Secrets de foc

Baixavem al pis que no tenia portes, un replà sense portes, per què era el segon pis de la botiga que donava al carrer...allà l'ascensor ens deixava on ningú ens podia veure si no era que baixava per l'escala, i encara i així només ens podria sentir, perquè una pesada porta de ferro separava el vestíbul cec dels dos ascensors de l'escala i el seu ascensor de servei. Ja baixavem enganxats, ens mossegavem la boca i ens treiem la roba amb neguit i desig...la resta era foc fins que ens quedavem abraçats a terra. 

John

John looked back upon the walls of the city. They were battered by the bombs. The 

people upon them cried and yelled at them. Things in their language, that they couldn’t 

understand. But of course, they weren’t happy. They were leaving, abandoning them to 

their own fate. They would surely surrender their city to the French and Spanish, 

without her majesty’s support they had no hope at all. John felt ashamed about it, but 

knew it was a fact of life; wars aren’t clean affairs. Any sacred agreement can become 

meaningless if the overall political conditions change. So what could he do?  

 

Furthermore, he had problems of his own; Now that the war was over for the queen, 

how was he going to earn a living? After several years as a privateer fighting in Spain 

and Portugal, he was an experienced soldier and knew how to survive in the fields and 

occupied cities. Stealing, that is. It must be said that the British were quite benevolent 

thieves in comparison with the French and Spaniards. They didn’t need to steal so 

much, for the army granted them a proper supply. But John wasn’t a saint anyway, he 

took what he fancied.  

 

Now, would he find a job, back in England? Did he want to find one at all? Become 

respectable? After all that he had seen, he didn’t care too much for reputation. He knew 

it meant nothing. Neither did he care much for morals, they were meaningless too. He 

was a rascal before enrolling in the army; now he was worse. He had little to do with 

society. He just hoped her majesty would engage in some other war soon. He had no 

family, no home, he never went on well with his father, a petty thief himself. If he 

returned, he would be an outcast, both because of his humble origins and as a jobless 

soldier.  

 

His ship, the Sovereign, was bound to sail for the Caribbean. So it was better to leave 

for the Caribbean with his mates. Ten or twelve other soldiers decided to return home, 

those who had some trade back at home; but John was not alone, many felt like him and 

continued on board the Sovereign. 

 

And so they sailed for Bermuda. It seemed they had to fight growing piracy around that 

island. Sailing across the Atlantic was hard and boring. Except for the time when they 

encountered a small pirate ship, which they sank after having captured 13 men. The 

others were killed by their cannonballs, or during the short fight, or fell into the sea and 

drowned. He was surprised to find out that some, if not all of these pirates had been 

soldiers in different armies during the war. There were two Dutchmen, three 

Englishmen and two Scotts. The other six were French. But what kind of homeland did 

these men share? Which king or queen did they serve? None; just the ocean and their 

own despair.  

 

They arrived at Bermuda. The pirates where handed to the Governor and sent to prison. 

John and his mates were given leave and were quick to find the tavern. They drank and 

slept with the local whores. The next morning, the captain had some fresh news for 

them; The Sovereign was sailing for Jamaica in one month’s time.  

 

After two weeks, John knew almost everyone in that shanty town. Mostly other soldiers 

and some Indian fishermen or guides. And the whores, of course, both Indian and white. 

There was talk amongst the soldiers. Some of them drank too much and went on and on 

about legendary pirates such as Blackbeard. They claimed to have fought them. To have 

been lucky to survive. They spoke about their hidden treasures and the luxury clothes they wore. Their adventures and daring escapes from the Navy’s ships’ blockades. How 

Blackbeard loaded one of his boats with dynamite and sent it against the English ships. 

Those stories were fun to listen to. Together with the whores, they were the only fun 

you could expect in that town.  

 

After three weeks, they were dying for some action. A month and a half had gone by 

since they had sailed away from Barcelona. They were bored. And to make things 

worse, there wasn’t much action to be expected from life as a soldier in the Caribbean.  

 

John started fantasizing about becoming a pirate. After all, there was nothing to keep 

them in Bermuda. So with the turn of the tide, what if they hauled the anchor up and left 

the captain behind? At night, when everybody else was too drunk to care. They weren’t 

caring where they were bound, they would be gone before the dawn returned. They 

would tear the captain’s log’s pages out and sail for nowhere. Become Pirates. Capture 

ships and treasures, escape the fleet. Never to come back again. Ever. They would live 

their life of adventure for as long as it lasted, knowing that their chances were few, but 

willing to take them, never looking back, telling those at home, if there were any, not to wait.