LAFFITE called down from the quarterdeck to Kit standing at the port side, rifle cradled in the crook of his left arm. “Obregon’s ship is the Windthrift,” the buccaneer added. The schooner they had just passed bore the name Carib. Laffite studied it a moment, then dismissed his suspicions. Kit nodded, and waved his hand. “Then we’ll find a pilot and head for Obregon Cove.” He glanced over his shoulder at the brig lying at anchor off the starboard. “Scourge,” he read aloud. And beyond the brig, another vessel rose and settled with the oncoming tide. “The Homeward is unknown to me,” Laffite shouted. “But the Scourge can belong to none other than Orturo Navarre. So be on your best behavior, Lieutenant, or the Cayman may have you for dinner.” “I don’t understand,” Kit said to Francis Luc, the Cajun-born gunner. “Is this Navarre so sociable he invites his enemies to his feast?” “Ah, mon ami, in a manner of speaking. His enemies are the feast. Navarre favors the ‘long pig,’ comprendre?”
