Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “An interesting deduction, but there is not time to quibble. We have much to do. And you had best keep Sloane sober if he is to go with us to find Lucca. I’ve no intention of risking my years to a Spanish dungeon because he bungled the job.”

  “Ah, then you admit the second ship belongs to Sir Karlton Harwick.”

  “You have just said it is. Why bicker?”

  “Because, monsieur, there is a third ship not far behind!”

  A third ship! Baret snatched the telescope and turned it to sea. His jaw tensed.

  Levasseur sneered. “Ah, so now you see, monsieur. And like me, you know whose ship it is. No fat Spanish treasure galleon as you make jest of, but the Warspite!”

  Baret fixed the telescope on the sleek brigantine with its guns, its flag flying. He would recognize that ship anywhere.

  Levasseur paced. “Harwick! He brings another. A man neither I nor you, monsieur, wish to see at this time. We must stop him!”

  Sir Erik Farrow, thought Baret. He must have followed Karlton, or else Karlton had informed him of his intentions to keep Levasseur’s ship in view.

  Levasseur said something beneath his breath. “That fox. Farrow knows what we are about, monsieur, and he will insist on his share. Harwick must have told him!”

  Baret was grave. “You have your quarrel with Farrow, and I have mine for quite another reason, but we can neither fight nor run, since Harwick is with him.”

  “You must sink his ship, monsieur! Or at least run with the wind. The Regale is the match of the Warspite.”

  Baret knew as much, yet he had no desire to fire on Erik Farrow, even though he believed he could outposition his ship. Had he come on his own, or was he out to stop him from reaching Lucca? Had Felix sent him?

  Baret lowered the telescope, his gaze thoughtful and troubled. Determination set his jaw. If Erik was out to stop him, there would be no choice but to fire on the Warspite.

  Some of the crewmen stood aloft, shading their eyes to study the oncoming ships, by now knowing what was happening.

  Baret looked again through the telescope. “They’ve spotted us.”

  Now sharply authoritative, he stood by the ornately carved rail of the quarterdeck at the head of the companionway and shouted for his master gunner to ready the gun crew, to clean the gun tackles, to load and run out the guns.

  Levasseur, unlike Baret in coolness, paced with great excitement. “If only I were on the Venture! I should surely blow him from the waters!”

  The buccaneers came tumbling from the forecastle and stood about the hatch in the waist, anxious for a fight.

  Baret shouted aloft to unfurl the topsails and topgallants. Even as the buccaneers sprang to the ratlines in obedience, the Warspite was seen to alter her course and swing in pursuit.

  Baret’s eyes narrowed with grim calm. So Farrow wished a fight, did he? Then he’ll have it.

  “We’re committed to our present course,” he ordered. “But we will fight as well.” He looked aft toward Emerald’s cabin. Zeddie stood gaping. “See to your ward!”

  “Aye, Captain!”

  Then he looked ahead at the Warspite’s sails. The broad target offered him the better chance of crippling her. He shouted orders down to the quartermaster at the whipstaff.

  Then came the bustle on deck, the rush of feet, the dragging of tackle, the noisier movements from the wardroom beneath them where cannon and culverins were being run out. Down in the sweltering room, the gun crew would be moving about, their backs bent over for lack of headroom.

  But Levasseur was furious. “Board and board!” he shouted. “Monsieur! Your men and mine, we shall take both ships! I shall signal to the Venture—”

  “No. We shall do as little as necessary to cripple him.”

  “You are mad, Captain! And share the booty of the Prince Philip with Erik Farrow and his crew?”

  “Captain!” shouted the bosum, swinging from a ratline. “She’s signaling! She’s askin’ for a show of colors!”

  “Prepare to signal. We’ll see what Farrow has to say for himself.”

  Levasseur turned on him, whipping his rapier from his baldric. “A mistake, monsieur!”

  Immediately his Frenchmen backed him, spreading across the deck.

  The quartermaster scowled but remained steady. “Holding steady for orders, Captain,” he called up from the whipstaff.

  “Don’t be a fool, Levasseur,” gritted Baret, glancing toward the Warspite. She was coming on strong. Baret stood his ground, showing no intimidation, for he knew that Levasseur, like a shark once smelling blood, would move in for the kill.

  “What will it be, Levasseur? A free-for-all here and now? We need every man for Porto Bello! You shall have blood and death for your folly here. There will be no Spanish gold for any of you,” he called to the French pirates. “And you, Levasseur, will die first. I shall see to it! I am captain of this ship, and you are a mutineer!”

  The threat of lost treasure rippled through the French seamen like a groan, as Baret had hoped. At the same moment the buccaneers of the Regale showed themselves with cutlasses drawn.

  Levasseur’s temper waned. The red eased from his swarthy face. “Easy now, monsieur. Pardon! But if you think to double-cross me by siding with Farrow or Harwick, I shall have you.”

  He sauntered to the other side of the deck with the French pirates gathering to his side. They cast sullen glances toward Baret and his armed crew, who looked on in serene but deadly silence.

  Baret looked toward the sea. The Warspite drew closer, but Sir Karlton Harwick’s vessel had already slowed, probably uncertain over what would happen. He would wish no fight, knowing Emerald was on board.

  Again the Warspite was lowering and raising its Union Jack—the signal for the Regale to heave to while a longboat was sent for a parley.

  Baret showed no emotion, but he was relieved that Erik Farrow had not yet opted to show the face of an enemy.

  He recalled locking Farrow into Felix’s wardrobe, and he laughed to himself. “Strike colors,” he ordered. “Heave to across her bow.”

  “Aye, Cap’n!”

  “Prepare to receive visitors,” he shouted.

  30

  BRETHREN OF THE COAST

  Baret stood at the rail looking across the darkening blue waters toward the two ships, their lanterns glowing golden and their sails ghostly white against the deepening twilight.

  He affected indifference as tall, gaunt Sir Cecil came to stand beside him, but he felt the penetrating gaze of the old man. Yet Baret was determined not to let the dignified scholar goad him into compliance, despite Baret’s strong affection for him. He knew of the daily meetings Cecil was having with Emerald around the Scriptures, and while Baret was impressed with the girl’s apparent dedication, and he hoped to do well by her future in London, he wished for no further emotional involvement.

  There was and always would be Lavender, he told himself.

  Nor would he return to London to fulfill his family responsibility until the matter of his father was known. And then there was the looming war.

  He thought he knew what was on Cecil’s mind, for it was apparent that he had come to a fondness for Emerald. Baret said nothing as he gazed out on the two vessels now at anchor in the calm Caribbean.

  “Karlton’s daughter prepares to be rowed out to her father’s ship. Is it not wise that you accompany her to explain matters?”

  There was more in the question than what first appeared, Baret knew. Remaining indifferently composed, he turned his dark head to look at Cecil, the plume in his hat moving gently in the warm breeze. The handsome eyes were remote, deliberately so. “I see no cause to do so. She’ll be returning with him to London as soon as this matter with Morgan is put away.”

  “He’ll not take lightly to her reputation being bandied about these weeks. She was aboard your ship. In your cabin.”

  Baret’s eyes narrowed beneath his lashes. “Are you suggesting I marry the child?”

  Sir Cec
il arched a silver brow. “A bit more blunt and to the point than I would have stated it, but Harwick is also a blunt man, I am told, and one with ambitious plans where his daughter is concerned.”

  Baret showed no alarm. “I know all about Karlton’s ambitions.” He picked up the telescope and fixed it upon Erik Farrow’s ship. “And they do not intimidate me. I rescued the girl from the mistake of marrying and running off with Maynerd to the American colony. Karlton has much to thank me for. We shall leave it at that.”

  Sir Cecil’s thin mouth turned with irony, and he leaned his elbow against the rail, watching him. “Harwick is likely to wonder why you would risk so much to stop her. There are witnesses aplenty to the twenty thousand pieces of eight for which you bought her,” he said wryly. “As well as the challenge to duel Levasseur.”

  “A necessary action to prove to her what Maynerd was. Nothing more.”

  “Harwick is certain to ponder. His ambitions are known.”

  “And so are mine. I intend to marry Lavender. As for the rubies—I am a generous man. I am permitting her to go free to her father,” he said smoothly.

  Sir Cecil stroked his pointed beard. “Yes … well … Harwick is likely to cry foul when it comes to his daughter’s reputation.”

  Baret looked at the sea. “If I am correct, her reputation is already the topic of scandal where her mother is concerned. Come, my good Cecil! I’ve no time to mourn reputations, including my own. She’s spirited and brave of heart—she’ll manage to hold her head high.”

  “Is that all you wish to say about her to Harwick?” Cecil inquired dubiously.

  “What more am I to say? Prepare the pinnace to bring her to his ship.” He reached into his vesture and handed Cecil a letter. “All is explained in here. Including my offer to see to her upbringing at the best finishing school and her introduction to society in London. I’ll take full responsibility for her wardrobe and jewels. Surely Karlton will be satisfied. After all,” he said dryly, “she might be aboard the Venture right now instead of the Regale if I hadn’t intervened. She’d be married to ‘Jamie Boy’—or should I say to Levasseur? Tell Karlton that!”

  Sir Cecil took the letter. “As you wish.”

  They stood for a moment in silence looking out to sea and ships, feeling the wind, smelling the salt air.

  The wind caught Cecil’s ankle-length dark cloak, worn over rough tunic and hose, and gave it a jaunty snap. Beneath the grim exterior, the old Puritan scholar might rejoice at a Protestant blow to Spain. Yet Baret knew him well enough to know that Cecil was not thinking of battle for battle’s sake but about Baret’s risky venture into Porto Bello.

  “Morgan will have at least a dozen ships,” Baret breathed with pleasure. “All dedicated to teach the Spanish viceroy a grievous lesson. It’s my guess he will wish to strike Porto Bello at this time, rather than Panama.”

  “Or Maracaibo. They say twenty vessels, if you wish to count the barks of the smaller pirates coming in from Tortuga.”

  “You are right. And never underestimate the bloodthirsty scoundrels aboard the small barks. They’ve been known to take many a Spanish galleon and leave her bones to sink to the bottom of the Caribbean. They are relatives of the men and women who knew the Inquisition in Holland and France. They do not forget easily,” said Baret.

  “There are none who wish the demise of Spain more than I. But eventually, Baret, you must bury your hatred for Madrid with your baldric and return to London a free man in heart and soul. The grace of God, like the wide expanse of the sea, may yet wash the heart and soul clean of its bitterness. Only when that root of bitterness is dug up and buried with the dead will you truly be free.”

  Baret said nothing. He had heard it before, many times, in different ways. He knew this as well as did Cecil but had up to now not come to grips with the necessity. And he would not think of it yet. There was too much to be done.

  And like the deathblow to his fair mother and the injustice done his father, Spain was responsible for holding Lucca, a crippled old man, a prisoner.

  Baret’s palms sweated as he held the telescope. His jaw-line tightened. He changed the subject, as he always did. “The Dutch buccaneers are hungry to land a volley of cannon in the side of a few Spanish ships.”

  “The Dutch may soon get their opportunity to land a few into the side of English vessels if it comes to war. The matter between England and Holland grows more serious as the weeks pass. If you stay in the West Indies, you will need to grapple with the difficult decision of taking sides.”

  “I’ve vowed to the earl it will be England.”

  Sir Cecil looked rather surprised. “Have you the heart to attack a Dutch ship?”

  Baret wondered. If it hadn’t been for his grandfather’s threat to give Lavender to his cousin Grayford in marriage, he would never have promised to fight for England.

  “Let us not discuss Holland yet. It is Spain who poses the threat.”

  Whether war with Holland loomed or not, Baret had no intention of giving up his plans to locate Lucca. He couldn’t simply turn and sail away from everything that tried and tested his heart.

  He looked at Cecil, who wore a thoughtful frown as he gazed across to Karlton Harwick’s ship.

  “I have always said, my lord Viscount, that you should have been born the son of Karlton, for the Harwick side of the family has the liberty to enjoy the ways of sea adventure, whereas you have responsibilities in London to His Majesty.”

  “By now I’d have thought you would have given up on your lectures,” said Baret with a lean smile. “Have you voyaged with me these three years for naught?”

  “I am a man of enduring patience,” jested Cecil. “One can always hope you would give up. You might as well know that I’ve made arrangements with the earl to leave for London with your brother once this raid with Morgan is successfully completed. I shall be Jette’s tutor, even as I was yours.”

  “He told me,” said Baret.

  Cecil looked surprised. “I should be anxious to know your thoughts on the matter.”

  Baret smiled. “I think Jette could not have a better scholar, and I am fully in agreement. I would also see Karlton’s daughter to your training in London,” he said easily.

  “You think Harwick will agree to it?” asked Cecil with lifted brow. “I dare say he has much more on his mind for Emerald than three or four years of academic and social learning. He has certain plans in which you are included. What a victory over the Buckingtons it would be to have won the allegiance of the viscount! And what more could he have but you as his son-in-law.”

  Baret looked at him, amused. “Son-in-law! Am I also to be bought, not with pieces of eight but with a comely daughter? I am not so dense as all that, Cecil! She’s a sprightly girl to be sure—but there is Lavender.”

  “Is it nonsense that Harwick’s share in Foxemoore is in desperate need of funds lest he lose it?”

  Baret knew of Karlton’s financial penury because of his debts and lost shipping. That was the reason he hoped to gain bounty through the attack on Spain. But he had never been so blatantly bold as to hint that he wished Baret and the Buckington wealth and title to be gained by marriage. And although there were times when Baret had suspected so, he would not admit that to Cecil.

  Baret’s dark brow lifted. He laughed quietly. “The last thing I shall do is marry anytime soon. I’m here to pursue my own plans as I see them. It is neither to goad my grandfather nor to oblige Harwick, though I admit to a high regard for the man’s prowess at sea.”

  It was then Sir Cecil who arched a brow, a thin smile on his mouth.

  Baret turned away. “Of course Karlton has dreams for his daughter,” he admitted impatiently. “What father would not? She has spent a pretty time enduring the scorn and rejection of both Harwicks and Buckingtons since a child.”

  “Indeed. And Harwick, if he can make something of your claiming Emerald, is likely to do it.”

  Baret frowned. “I know him too well to think he would dem
and that which I am unable to give at this time—or in the future. He knows about Lavender. We’ve been promised to each other since I was twelve.”

  “Some would say that while it is the way of nobility to match future countess with future earl, it is not always the way of the human heart to cooperate.”

  Baret turned to him with a dry smile. “Rest assured my heart is my own to do with as I choose. Is that why you came here? To warn me against some intrigue by Harwick in a match with his daughter?”

  “It was only a small part of the reason why I came. And I do not see it as a warning, for the girl will one day be a worthy enough prize for any man. She has a heart for God, I am certain of it.”

  Baret chose not to think about it. “Until I return to London ready to don the garments of my responsibility as Viscount and future Earl of Buckington, I shall take my chances with Morgan—and my friendship with Harwick. Before I settle down to the life of the court, I shall see my father vindicated and Felix brought to justice. There is no more I wish to discuss.”

  “It may not be entirely left up to you to decide at your leisure.”

  Baret ignored the smooth warning. He frowned and looked again at Karlton’s ship. The man was a stalwart scoundrel at times, to be sure. Then he grinned. But he liked Karlton’s buccaneering ways. And as for himself, he would not be browbeaten by Karlton into anything he did not want. He believed Karlton knew that as well. “I shall not personally escort Emerald aboard his ship,” said Baret and sobered, his eyes turning hard. “And now I have a rendezvous with Erik Farrow.”

  The pinnace was about to be lowered to bring Baret to the Warspite when Levasseur came striding across the deck, followed by two of his crew.

  “Monsieur!”

  Baret turned, and the buccaneers, wearing full regalia, measured each other.

  Levasseur’s black eyes were cynical. “Sure now, Captain Foxworth, you don’t expect me to stay aboard while you discuss with Erik Farrow the Prince Philip? I am in the meeting. Why should I trust the two of you alone together? Would you not eagerly hope to betray my interests?”