The boat collided with a ridge of sand, closing the short journey from the ship to the shore. A few men clambered out and lumbered up the beach. One stayed for a while, perfectly still, and looked at a figure curled up on the beach. The figure was not one of the landing party. His gaze rested gently on him, unobtrusively watchful, but steady.
“Lord Beckett!” called one of the men on the beach, and the man in the boat rose.
Beckett stumbled a little climbing over the side of the vessel, which was higher than his legs could truly manage, and he ended up with his breeches wet. After a little chaos, which the other men either missed or purposely ignored, Beckett strolled carefully towards the man he had been watching. He had by now looked up to survey the landing party.
A few feet away, Beckett asked, “Is this him, Groves?”
Groves gave a cough, “As far as we could ascertain, my lord. The locals call him Lazarus… They say… They say he has lived twice.”
Beckett could see no signs of this Lazarus person having lived even once. It was doubtful that he was any older than thirty. Even with his sleepless eyes, and skin and hair united in a coat of dirt, he looked as fresh a young gentleman as Beckett had ever seen after a night drinking on Tortuga. And he’d seen quite a few.
The only thing that gave him away was a sneering look that seemed to say he’d seen a thousand of Beckett’s kind before. A meeting of eyes finally convinced Beckett that there must be something in the rumours.
“So,” Beckett asked, with marked distaste, “Are you some example of dark magic? Voodoo perhaps?”
“I,” Lazarus answered, with equal vehemence, “Am a man of science.EDIT: