‘I know that name.’ A crumpled old sailor shuffled toward me from the shadowy corner of the public house, listing sideways as he steadily worked the floor with his mangrove cane. I couldn’t be certain if this was the fellow they called Billy Bones or the legendary Ben Gunn himself, but the man was a crooked creature, doubled over from years of arduous seafaring. As the distance closed between us with each labored breath, he churned forth in a stench of briny sweat. The pungent odor of stale rum charged my nostrils.

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