He entered and stood, and Baret glanced at the serving tray in his hands. He lifted a brow and looked at his tutor for an explanation, for it wasn’t Sir Cecil’s typical manner to wait on him.
Sir Cecil gave him a dry glance. “I bring you a worthy ‘gift,’ rowed out from Chocolata Hole by a musky old sea urchin who looks ripe for treachery.” He gestured dubiously at the wet and sandy canvas bag sitting on the tray.
At the mention of Chocolata Hole, Baret came alert. He thought he knew who the “sea urchin” was.
“Where is he now?”
“He insisted he couldn’t stay. He’s rowing back in his cockboat.”
Sir Cecil sniffed the bag with a show of disdain, but he held the tray with the deference due the crown jewels. “Smells odiously of something dead. Would you have me open the bag?”
Baret folded his arms and leaned back against his desk. “I wait with fond anticipation.”
Sir Cecil’s deft fingers opened the canvas sack and delicately removed a hard, dark green object. He placed it gingerly upon the desk.
They watched. A moment later a small head with round eyes and a long wrinkled neck emerged from the shell and appeared to size up its new habitat.
“From Hob,” said Baret simply. He lifted the Jamaican green turtle, a staple food for pirates, and inspected it carefully under the overhanging lantern. As suspected, he discovered a rolled bit of damp paper under its shell, smoothed it with his thumb, and read the scribbled message that was partially spelled out in stick drawings.
“I’ve other news concerning the thief who broke into your cabin earlier this night,” said Sir Cecil meanwhile. “We’ve found the man who brought her aboard. A miserable looking fellow with a bump on his head. He’s awake now, but seems a bit dazed in the cranium to me. Says his name is Zeddie. He’s quite adamant in defending their innocence of all intent of thievery. They boarded the … er … wrong ship, is what he’s saying. Says they thought the captain was a French pirate.”
At the words “French pirate,” Baret showed interest for the first time.
“An antagonist of yours,” explained Sir Cecil. “His name is Captain Levasseur.”
“Ah!”
“The girl was his … er … cousin, so the fellow Zeddie insists.”
Baret didn’t trust Levasseur, who suspected his allegiance to the Brotherhood at Tortuga. Had he sent an unlikely wench to search his cabin, looking for evidence to use against him? He scowled. Perhaps he had not taken her presence as seriously as he should have. Maybe she hadn’t boarded on her own to search for loot but had a more sophisticated purpose.
“Do you wish to see the man Zeddie for interrogation? He’s putting up quite a fuss, demanding to know where his ward is being kept.”
“You can tell him that he best not squawk too loudly. He’s blessed the captain of the Regale is a generous man. I could dangle him at the end of a rope.”
“Shall I release him then?”
“No. Shackle him in the hold. Let him worry a little. See to him at your leisure. And when I return I’ll see him also. Other matters are of import now.”
“You’re going to Chocolata Hole?” asked Sir Cecil dubiously.
“A necessity.” He walked to where his weapons hung on a hook, ignoring Sir Cecil’s frown.
“You would trust the wily old pirate again? Was he not quite wrong about Lucca being aboard the Santiago?”
“The information he hints of now is worth the risk.”
Baret passed his leather baldric—the weapons’ sheath worn diagonally from shoulder to hip, holding rapier and pistols—over his head as Sir Cecil handed him his cloak and hat.
“I would caution you. You may yet inherit more from your father than his title and lands. You also have his enemies to reckon with. Nor must you forget the Admiralty Court has little patience with privateers turning pirates.”
“Your concern is well taken. I’ve not forgotten.” Baret handed him the turtle with a slight smile. “I prefer English pie.”
Sir Cecil reluctantly received the creature.
Baret smiled and went to the door, then glanced back. “I won’t return until after the wedding. I hope to talk some sense into Geneva. You’ll be attending?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” He looked worriedly at Baret. “Felix has arrived.”
Baret already knew that his uncle was in Jamaica, and he showed no expression. “I’ll see you at Foxemoore on Sunday. I’ve another call to make first.”
When the cabin door shut behind him, Sir Cecil stood staring at it, troubled. He knew where Baret intended to go, of course, and he felt uneasy. He hoped Sir Karlton Harwick could oblige the young viscount on the whereabouts of his father’s journal and map. If not, Baret would confront Lord Felix, who was in Jamaica to marry Geneva Harwick.
There was also the matter of Jette, Baret’s eight-year-old brother. The very thought of Jette’s being turned over to Felix was a hideous thought to Baret and to Cecil as well. Sir Cecil worried about the child’s health and about his Christian training. He had written Lady Geneva asking permission to become his tutor in England when she returned with Felix, even as he had served the family in tutoring Baret.
There was only one drawback, he thought. Returning to England to instruct Jette would mean leaving Baret alone in his pursuit to find his father. Was his father alive as he thought? Sir Cecil could only wonder. There were times when he believed that the youth’s suspicions were fed by anguish rather than fact. Recently he had taken to worrying as much about the young viscount as he did about the boy Jette.
Cecil frowned. He believed that the lives of both heirs to the Buckington estate were at risk. He was also concerned for the condition of Baret’s faith. How long would he continue to neglect his upbringing and training?
He glanced across the Great Cabin to the portrait of Lady Lavender, a young woman of both charm and title, whom Baret intended to one day make his wife. She’d been quite ill with island fever for the past year and a half and had written Baret, asking to see him. The marriage between Lord Felix Buckington and Lady Geneva Harwick at Foxemoore afforded that opportunity.
Unfortunately it also gave Baret the responsibility of meeting with Felix.
Sir Cecil looked down at the turtle, anxious to turn it loose. Later, as he did so, watching it swim away, he vaguely wondered what the scholars at Cambridge would think of turtle soup.
7
CHOCOLATA HOLE
The year 1663 gave to Mother England two prized ports on the Spanish Main: Port Royal in Jamaica and English Harbor in Antigua. Even so, there was no presence of the Royal Navy, and the sugar planters and governor-general relied on the buccaneers for protection against Spain.
Unfortunately, the ships serving Charles II in the West Indies were not the stalwart protection that planters wished for. The rumblings of a second war with the Dutch troubled England, for Charles believed France would join Holland against him.
As the possibility of war with two old enemies gathered like clouds, the West India Sugar Interest in England’s parliament feared losing their vast plantations on Jamaica to a sneak attack by Spain and, dismayed, insisted that His Majesty permanently station squadrons of warships at Port Royal.
However, King Charles lacked the finances for such a navy and often permitted Governor-general Thomas Modyford to authorize privateering under the protective flag of England. It was ironical that the buccaneer serving His Majesty today could tomorrow be hanged at Execution Dock as a rascally pirate.
It was dawn when Baret paused on the waterfront to watch the sun rise from the Caribbean, turning the waters gray-blue in the dusky light. The rain had ceased, but fat clouds tinged with dark edges continued to assemble on the horizon. Hurricane season was not many weeks away.
Baret knew by experience what hurricane-force winds could do to a vessel caught in their onslaught. He had watched the carcass of a ship fade into darkness, her masts shattered, the sullen seas washing her deserted decks.
The upcoming storm season was of benefit to his private quest, however. Usually His Majesty’s ships, now scarce in the Caribbean, underwent repairs at this time of year, while some of them were secretly sent off cruising for prizes as they covertly turned to buccaneering in the southern Caribbean out of storm’s way.
Baret would take a risk of another sort—perhaps more dangerous than a hurricane. He must risk his favor with his grandfather the earl and His Majesty the king by joining Henry Morgan’s buccaneer fleet in its upcoming attack on an undisclosed location on the Main.
There was the danger that he too could be hanged at Execution Dock. But he had reason to believe that his father might yet be alive, held by Spain as a prisoner, and Baret had gained passage on a small vessel for Chocolata Hole to meet secretly with his old friend and informer, Hob.
The ship was a squat, ill-painted schooner that had preyed on fishing boats close to the Main. Baret was anxious to disembark the leaky craft and had no confidence in its captain, a fat, barrel-chested man who sprawled near the rail, one knee drawn up, the other foot propped against a rum barrel.
Baret saw the captain hungrily eye the leather baldric he wore, stiff with Spanish silver bullion and housing sword and ornate silver-handled pistols.
The foul-smelling pirate took another guzzle of his kill-devil rum and wiped his wet mustache on the back of a dirty, cotton sleeve of faded red. He belched loudly. Whether his coarse satisfaction came from his rum or from speculation that he might end up owning the bullion that glinted in the morning light, Baret couldn’t ascertain.
From beneath a scarf tied at the back of his head, the pirate’s lank hair whipped in the breeze like the skinny tail of a nervous rat. He cast Baret a furtive glance, as did several members of his crew.
Baret watched them as he leaned against the rail, his polished Cordovan boots crossed negligently at the ankles, his arms folded.
The captain popped the plug back into his jug and leered, though he may have intended an affable smile.
“We’s nigh Chocolata Hole, Cap’n Foxworth.”
Baret was already familiar with the environs of Port Royal. The main harbor was on the north side, where the water was six fathoms and ships could come alongside the wharves to load and unload cargo. Most of the wharves and warehouses, including the King’s Warehouse, were located there.
Here on the western side the waters were shallower. Larger ships had to anchor some several hundred yards out and use lighters to haul their cargo to shore. Chocolata Hole was a large secluded cove where some one hundred different small sloops and schooners belonging to smugglers, privateers, fishers, and turtlers were anchored.
As the captain mentioned Chocolata Hole, Baret looked ahead toward the cove, his hand on the rail, rings gleaming, knowing their sparkle was not lost on the bulging eyes of captain or crew.
“Sure now, Cap’n Foxworth, it’s the cove your heart’s desirin’?”
“Quite certain.” He casually turned his head to look at him, his dark eyes glinting. “Captain, I pray you are not a stupid fellow.”
The pirate looked at him, dumbfounded. “Huh?”
“There’ll be no treachery from you or your crew,” said Baret too calmly. “If you think to try, I fear I must deliver your head to a watery grave.”
The pirate recovered from his surprise, and his brow went dark. He stood as though sorely tempted to unsheathe his blade and slurred something that came out less than intelligible. But when Baret’s grim smile remained, and it became obvious that he did not take alarm, the pirate captain appeared to reconsider his rashness.
He glowered. “The plague take you, Cap’n Foxworth! None such as you will e’er deliver my head. Sink me if’n you think otherwise!”
One of his crew, a man with a long golden mane, turned toward Baret as though waiting for a word from his captain.
Baret added smoothly, “You best keep to your steerage, Dutchman. Your captain would be loath to see his noble craft run aground on a sand bar with a squall brewing. There’ll be naught left of it come morning.”
The man shot a second glance toward his captain as if waiting for orders. But the pirate only glared at Baret and restrained himself. He turned away, opting instead to humor his ill temper by shouting at a slave who had the double misfortune of being owned by an evil man. “Get to work, you shallow swine, lest I corpse you.”
Baret was anxious to disembark, and as the vessel set anchor he picked up his leather satchel from the deck, paid the sullen captain his due, and stepped onto the quay.
As he walked the shore, pirates were everywhere. Then a familiar voice sounded at his elbow.
“Har, me lordship, ’tis you. And d’you ever blink upon a sweeter lookin’ turtle for the soup pot? ’Tis all tender, it is.”
Baret turned and looked down into the creased leathery face of wily old Hob, who held up a sandy turtle for inspection. Hob wore an unlikely visage for a spy, but one that had proven its worth in the past.
Hob had first come from the seafarers’ haunts of Bristol, where homeless and hungry waifs provided rich prospects for future pirates. It was on the street of Bristol that Hob vowed he had first met the arch-buccaneer of them all, Henry Morgan. But some who knew Morgan insisted he had been the son of an indentured servant on Jamaica, and still others insisted he had come from the wild coasts of Wales.
Hob had lived in Port Royal for years, where he owned a weather-beaten boat that was permanently anchored in Chocolata Hole. Here he lived and harvested turtles to sell to the buccaneers, becoming a valuable source of paid information.
Hob held a bucket of the hard-shelled creatures, his floppy hat pulled low over shaggy white hair, his baggy trousers wet and sandy.
Baret smiled into the shrewd blue eyes that were alert with mischief. “It warms my heart to see you again, old pirate. I’m surprised the governor-general hasn’t hanged you by now,” he said lightly. “His Majesty is firm in eliminating even past culprits from the Caribbean waters.”
“Aye, me lord, I be wonderin’ ’bout that meself.” And he pushed his hat back to scratch his locks. “You received me gift? ’Twas a youngun, it was.”
“And fully appreciated, Hob,” he said with grave affectation. “You’re a gentleman pirate to be sure. What news do you have for me, old spy?”
Hob’s wrinkled face grew sober. He spoke in a low voice. “There be a new pirate who says he knows where Lucca is.”
Baret’s heart quickened. “Who is he?”
“He ain’t be givin’ his name so eagerly. But I brought his contact turtles only a day ago, and he says he’ll contact me again. I’ll be telling you an earful more for a bit o’ coin.” He grinned. “Aye, just a wee amount in exchange for a sweet turtle. You knows how the belly doth sorrow for the little green things cooked all hot-like in soup.”
Baret couldn’t help but smile. He could trust the scoundrel, even if Hob’s loyalty did turn thin at times when faced with what he called “better pickin’s.”
“A gold piece for your services, Hob—but if your information proves false, I shall find you again, if only to mince your hide for the kettle.”
“Aye, me lordship—har, I means Captain Foxworth!—a bargain, yes, a bargain it is. You won’t be finding yourself a better spy than the likes o’ me. No, and not a more loyal servant neither.” He gave a toothless grin.
Baret smiled again and saw the man’s shrewd gaze take in his fine suit of black velvet.
“A goldie be more’n enough for telling tales. But a few pieces of eight be a mite kinder.”
Baret folded his arms and lifted a dark brow, affecting wounded dignity. “And where would the grandson of the Earl of Buckington get Spanish pieces of eight? Do you take me for a pirate, Hob? I am gravely offended!”
Hob was quick to catch the tone of mockery and joined in with a chortle. “Oh, nay, me lordship! Nay, me great defender of the English Admiralty Court! Har.” He laughed, “Just a slip, me lord, just a flapping tongue. Aye, a fair and
noble English goldie be pleasant enough. Sure of it! Stab me if I be lyin’.”
“Morgan is gathering the buccaneers for a campaign,” Baret told him. “We’ll be meeting at the Spanish Galleon to sign the Articles. Tell this contact of yours to be there.”
Hob gave a crafty glance about the cay. “There’s more. I’ve heard ’tis your friend Erik Farrow you be wishin’ to see in Port Royal now. I’ve a bit o’ news that won’t prove pleasing, seein’ how Erik’s loyalty and sword doth now work for your uncle.”
Baret stared at him, taking the shocking news in stunned silence. Then, “Working for Felix?”
Erik knew about the strained relationship that he had with his uncle, who was a member of the esteemed Admiralty Court that had brought in the guilty verdict of piracy against his father. Erik also knew of Baret’s secret plans to search for his father in the Caribbean. If Erik was in the pay of his uncle, would he not be obligated to share with Felix whatever information he had?
“When did Erik become a hired man of Felix?”
“A month ago, I’m thinkin’. Maybe a mite longer. And it be not to your good nor to your father’s, if he be alive, you can be sure of that. That Erik be in it for himself. Got himself knighted by your uncle. Be Sir Erik now,” said Hob with a leer. “Erik was always a cool one, says I. Erik got no more warmth in his blood than a barracuda.”
Baret was tempted to agree, and he was disturbed. Their friendship had always kept him guessing as to whether or not he could fully trust Erik. In one breath Erik would risk a sword fight to aid him; in the next he might stand aloof.
“You are certain? Who told you Erik works for my uncle?”
“Be knowing better than to ask me that,” said Hob, as though to question his role of spy was to accuse him of disloyalty. He lifted a turtle from the bucket and tapped its hard shell. “Sink me sails! Ain’t be a pirate nor a buccaneer in Port Royal who don’t buy from old Hob. Ain’t a freebooter who don’t trust me. Me ears grow keener with age ’stead of growin’ deaf. Me picks up many a tale as I makes me rounds. Sure now, why, I has me buyers even among the respectable. Even the Harwicks buys me turtles. And that daughter of Sir Karlton by the name of Miss Emerald, she be known to turtle-hunt once or twice herself in me company. A pretty thing, she.”
Buccaneers Series Page 7