The soldiers knew the battle would end in hand-to-hand fighting, for few of the pirates from Port Royal and Tortuga were known to give quarter to their enemy. The Spaniards told themselves they were not afraid. The priest was walking up and down with the crucifix and rosary, blessing each brave soldier who fought to destroy the heretics. What chance could these English buccaneers have against them, brave and bull-headed though they be? And who could undo a Spanish swordsman trained in Madrid?
The English captain had kept beyond the range of the Santiago’s cannons, while bombarding them with longer guns. But now the Regale drew closer. The soldiers could see her billowing white sails through the gun ports below deck where they waited. They would defeat the boucaniers.
Captain Valdez watched with nervous satisfaction as the privateer approached, and his cannons spit fire upon her. But the Regale was now too close to repel, and little damage was inflicted on her low main deck. He swore into his neatly trimmed black beard as the English vessel audaciously bore down upon him, discharging her cannon into the galleon’s waist.
The Santiago shuddered, flames leaping up. Confusion and panic reigned. Capitan Valdez knew his ship was a loss, and he cursed the pirates who plagued the Spanish Main, consigning them to the devil’s inferno.
It was clear that the English would board.
His intense black eyes smoldered. “Come, then, Señor Foxworth,” he breathed. “I shall impale you upon my blade as a pig for the flames.”
The Regale’s captain was known on the Main as an English dog who ridiculed grandiose Spain, and the Spanish captain who took the English pirate as a prisoner to Cadiz would win a great name for himself. Foxworth would be a fit prize for the Inquisitors!
On signal the Spanish soldiers poured from the waist and forecastle, shouting glorious words to the rule of Madrid.
The Regale slipped through the haze of smoke, coming closer. The English buccaneers were poised and ready to board, with grappling ax in one hand and cutlass in the other.
He heard the English captain shouting, “Take her, lads! She’s all yours! First man to find and free Lucca has my share of the pieces of eight!”
The Spanish captain glared and whipped his blade from its scabbard.
Wild shouts filled the noon air as the buccaneers’ grappling hooks snared the Spanish galleon. A legion overran the ship’s sides, using their axes to form scaling ladders. From the spritsail yard they swung down upon the deck of the Santiago, swarming like locusts, swords in hand and long-barreled pistols exploding with acrid smoke. They pushed forward, bold and unafraid, sword smashing sword, hurling deadly daggers.
A ring of steel and the moans and shouts of dying men encircled the Spanish captain. He stood at the head of the companion, sword at the ready, wearing breastplate and tasses of fluted steel. His black eyes narrowed, intently searching the mob of cutthroats below for Captain Foxworth. He expected a man with snarled black curls and wild eyes.
He cursed the man’s secret whereabouts and was surprised when an answer came from behind him—in Spanish.
“The despicable English dog you seek is here, Capitan!”
Captain Valdez spun about to confront the ironic gaze of a young man of handsome and formidable figure in white billowing shirt, sleek black trousers, and calf-length boots. The faint smile on the chiseled tanned face was sardonic. The breeze touched his dark hair, drawn back by a leather thong. He mimicked a bow.
“At your service, Capitan!”
And he came at him, his blade ringing against the Spaniard’s. The steel blades mingled, withdrew, parried, caressed. In a fraction of a minute, Valdez knew that he had met his match.
Sweating profusely, he could but hold him off as he was forced to retreat across the deck, fighting for survival every inch of the way.
Infuriated by the calm smile of his attacker, Valdez lunged.
The English dog deflected his blade with a swift parry, stepping aside as Valdez came in.
A single thrust might have run him through. Instead, the buccaneer struck the flat of his blade to the side of the Spaniard’s head with a ringing blow.
The captain of the Santiago sank to his knees, stunned, as his sword clattered to the deck.
Captain Baret Foxworth turned as the Spanish lieutenant rushed in, but English buccaneers were now on the quarterdeck beside their captain and halted the man.
“Stay your sword, Señor!” said Captain Foxworth. “Yield. I hold the life of your captain at my disposal.”
“Foul English dog! Pirate!”
“Softly, lad, softly.” Then, “Yorke, Thaddeus, Chalmers. Form a guard about the captain,” and he gestured to Valdez. Baret stooped, snatched up the captain’s sword, tried it for balance, then went down the quarterdeck steps into the waist of the ship.
The sun was yet high in the sky when Baret Buckington Foxworth stood on deck of the Santiago, hands on hips, glancing about as his buccaneers scoured the captured vessel under his orders.
Few of the pirates on the Caribbean Main knew that the able Captain Foxworth of the Regale was a Buckington, a grandson of the powerful earl who was in court service to His Majesty King Charles II. The young Englishman was believed to be a rogue at best, with a growing reputation as one of the finest swordsmen on the Main and a reckless sea rover who preyed mercilessly upon Spain’s treasure fleets.
Baret looked about on the laughing tanned faces surrounding him, enjoying the spectacle. As he did, he met the gaze of Sir Cecil Chaderton, scholar and divine from Cambridge. Sir Cecil wore a familiar wide-brimmed black hat, and the wind whipped his shoulder-length gray hair away from his lean face. He had a short pointed beard that curled a little.
The staunch Puritan was a respected scholar and a devoted friend.
As well as a timely goad, Baret thought, seeing the slight turn of the old man’s lips and his look of disapproval. Baret swept off his hat and bowed toward his old Greek and Latin tutor. He knew that, hidden beneath that grim exterior, the old Puritan scholar might secretly rejoice at another blow to Spain in the West Indies.
Baret’s decision to attack and board the Santiago had been a matter of concern to Cecil, but the occasion had proven to be a gladsome spectacle to Baret. The sight and sound of the Regale’s smoking guns and the crash of a mast carrying the Spanish flag had his heart thudding.
Sir Cecil walked toward Baret, stepping over the debris.
The captain of the Santiago interrupted with a shout, veins protruding in anger from his thick neck. “I am Capitan Espinosa don Diego de Valdez! His Excellency the King of Spain will have you for this, you murderous English dog!”
Baret mocked a deep bow, sword in hand. “Permit me to introduce myself, Capitan. I am Captain Baret Foxworth, heretic.” He smiled faintly, his dark eyes glinting as he gestured airily to members of his gloating crew. “Gentlemen, hang him for the misfortune of being born a Spaniard in service to Madrid.”
The captain’s eyes widened. “Señor!” he gasped, hand going to his heart. “You—you are not serious?”
“Si, Señor, very serious.”
“Ai-yi, Captain Foxworth! I beg! I beg of you!”
“Do you indeed, my capitan?” he asked, maliciously amused. “Proceed.”
The surrounding crew laughed and forcefully aided the captain down to one knee.
Just then, Baret met Sir Cecil’s narrowing silver-gray eyes. Baret smiled. “Ah, you’ve arrived just in time to meet the illustrious capitan of the Santiago. Welcome, Sir Cecil, my esteemed scholar.”
“And counselor,” retorted Cecil. “What is this fellow doing on his knees?”
Baret portrayed innocence. “Begging. He’s about to be hanged. Perhaps you wish to counsel him in his prayers aforehand.” But the expression on Sir Cecil’s face affected in Baret a change of heart. “Perhaps, gentlemen, we should not hang our prisoner.”
There followed a disappointed groan. “Aye, Cap’n Foxworth! But he’d make such a pretty thing twistin’ in the Caribbean breeze!�
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“Aye, indeed, but we have a more noble future for our illustrious Capitan Espinosa don Diego de Valdez,” said Baret. “Chain him to the galley,” he ordered two of his men. “And if he wishes to reach Maracaibo, he must donate some of his belly to the oars.”
A shout of glee reverberated on the deck of the Santiago. Captain Valdez struggled to free himself from crew members who, with great fanfare, hauled him below to the oars.
Then cheering crewmen carried five ornately carved chests containing pieces of eight from the captain’s cabin and deposited them with a heavy thud where Baret and Sir Cecil stood.
“Aye, Cap’n Foxworth, feast your eyes upon this.”
Baret became strangely serious and looked at Sir Cecil, who mopped his brow with a white handkerchief.
“Baret, you scamp, this could ruin my reputation at Cambridge.”
“Is that all you’re worried about?”
Baret dipped his hand into a chest, spilling pieces of eight through his fingers. “It’s the wealth of the Main loaded into the bellies of Spanish galleons that feeds, clothes, and pays the Inquisition army of His Most Christian Majesty. This is booty the king won’t count in Madrid.”
“Need I remind you,” said Sir Cecil, “of the reason you captured this ship?”
Baret stood, his face grave. He had taken the Santiago believing the news from a paid spy that Lucca, a gracious old scholar and friend of his father, was on board. Baret believed that Lucca possessed secret information as to his father’s whereabouts.
“Lucca is not here,” said Baret soberly. “I’ve already searched, and the captain swore he’d never heard of him. I think he’s telling the truth.”
“Your grandfather the earl will hear of this. Yet it is His Majesty that arouses my worry. Remember, you must one day appear before him with a report of your father’s whereabouts. What will he say if Spain’s ambassador is also waiting at Court to accuse you of piracy! And this—” he gestured toward the deck’s shambles “—after participating in Henry Morgan’s attack on Gran Granada.”
Baret smoothly changed the subject. “Morgan is on his way with the other captains to Port Royal.” He threw an arm around the elderly man’s shoulders as they walked across the ruined deck to reboard the Regale.
“I have promised to join him there. It is said the governor of Jamaica will authorize an attack on Porto Bello. Come! A pleasant visit to Foxemoore will soothe your glower. While you sip Lady Sophie’s tea and snore on a featherbed, I will meet with the buccaneers from Tortuga. It may be that Charlie Maynerd has news of Lucca.”
3
ARRIVAL OF THE BUCCANEERS
Cannon thundered. Acrid gray smoke curled and drifted. The buccaneer king, Captain Henry Morgan, was entering Port Royal Bay with his fleet of freebooters and pirates.
In welcoming answer, the big guns at Fort Charles on the sea wall set off a volley that boomed like a cheer, splitting the blue waters as the projectiles splashed harmlessly.
Port Royal would soon burst open like a ripe melon and onto riotous debauchery onto its cobbled streets.
Emerald sat in her open buggy, watching the spectacle with mixed feelings. On one of the returning ships would be her cousin Captain Rafael Levasseur. White sails billowed in the wind as the ships, which sailed under articles granted by the governor of Jamaica, entered the bay. Brigantines followed and smaller pirate sloops—notorious for slipping into sheltered coves to avoid capture.
Morgan’s flags were flying in the Caribbean breeze, and loud drums beat out the exhilarating news to the town that another triumphal raid on the Main was completed. This time they had made an epic journey three hundred miles to Nicaragua and attacked a city known to the buccaneers only as Gran Granada, about which they had heard stories of great wealth.
From her father, Emerald had learned about the manner of the adventurers that captained their own vessels. They were men from the society called the “Brethren of the Coast”—the infamous and formidable alliance of notorious pirates and the more gallant buccaneers. Their feared and respected commander, Captain Henry Morgan, was considered to be a mere gentleman admiral by some and a ruthless scoundrel by his enemies.
Morgan was a Welsh swashbuckler, who swore that he was not a pirate but rather a naval commander, sailing with a letter of marque from His Majesty King Charles. He was to harry Spain’s shipping to Madrid and guard Port Royal from Spanish attacks. His second-in-command was Mansfield, who was from Holland, a land suffering under Spanish atrocities.
Emerald scanned the throng waiting on the dock, cheering and waving at the thought of gold, jewels, and other treasures—pieces of eight, silver ducats, silver and gold pesos, and more.
Her father had informed her that the Brethren were an assembly of variant men. Some were religious, mainly Protestants who had been driven out of France and Holland and who rallied on Tortuga. Others were political outcasts from France and England. Still others were notorious cutthroats and thieves.
Among the Brethren were men of high education and honor, with courage unquestioned and gallantry displayed. Their code of conduct consisted of articles they had drawn up themselves and which they adhered to at all costs. Should a sea rover break faith with the signed articles, he was marooned, a fate looked upon as worse than death, or he was hanged by his captain.
But they all shared one burning passion—hatred for Spain and memories of the Inquisition. The majority left their own alone and also refrained from pirating Protestant ships from Holland and England. But any Spanish ship was ripe to be plundered and scuttled, with no quarter given the crew.
If men of such varied background could band together under the term Brethren and live in reasonable peace among themselves, it was in order to raid New Spain and the Main and plunder the annual treasure fleet from Porto Bello on its route to Madrid. In return, Spain continued to torture and burn her prisoners while demanding that King Charles arrest the pirates.
Emerald had little doubt but that their ships were swollen with great treasure. She watched as the men left their vessels anchored out in the bay and rowed to the wharf in longboats. Port Royal would soon be ablaze with rum, and there would be duels before morning—for the Brethren were also known to have minor disagreements among themselves.
After the decade that Emerald had spent in Jamaica as a rejected member of the combined families of the Buckingtons and Harwicks, she wondered that she could yet feel pain from her mother’s sordid reputation as the daughter of the French pirate Marcel Levasseur.
In the twilight she sat on the front seat of the buggy on a wide cobbled court by the Caribbean. The carriage’s leather and fringe were a trifle frayed from weather and years of use and would hardly be recognized as belonging to a blood kin of Earl Nigel Buckington.
Beside her sat Zeddie, her English driver and bodyguard, who was to her more a friend than a freed indentured servant working for her father. Zeddie held the horse’s reins, his one good eye fixed upon Emerald, a black patch over the other. He straightened his golden periwig.
“Sure, now, missy, this is a mistake. What if that rascally mouthed cousin of yours refuses to do you justice? Dare you draw wits like a cutlass with Captain Rafael Levasseur? And if he finds out what you plan aboard his ship, what then? Sink me, lass! And your father, Sir Karlton, what will I be telling him when he returns, should the daring risk you take go awry?”
She moved uneasily on the hard seat, thinking of her beloved father. That robust privateer had grand schemes of his own to marry her off to a man of nobility in England. As if he ever could, she thought ruefully. And not that she now cared for such thoughts. It was Jamie Bradford she wished to marry.
She cast Zeddie a side glance. “Nothing will go wrong. Levasseur’s ship will be empty by midnight. He and his vile crew will soon be so raucous in their behavior that a Spaniard could capture his ship and he wouldn’t know it till daybreak.”
Zeddie gave a snort. “I fear, me lass, it ain’t as breezy as all that, but I
’m understandin’ you plainly enough. You intend to see this through for Jamie.”
Emerald shaded her eyes to peer ahead, watching the longboats being rowed across the jade green waters to the docks. The men came ashore like petty kings to claim their thrones, and soon her buggy was caught in the throng.
High Street was swarming with sea rovers. Shopkeepers left their little two-story structures on the narrow street to converge on the buccaneers, cheering the homecoming of their private navy.
Port Royal’s citizenry was as diverse in class and character as were the pirates themselves, but even the most distinguished among them had an equal passion for red and green jewels, white pearls, creamy silk, and aromatic spices. What the pirates plundered, they spent in Port Royal, and the citizens’ homes were decorated with looted treasures bought from the shops and stalls. A pair of silver candlesticks might easily have come from a bishop’s table, silver dinner plates from some Spanish don.
She watched, embarrassed, as doxies from the bawdy houses hung out like flies on the wharf, waving to the buccaneers. The men carrying rapiers and baldrics with longhandled pistols were laying claim to familiar women with gloating painted faces, all snatching the gifts that the pirates dangled before their eyes like fish bait.
She saw the “land pirates”—men who were either too old or too maimed to go a-buccaneering—being tossed Spanish doubloons.
She watched barefoot whites, half-castes, Africans, and Caribs alike pour from the taverns at their owners’ orders, rolling the familiar rum barrels into the street.
Emerald winced at the loud, impatient whack of hatchets cracking into wood, followed by gleeful shouts as the fiery liquid spilled and flowed into cups, soon to light fires of unholy passion in bellies.
Although accustomed to such sights, her upbringing by her great-uncle Mathias Harwick, a nonconformist minister, had instilled within her a loathing of the culture, a pity for its prisoners, and a desire to better her reputation by escaping Port Royal with Jamie.
Buccaneers Series Page 2