Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  The name immediately caught her attention. “The man my father mentioned?”

  “No, his son. His father is the wealthy planter in Porto Bello who bought my father as a slave. From his son I will learn where he’s being held. He could be anywhere in Porto Bello. The information Vasquez holds is crucial. Carlotta wishes to escape marriage to him and sail to Jamaica—to a certain hacienda that I cannot tell you about now. She offered to help me if I would help her escape.”

  So …

  “What if he refuses to tell you?”

  His smile was dangerous. “He will talk. And I have Carlotta for ransom. What he does not know is that it was she who told me of him and the ship. She wishes to marry another man in Spanish Town—a scoundrel, a man I would not find worthy to keep company with, but that is her concern, not mine.”

  A swell of relief filled her heart, yet fear gripped her as well since what Baret was about to do with the San Pedro and Capitán Vasquez would bring even more to the attention of those who wished his downfall.

  “The victory will be hard won,” she warned softly. “Anything could go wrong.” And you might be killed, she wanted to say.

  “Hard won, yes, but it’s something I must do.”

  She noticed that Captains Farrow and Pierre LaMonte had come on deck and were waiting for him below.

  “I must go,” he said quietly.

  She looked at him for a long moment. “Then I wish you success and God’s protection.”

  His eyes were warm and intense. “So you’re willing to be a pirate’s lady, are you? I shall cherish your trust in me.”

  She watched from the ship’s side as they boarded a longboat and were rowed to a craft she had not seen before. Already there were buccaneers aboard, and she wondered with amazement and new alarm why they would use such a craft and leave the Regale anchored with the Warspite and the Bonaventure.

  How could they even think they could take a galleon in what looked to her to be a fifty-foot vessel? What of cannon? What of the hundred men they had between them? What could they possibly have in mind?

  8

  THE SAN PEDRO

  The fifty-foot ketch slipped through the Caribbean, her sails filled and on steady course. Erik Farrow, stripped to a pair of leather breeches and pistol belt, and wearing a black head kerchief, climbed the main shrouds and braced himself there, his toes hooked securely over the ratlines. The late afternoon wind surged against his muscular chest, and his golden hair whipped behind him. With one hand he held the brass bound spyglass steady as he swayed with the movement of the craft.

  His heart leaped. There she is. A huge, sun-gilded Spanish galleon loomed against the horizon, moving slowly and clumsily through the water, her canvas sighing, the bold red and yellow banner of Castile snapping proudly.

  “Sail ho!”

  Baret had been sleeping aft under the small cover, and he came out at once, strapping on his belt with its sword and pair of French pistols. Pierre LaMonte breathed something in French and was on his bare feet, tossing his half-eaten breakfast to the porpoises frolicking behind the boat.

  “The San Pedro!” Erik called, sliding down the backstay.

  A resounding cheer went up.

  Erik turned to his officer, the huge African. “Take over the helm and sail, Jeb.”

  “Aye, captain!”

  “Leon! Hoist the cursed Spanish colors!” Erik ordered.

  The French boucanier boatswain rushed to a locker and pulled out a new red and yellow flag with disdain, then hoisted it to snap in the wind.

  “There the filthy rag blows!” commented Yorke.

  Erik watched Baret climb into the main crosstree, where he removed his own spyglass from his belt and fixed it upon the San Pedro. Then Erik again went over in his mind each step of his well-laid plan to find Minette. Glancing up at Baret, he knew the viscount was doing the same concerning Capitán Don Miguel Vasquez. Both he and Baret felt confident in letting Pierre lead the main body of buccaneers in the open assault on the galleon. The French captain of the Bonaventure was a calm, relentless, and ferocious fighter.

  Erik watched the men haul up shot from among the ballast and pile it near the small demi-culverin. They all knew the maneuver was essentially meaningless, for shot the size of a man’s hand would have little effect against the proud galleon.

  But it was not an exchange of firepower that the small ketch was embarking upon, else they would have employed their ships instead. The manner in which they hoped to take the San Pedro had been developed when the three captains met to discuss tactics.

  The idea had been the viscount’s. He had heard a tale from old Hob about the cheeky pirate Le Grande, who had lived in the 1630s. With twenty-eight boucaniers he seized a Spanish treasure ship, using a mere pinnace. Scorned by the galleon that had paid Le Grande no mind, the Frenchman had been able to pull off an audacious deed.

  The advantage of following Le Grande’s daring, as the viscount saw it, was in taking the San Pedro off guard, while at the same time masking their own identity to the Admiralty Officials by keeping their ships concealed. News of who was involved would eventually get back to Port Royal, London, and Madrid, but, for the present, time would be on their side.

  Baret, clad in worn breeches, came down the shrouds and landed steadily. Erik watched him snatch a cool cotton shirt from where it hung and slip into it. Then he readied himself for battle, checking the priming of his long-barreled pistols.

  “If things go as planned, we’ll soon have the Spanish capitán by his arrogant pointed beard,” commented Baret. He offered Erik a smile of confidence as he accepted a black scarf from his hand and tied it around his head. “The little French waif will be forever in your debt, Erik.”

  Erik saw the teasing flicker in the viscount’s eyes and remained outwardly impassive. “I’m doing this deed of valor out of gallantry,” he stated coolly. “I’d do the same for any English woman held captive by an inquisitor.”

  Baret smiled easily. “I never doubted for a moment, Captain Farrow.”

  Erik’s mouth curved. “We’re all ready,” he stated, with a gesture of his head. “About twenty more minutes and she’ll be on us.”

  Baret looked out across the sea at the approaching ship. “A very long twenty minutes.”

  The two vessels, which to each other had been but dots on the Caribbean, moved steadily along on intercepting courses but, as the helmsman Jeb had carefully planned, out of cannon range.

  “Steady as she goes, captain,” he called to Erik.

  Erik watched the Spanish vessel’s giltwork gleam like gold in the afternoon sunlight.

  Baret stood by him with hands on hips. “Look at that forecastle and poop,” he said of the intricately carved structure. “A curse in the heavy wind and sea. Yet the dons persist in building their wooden castles high fore and aft.”

  “All the better to blow them to pieces, mon ami,” said Pierre with a vicious twinkle in his bold black eyes. “Come then, you slow-moving behemoth,” he muttered between his white teeth. “Come to the arms of Pierre!”

  Aboard the San Pedro was Don Miguel Vasquez, a handsome dark Spaniard, newly appointed captain-general at Margarita, who had come to marry Senorita Carlotta Maria Alvarez. He decided to join the captain of the galleon on deck, having heard a report that an unknown vessel appeared to be heading boldly toward them.

  Miguel’s eyes flashed with disdain. More filthy pirate dogs! Fit for nothing but to become our galley slaves! He strode up beside the robust Captain Hector Gavali.

  “Trouble, capitán?”

  The captain took one look at the approaching craft and turned away from the crew members who had alerted him. “You bother me with this pitiable thing?”

  The men looked embarrassed and shifted their glances away.

  Captain Gavali shook his head and turned to Miguel. “Una Pulgita—a little flea, Don Miguel, a single-masted craft with small guns!”

  Miguel smiled thinly in response.

  “
With many cannons and a large crew, Miguel, this magnificent ship has few to fear.” Nonetheless, Don Miguel walked to the rail to peer at the coming vessel, his polished black boots clicking on the newly swabbed deck. The fine Castilian ecru lace at his neck and sleeves blew gently in the warm twilight breeze. His gaze narrowing thoughtfully, the don’s alert black eyes continued to watch. He heard Capitán Gavali snap orders to hoist the banner of Castile and steer steadily down on the humble ketch, riding low and contrite in the blue Caribbean.

  Above where Miguel stood, the trumpeter in crimson and black blasted the air with the Spanish tribute, the notes resounding across the water.

  In quick response, the small craft humbly dipped its colors in a low bow to Spain. Miguel saw the yellow and red colors flutter. Then as the mighty San Pedro slipped past proudly, Miguel heard the fishermen in the ketch shouting enthusiastically, “¡Vivai !Viva! ¡Viva!”

  Miguel turned from the rail as Capitán Gavali came up with a wide smile. “There was no need to be concerned for so pitiable a thing, Senor Miguel. Come, let us get back to our card game!” He shouted an order. “Gustavo! More Peruvian wine for our honored guest!”

  Don Miguel, though he descended to the cabin with Gavali, gave the matter more thought. “It is known, Senor Hector, that these heretic dogs are often bent upon astonishing impertinence. They are desperados, and as such, they are as daring as the Diablo himself.

  “Trouble yourself not, my good Miguel. These are Spanish waters, close to Caracas. Except for the heretic hunters on Hispaniola, we have little to worry about. And the guarda costa is making a swift end to them.” He snatched up his cards in one hand and his Peruvian silver wine goblet in the other. “The ships and soldiers of our Most Christian Majesty Philip are ever alert and capable! ¡Viva!” he declared cheerfully. “I have the winning match! You owe me ten pieces of eight, Don Miguel!”

  Dwarfed by the San Pedro, looming like a great winged fowl ready to devour its victim, the buccaneers’ ketch closed with the galleon. So maneuverable and swift was the small vessel that she could slip in under the guns of a galleon and achieve boarding position before the victim could fire an effective shot in defense.

  As the sun declined, the buccaneers rowed in unison, adding to the thrust of the sails. The ketch sliced cleanly through the darkening swells and came alongside the Spanish ship. Jeb nimbly nosed her in under the bow. Baret and Erik skillfully tossed two grappling irons into the galleon’s fore chain.

  “Now!” Baret said.

  Erik turned to the silent men, all handpicked from the best of the well-disciplined crews. “Board and board!”

  Cutlasses gripped between teeth, the men latched hold, vigorously scrambling up the tall side of the ship where gilded lanterns ornamenting the stern gazed down upon them.

  Baret and Erik came over the side of the San Pedro at the same time, followed by barefoot Pierre LaMonte and the buccaneers.

  The startled Spaniards froze, then yelled wildly. Unleashing their blades, the soldiers raced forward to confront the invaders.

  Erik dropped to the deck, sword in hand, but Baret paused long enough to steady himself. Then, with pistols in both hands he blasted into the soldiers surging toward Erik. Unstoppable, the buccaneers surged across the broad deck. Amid the frenzy of clashing steel and pistol shots, the swell of raging voices merged into an undistinguishable cacophony of Castilian, English, and French.

  “The gun room!” ordered Baret, and men fought their way below to seize the small munitions and overwhelm the soldiers who met them with a frenzy of swords.

  Amid the flurry of glittering blades and the smell of powder, Baret emerged from the chaos to gain the companionway. He hesitated a moment, foot on the bottom step, and looked up. The captain’s cabin, he thought. Don Miguel would be there.

  Erik was with him now, and Yorke, with a handful of buccaneers coming behind.

  Baret bounded up the steps, his blade smashing a ringing blow against the opposing thrust of a soldier who thought to halt his progress. The soldier toppled, and Baret stepped over him and continued on. The cabin he sought was ahead, its door flung open, and the captain of the San Pedro stood wild-eyed, one hand gripping a sword limply at his side.

  “Mary, bless us!” he gasped in stunned disbelief. “Surely these are diablos!”

  “For your answer, senor, we are liberators of heretic galley slaves.”

  “Liberators!”

  “And collectors of taxes from the king of Spain!”

  “Taxes!” He breathed a curse, his eyes spitting temper.

  “And—” Baret bowed elegantly “—we are also wedding escorts, sent to summon the merry groom, Capitán Don Miguel Vasquez! He is here, yes?”

  The captain of the San Pedro drew in a chest-swelling gust of air.

  Baret gestured with his head to Yorke, who walked up and leveled his pistol at the captain’s heart.

  “Surrender the San Pedro, Capitán,” ordered Baret evenly.

  The captain’s sword clattered to the deck. “I am in your hand, senor.”

  Baret motioned him aside, and as Yorke took him away to bid his crew cease their resistance, Baret stepped into the elegant cabin.

  Two men were there, an older man without weapons and Don Miguel. The don stood straight and looked on impassively. “You might as well kill me, senor. I have none of the ‘taxes’ you wish to collect from the noble king of Spain.”

  A thin smile touched Baret’s lips. “The taxes can wait, Capitán Vasquez. I have Senorita Carlotta Maria Alvarez aboard my ship.”

  Startled, Miguel stared at him, then as Baret’s smile deepened, the Spaniard let out a breath. “You foul dog! What price your ransom?”

  “Information.”

  Miguel’s lips tightened, and his hands formed fists. “You will receive no information from me!”

  “Alas! What romantic groom is this? You would permit the lovely senorita to languish aboard my ship? Where are your gallantry and valor, Senor Miguel? Seeing as how it is not information on your military post I care for but information on a mere slave, an English heretic dog.”

  Miguel’s demeanor changed to suspicion, then to curiosity as his glittering black eyes raked him.

  “A slave? An Englishman?”

  “You will come with me, Capitán. Cooperate, and I will spare you and the senorita. If not, you will swim.”

  Miguel stood rigid until the older Spaniard said softly, “Do as he says, Miguel. If he did not have Carlotta in his grasp, how would he have learned about you? Release your pride and spare the governor’s niece!”

  Miguel achieved a bow. “I surrender, senor.”

  “Yes, Capitán—to your advantage.”

  Captain Erik Farrow ordered his men aside and entered one of the staterooms.

  A man of the Franciscan order sat in a high-backed chair by a table, darkly cowled, a silver cross glinting against the cloth of his habit, an amber rosary in hand. Stark brown eyes like pools stared at him from a strong-boned face that revealed no emotion. He did not rise.

  A small gasp sounded from a corner of the room, and Erik looked there. A young woman of lustrous hair confined beneath a gold net, and wearing a gown of burgundy silk that lent her cream skin a golden glow, stared back at him. She moved swiftly behind the Franciscan.

  Erik’s handsome face showed nothing as his gaze left her and glanced about at the fine rugs, vessels, and velvet furnishings.

  “The girl you abducted from the cove after your fellows tortured and massacred to your heart’s content,” he stated. “Where is she?”

  The Franciscan’s eyes responded with a flicker, and the woman exchanged low words with him in Castilian.

  “She is a serving maid of the senora.”

  “Bring her.”

  The Franciscan stood slowly and crossed to another carved wooden door and opened it. “Minette?”

  A moment later Minette Levasseur came out, cautiously. She glanced about as if wondering what to expect. Then her eyes fel
l on Erik.

  Minette’s heart leaped. “It can’t be! Not Captain Farrow!”

  But it was. Her eyes drifted over the thoroughly masculine buccaneer, her stomach and heart both aflutter. For the first time since she had laid eyes on Captain Farrow, he was out of immaculate fashion—he wore a torn sweat-stained shirt, leather breeches, and a black pirate scarf about his head—but his rugged stance only set her heart pounding. His golden hair fell damp across his tanned forehead and muscled neck. His cool gray eyes swept her, then he bowed.

  “Your servant, madam.”

  Minette felt her knees weaken, and she backed against the bulkhead, hands resting on the carved wood paneling.

  Erik looked across the cabin at the Franciscan and the senora. In fright, she was swiftly removing her earbobs and a jeweled pendant about her neck. She laid them on the table.

  “Keep your jewels, senora. I have what I came for.” He held out a hand toward Minette. “Come, sweeting, we best get out of here.”

  Minette simply stared, certain she must be dreaming.

  He quickly crossed the room, snatched her up as though she were as light as cotton fluff, and edged from the room, while two of his men kept an eye on the Franciscan.

  “Cap’n,” breathed one, sweat standing out on his face. “Lemme kill the papist!”

  “No! He has not harmed her. Out!”

  They obeyed his terse command, and Erik strode off with Minette in his arms.

  She remained speechless, aware of the strength of the arm that bore her. His silence intrigued her, and she glanced up, blushing, nothing that up close his face was as handsome as from afar.

  He carried her down the companion onto the deck, where the buccaneers were gathering ingots of gold and bars of silver. He went to the bulwarks where a long rope ladder had been tossed over the side and secured at the bottom “Jeb!” he called down. “Prepare to receive the girl!”

  She looked into his eyes and saw restrained amusement in their gray depths.

  “Well, have you nothing to say?”