minds of the weakest. That is who I am now, Steven."

"So, this means that I have to comply, agree to recognize you as captain if I want to be saved? To give in, to abandon..."

"You do not understand. For me, Captain is just a title. Nobody commands anyone on the Anarkhia. We are freed of all masters. We have broken bondage. Yes, you must accept that this ship steers itself."

"It will be anarchy."

"Come along, it was you who named the ship Anarkhia. Who are you kidding? It is in times of turmoil that things take back their normal positions. Take a look outside. Do you see a sailor loitering? Everything is operational. We all know what we have to do. If we do not do it, we sink. It's only common sense, Steven, not magic."

"And what about her?" I ask, thinking of Gwewa.

I do not wish to admit it in front of her, but the woman terrifies me. I don't want her on board.

"The black witch? Why do you keep her?"

"She has taught me many things, you know. Yes, she is mad, bloodthirsty and unpredictable. But she has to stay because she is powerful. Voodoo is not evil."

"I know of it. Black magic. It brings bad luck to a ship."

"Go to hell with your stupid superstition," shouts Florence, pointing a finger at me.

Her face is becoming redder and redder by the minute. My anger wanes while hers swells rapidly. She is making huge efforts to contain it. She takes three deep breaths with her eyes closed before continuing:

"Her art is the guardian of the mysterious and the irrational, it has no notion of good or evil. None of the original sin that follows us from birth. Have you never been under the impression that we white people spend all our time condemning ourselves for an unknown crime and then beseeching forgiveness?"

"Not me!" I intervene.

"Yes, even you, Irishman. So great is your desire to be accepted and recognized that you forget to live your life to the full. What would you not do to protect your reputation? You have let your soul rot. You are not even capable of normal reasoning anymore! Gwewa says that all things have a soul. Plants, stones, objects. This ship... Can you not hear how it sings its wish to sail the seas? We are a part of everything, but we are not the centre of the world.'"

Her speech shakes me. Could this be the truth? I struggle to not lose face, but I am beginning to have my doubts.

"What she does is not natural," I insist. "I have seen it. She did something when you were ailing. She changed you."

"Yes, she went into a trance. She explained to me what that meant. It is a powerful moment, a celebration, a connection. But that is not what healed me, Steven."

"What was it then?"

"A plant she keeps in a bag under her shirt. She has a wide knowledge of pharmacopeia. More developed than that of white men. At last we have a doctor on board."

"Don't joke, she frightens me," I admit.

The words escaped my mouth even before I can hold them back. I expect mockery. An explosion of laughter.

No. Sirena does not judge me. She comes up to me and grasps my hands in hers.

"Because this fear of slaves and their so-called magic was fabricated by the settlers. They see in voodoo a cultural manifestation which impedes their power. Diabolical spells do not exist in African culture, only in the hearts of men who fear the unknown. I am proud of you, Steven."

"And why, I pray?"

"You have at last admittedit. Your fear. Nobody is perfect, we have all made mistakes, guided not byreason, but by anxiety. I think that we have all these fears in us. Of thedark, of loneliness, of being abandoned. The only power that we really possessis that of choosing to sail along a path of light."

Colonel Juan José Colomo was governor of Porto Rico from 1744 to 1750.