"Stroke, stroke," Balfa chearily directed, tapping the time on the tiller-bar. "A little song, mes enfants!" he urged.

"Ah! Suzette, Suzette, to veux pas chere?

"Ah, Suzette, Chere amie, to pas Vaimin moin.

M'alle dans montagne, zamie,

M'alle coupe canne, chere amie,

M'alle fait l'argent, mo tresor,

Pour porter donne toi!"

"Bastards!" the oldest prisoner spat back. "Kindest to kill us now and have done, ye gotch-gut shit!"

"Dat can be arranged, cher," Balfa chuckled back.

"Don't!" the youngest pleaded, so agitated he looked as if he would fling himself over the side from fretting, with tears of relief in his eyes that their death was not to be immediate. "Like our vicar always said, Hope springs eternal, and-"

"Hope?" Balfa scoffed. "Dis de Dry Tortugas. Comprendre dry? Never know… might catch turtle. He blood you drink, he meat, and eggs you eat. Kill seabirds, aussi… same. Ah! Up oars! Bow men!"

The launch staggered through the last froth of surf and ground her bows into the raspy, pebbled grit of the beach. Bow men sprang to either side, thigh-deep in white-water spume, to steady the bows as a fresh wave lifted the boat a foot more ashore.

"Go over de bow, don't even get your feet wet, you. Out, vite! Hope… you like you' new home!" Balfa snickered as his oarsmen laid their blades in the bilges and waved their weapons at the captors to speed their departure. "You damn' Anglais! Dis pay you back for all I suffer. Prisoner, me. Kidnap, me, on your ships! Round us all up an' take us away from Acadia, an' don' let us take nozzing wit' us! Gaol us in England, firs'. We don' starve quick enough, us, don' get sick an' die, you damn Anglais ship us to Maryland! See how you like it dis time, by Gar! Damn' English!"