“For Porto Bello we’d need at least one more ship.”
“Pierre LaMonte might join us again.”
“Ask about, but be discreet. Even here, there are few I trust. The French buccaneers may have cheered my defeat of Levasseur in the duel, but they are first loyal to their own blood. And with England now at war with both Holland and France, they will be sure to side with them.”
He lifted the glass again toward Mansfield’s ship. The stalwart Dutchman would be a good man to join, but he was getting old, and having just come from a raid he wouldn’t be anxious for another so soon, least of all on the queen of Spanish strongholds, Porto Bello.
“So Morgan’s stayed in Port Royal,” mused Baret again. “Odd, don’t you think? What would Morgan have in common with Modyford, when he’s ejected the Brotherhood from Jamaica?”
“More than you may think. And he’s not gulping rum in a bawdy house but sipping sophisticated Madeira in the governor’s residence. In the company of the new lieutenant governor—and his daughter.”
Baret lowered the spyglass.
“The lieutenant governor has a name you’re sure to find of interest—Colonel Sir Edward Morgan.”
Baret squinted at him sharply. “You mean Morgan’s uncle from Wales?”
“His choleric uncle is now second to Modyford, appointed by His Majesty.”
Baret leaned on the rail, pondering. Morgan had cause to stay in Port Royal all right, and if he knew the mind of the tough buccaneer, the cause would be something big. But what could be bigger than sacking Porto Bello?
Baret recalled that Colonel Sir Edward Morgan had been a staunch Royalist who had fought long and bitterly for the king against the Roundheads under Cromwell. When Charles Stuart had been forced into exile, Sir Edward and his wife and several daughters also went into exile, forfeiting his land holdings. He was a poor man now, for the king lacked money to repay his loyal cavaliers for their losses. The king must have awarded the post of lieutenant governor to him for his past service.
“Henry Morgan is courting his cousin, Mary Elizabeth,” Erik said. “It may be we’ve lost the best captain the Tortuga Brotherhood is likely to have for some time.”
“I can’t see him nibbling crumpets and sipping tea in a parlor for long. Not while Spanish treasure waits to be gathered like fat eggs from a sleeping hen. Morgan must have plans. And with his uncle as lieutenant governor, we may have run into luck, Erik.”
Erik seemed to ponder also. “Unless we underestimate his secret ambitions, your lordship. He may not be content to remain a freebooter after all. Notice how cautious he is when it comes to an expedition without a commission.”
“You’re right. And so far his luck holds. On the Gran Granada raid, he convinced the governor he hadn’t realized all English commissions were called in. So far, he can say he’s strictly the king’s privateer. Which is more than either of us can do,” Baret said. “I wonder what his uncle may think of Jamaica’s private navy.”
“Jackman seems to think the wind may be blowing in our favor again. The planters are worried about an attack from Spain. They’re complaining to the governor for sending us packing.”
Baret’s interest grew. Jackman. Morgan’s lead captain. Then Morgan must have an expedition on his mind. Was he waiting for the well-wishes of the governor in the form of legal commissions? “Jackman is here?”
“Arrived this morning. There’s another man too—the one who brought this message from Morgan. He’s a friend of Modyford and is asking to see you.”
“Asking to see me. Now this is interesting. Where is he?”
“With the French governor. There’s to be a meeting later on the beach. Mansfield’s men will be reporting their booty. But take heed if you go there, Baret. Yves Montieth will be present also. He’s heard about your duel with Levasseur. They’re related.”
“A chance I must take. Either Jackman or Mansfield may know what Morgan is up to. And I wish to see this ‘friend’ of Modyford’s bold enough to come here to see me!”
“With Gallows Point waiting, you best be on guard.”
Mansfield’s arriving ship fired a greeting to Tortuga’s fort, high on the bluff. The French governor’s militia answered with a welcoming volley. The old buccaneer headed into Cayona Bay with flags flying and drums beating.
Hob laughed. “Har. Cap’n Mansfield carries a sweet haul this time. Look how low she sits in the water.”
Baret and Erik went down the quarterdeck steps.
“Need I remind you there is the unresolved matter of the treasure of the Prince Philip on Margarita?” Erik said. “Each day we delay gives Levasseur more time to find it on his own.”
“You need not remind me. I await the return of Karlton. Do not worry about Levasseur. He’s not clever enough to guess its place of concealment. That information remains with me—and Karlton. Margarita will wait until we attack Porto Bello.”
Since 1660, the white-and-gold lily-dotted banner of the Bourbon dynasty of Louis XIV, king of France, had been flying not only over Tortuga but above ports Margot and de Paix on Hispaniola. Tortuga—French for “turtle”—had a fort built high on the bluff overlooking Cayona beach. It bristled with guns taken through the years by the buccaneers from captured Spanish vessels.
The fort had been built by an early self-imposed governor, a French Huguenot by the name of Levasseur. His hatred for Spain and its persistent persecution of Protestants who had escaped to the West Indies had eventually turned that Levasseur into a raving pirate.
Baret heard that he eventually went mad and was murdered by a fellow pirate. Since then, the freebooters had managed to drive off further attacks on Tortuga by the guarda costa, and governors more respectable than Levasseur were sent out from France in an attempt to govern the turtle-shaped island and its defiant pirates.
Unlike the English governor of Jamaica, the new French administator, Bernard Deschamps, Chevalier du Rausset, welcomed the buccaneers and worked with them by secretly granting marques to attack Spain’s shipping and her colonies. This he did by granting commissions not from the king of France—who, like King Charles, was at peace with Spain—but from Portugal.
Portugal had been at war with Spain since the 1640s. By his selling Portuguese commissions, the buccaneers were able to legally sail as privateers under Portugal’s flag and defend themselves from arrest by France for piracy. Henry Morgan had sailed under a Portuguese commission on his last raid.
Captain Edward Mansfield was returning now with just such a commission.
Clear and calm, Cayona Bay reflected the overhead sun. By the time the longboat from the Regale arrived, the captains and their officers were already gathering on the beach beneath an awning of dried palm branches.
Baret and Erik, with members of their separate crews, stepped onto the glittering white sand. Baret settled his hat against the glare and looked up at the governor’s fort. Cannon stared sightlessly at the Dutch ship, resting unobtrusively at anchor without flag, before what he suspected was a secret voyage to attack Barbados. His cousin Grayford, commanding the H.M.S. Royale, was also anchored in the harbor, unsuspecting.
If Baret wished to gain the favor of King Charles, he might sail tonight to warn the English. The noble deed would also win the graces of his cantankerous grandfather. But somehow Baret felt no driving passion to betray the Dutch. He debated with himself without coming to a decision.
His boots sank into soft, dry sand as he walked up the beach with his lieutenant, the big redheaded Scot, Yorke. Erik followed just behind with his own officer, Jeb, who sported a gold ring in his left earlobe.
Baret wore a gaping white shirt of cool cotton and dark breeches, in the belt of which he carried a brace of pistols, since only a fool or a novice would meet with the pirate captains without weapons. The Brotherhood might entertain mutual respect for one another, but that could swiftly turn to temper and a duel.
Yorke carried his machete and a broad-bladed cutlass, and Baret’s serving-man, Hob
, insisted on bearing his captain’s baldric with style, a delighted grin on his leathery old face.
Baret paused on the beach before joining the parley under the awning, his gaze flickering over the ruthless breed. Among the pirates of the West Indies, they represented some of the most brutal men that the Spaniards had yet confronted. Nevertheless, their costumes were as fine and varied as any in the courts of England, France, or Spain, since what they wore was the rich fruit of plunder. Still, for the most part, the taffetas, velvets, Mechlin and Bruges lace was soiled, torn in spots, and sometimes stained with brine and blood-spattered.
Some disdained fashion, and these wore calico shirts and loose breeches of rawhide, or baggy cotton pantaloons bloused at the knee. All wore long, rat-tailed mustaches. Because of the sweltering heat, many had shaved their heads and wore scarves to protect their scalps.
“Seems the hardest barnacles of ’em all be gatherin’ for the divvyin’ up,” mused Hob.
Baret agreed, and then his gaze unexpectedly fell upon Captain Rafael Levasseur. So. He was back. Baret’s anger slowly heated. “He’s managed a swift voyage from Port Royal,” he said over his shoulder. “Cecil informed me he met with Felix.”
“Trouble,” said Erik, nothing in his voice.
“Traitorous scum,” grumbled Yorke. “Ye shoulda sunk his ship when ye had the time, Captain. I wonder what he wants besides trouble?”
“Rest assured we’ll soon find out. He appears to anxiously await our arrival.”
Beneath the sailcloth were a wide carved table and several chairs, the chief seat waiting for the governor. Some wooden chests sat on the sand, guarded by several buccaneers with pistols.
In the two years that he’d searched for his father, Baret had allowed himself to become acquainted with them all, hoping to win their confidence as one among them and so to discover any news of Royce Buckington. One of those pirates was the black-browed Pierre LaMonte, who now sat sprawled in a low chair, scanning the others in silence. His reputation along the Mosquito Coast brought terror to the Spaniard colonists. But not nearly as much as did that of Jean David Nau, better known on the Main as Captain l’Olonnaise. Tales of his crew and their horrendous expeditions beneath the skull and crossbones had convinced Baret the man was a sadist as hopelessly evil as the Inquisitors.
There was also Captain Michael le Basque, a deadly man with the rapier, and the blond, blue-eyed Dutchman Roche. Beside him, sprawled on the sand, was Captain de Montbars, known to the Spaniards as the “Exterminator.” Cream lace spilled from his cuffs and embroidered his wide collar, magnificently arranged over an emerald-green velvet jacket. A ruby glowed hotly on his pistol belt.
“There are few Englishmen,” Baret commented to Erik, noticing several hard glances from the French.
In light of the war, his presence might be looked upon with less favor than usual, although they knew of his loyalty to Holland—there were few who would not have heard about the martyrdom of his mother. But as Erik had already warned him, the duel with Rafael Levasseur had not set well with many of the Frenchmen.
“And look who comes now,” said Erik in a low voice.
Baret followed his gaze. Yves Montieth was cutting his way through the other captains, who grudgingly moved aside to allow him berth. Then Yves stood with booted feet apart in the hot sand, looking about with belligerent curiosity as if to see who among the Brotherhood was there to match his own grand presence.
Baret felt the fierce black eyes measure him, and it was clear from Yves’s expression that Erik was right. He knew about the duel with his relative Rafael.
Baret returned the even stare. From experience he knew that the one way to avoid trouble was to not flinch in the presence of cutthroats. Pirates and buccaneers alike respected little else other than courage and skill with weaponry and ship. A man who backed away from an insult did not live long, unless he surrendered to the position of a lackey.
Levasseur said something to Yves, who nodded and, turning, spoke in sharp French to his lieutenant. The officer primped his oiled mustache and looked over at Baret, then at Erik. The three pirates doffed their plumed hats, a sign they wished no confrontation.
Baret and Erik exchanged glances.
“Don’t believe them,” Baret murmured but smiled in their direction and removed his own hat with fanfare, bowing low from the waist. Then he walked toward the meeting.
A murmur broke out among the pirates when several men were seen approaching from the direction of the governor’s fort.
One of the captains stretched out his legs in the sand, glaring as he watched them come. “So the stinking governor’s finally decided to keep the meeting. About time, I say. Who does he think he is, to keep good men waiting?”
“He comes for his divvy,” said another.
“Where’s Jackman and Mansfield?” inquired Baret.
Heads turned slowly in his direction and he sensed again their resistance to his presence.
But the Dutchman Roche eased the moment. “Mansfield’s sick. Stayed aboard his vessel. Jackman went to see him.”
Odd, thought Baret. “When the booty’s to be divided? You mean he trusts you sharks?” he asked lightly.
“Are you suggesting, Monsieur Foxworth, that I, Jean David Nau, cannot be trusted?” asked a black-browed pirate with lofty disdain.
“Monsieur, no! Why, we all know how well you can be trusted, my captain!”
Roche chuckled, and several others smiled briefly, but the rest wore hot-tempered scowls.
“Behold, the gallant and noble French governor arrives,” announced Baret. “Arise, Brethren, in the company of thrilling excellence and integrity!”
“Har,” chuckled Hob. “Seen more excellence in a squalling Spaniard danglin’ by his thumbs.”
The captains grumbled, but those sprawled on the sand pushed themselves up and stood in slouching stances. “Greetings, Monsieur Governor,” they mumbled, pulling off their hats, then pushing them back on.
Two militiamen, bearing the soiled fleur-de-lis, escorted the governor under the canopy.
Baret was taken by surprise when he caught sight of the Englishman with him. James Warwick was a member of Modyford’s council.
After Charles had been anointed king, he rewarded the English islands in the Caribbean for their loyalty, granting several baronets and knighthoods on Barbados and Jamaica. One of those receiving the title of baronet was the pompous Warwick, sugar planter and friend of Felix.
Warwick, looking out of place in a hat with a withered brown turkey feather and a yellow coat sporting large wooden buttons, came to stand under the canopy. He was supported by a brawny militiaman, who looked ill at ease as he eyed the captains he knew well from better days at Port Royal.
“Well, gentlemen, Port Royal has sorely missed you. Modyford sends his toast for what ails ye, and a hearty summons back to your home port,” the baronet said.
The buccaneers exchanged glances.
“Monsieur Captains!” mocked Pierre LaMonte. “We are honored! It is the English governor’s friend Warwick.” He bowed. “Monsieur. You have not come to Tortuga to arrest us law-abiding Frenchmen, then?”
“I am certain, Captain LaMonte, that will not be necessary,” Warwick said in a firm voice, ignoring the laughter.
“Oui, monsieur? Is it so?” Pierre good-naturedly gestured toward Baret. “Not even this half-caste Englishman and Dutch pirate, fit for Execution Dock?”
Baret smiled. “Not Execution Dock, Pierre. It is too far. Gallows Point will suffice.” And he doffed his hat toward Warwick. “A pleasant afternoon to you, Baronet Warwick. You’re in time to witness the biggest pirate of them all, the governor of Tortuga, divvying up the booty the fair citizens of his island have recently borrowed from a Spanish merchant ship on its way to Cádiz. On with it, Pierre! What have you brought the governor? Pearls from Margarita Island, perhaps?”
The French governor smiled unpleasantly, his eyes unblinking beneath folds of fat. “Monsieur Foxworth has
a questionable sense of humor, Baronet.” He cleared his throat and gestured to Warwick. “Be seated, please.”
Pierre grinned at Baret and smoothed his curled mustache. “Perhaps we should give a share to Monsieur Warwick to bring back to his darling wife at Port Royal, eh?”
Warwick cleared his throat, for it was known that his wife decked herself with Spanish jewelry. “You may keep your pearls, Captain LaMonte.” He looked toward Baret. “It is you, Captain Foxworth, whom our beloved Governor Modyford wishes to entertain.”
Laughter erupted.
“How generous of him, Baronet. You won’t mind if I decline the invitation? But are you sure it’s the goodly Jamaican governor who wishes to entertain me and not my warmhearted uncle?”
Again there was a chuckle. “You’re naught but gallows bait for him, Foxworth,” a pirate said. “He’ll sleep well knowin’ you’re dangling in the salty breeze a’right.”
Warwick held up a hand. “On the contrary, Captain Foxworth, Lord Buckington didn’t send me, nor does he know I’m here. It’s the governor himself who wishes your presence—and Henry Morgan.”
At the mention of Morgan, Baret’s interest sharpened, but he did not trust Warwick or the governor. “You’ve brought me a letter from Morgan?”
Warwick smiled. “Well, no, but I’ve been commissioned to be his spokesman.”
“You’ll forgive any affront to your well-known honor, Baronet, if I question your legal commission.”
“Now look here, Baret—” he began, but Levasseur interrupted him. “Monsieur Foxworth, it is I who have the letter—not from Morgan but from Demoiselle Emerald Harwick.” His black eyes glinted with malicious good humor. “You wish to see this letter from a damsel in harm’s way, monsieur, yes?”
A tense silence descended on the gathering. Levasseur now had Baret’s full and unamused attention.
Warwick looked angry. “You stay out of this, Captain Levasseur. I’ve been sent by Modyford.”
“And I, Baronet, have been sent by a woman of grave importance to both myself and Captain Foxworth,” snapped Levasseur.
Buccaneers Series Page 71