Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Emerald watched him.

  His gleaming dark eyes were unsmiling as they fixed upon her. “Forgive, Senorita, I have upset you. You must not become troubled with talk of morbid things. You have a betrothal to dream of, a wealthy esteemed family to marry into, and, like Carlotta, you have much to occupy your mind.”

  He couldn’t know she knew about Miguel or that Baret Buckington had been one of three buccaneering captains who had taken the Spanish galleon with his nephew aboard. No one knew the Regale had been involved, not even Felix or Governor Modyford.

  “I fear for your nephew, Senor Vasquez. Have you any idea where the pirates are holding him captive?”

  He stroked his short pointed beard. “Where all unclean dogs gather to rejoice in their spoil. Where else but Tortuga, the rabid den of Diablo himself!”

  “Yes … so I have heard. A foul place, Senor. But surely! Even dogs will treat your nephew well, seeing as how they expect to be paid a ransom?”

  “This pirate capitan is the cleverest of the dogs, Senorita. Perhaps. Even so, though Miguel is safely returned, we will not rest until this dog hangs.”

  Emerald fanned her face briskly and lapsed into silence as Zeddie drove the buggy down the cutoff toward the house. She knew he was listening, too, by the way he kept shifting his hat in nervous gestures. Senor Vasquez might think as he wished, but capturing the pirate captain who had taken the Don Pedro and abducted Miguel would not be an easy matter. Did Baret know that Miguel’s uncle was here on Foxemoore?

  Emerald casually steered the conversation toward Geneva and Porto Bello.

  Dr. Ricardo Vasquez turned and looked at her. “You have interest in Porto Bello, Senorita?”

  Caution. “Lord Felix wishes me to voyage with my cousin and your niece, but alas, I cannot go. I have my duties here on Foxemoore.”

  “A disappointment, Senorita Emerald. Your presence, I am certain, would bring even more pleasure to the Vasquez hacienda. It would be a satisfaction to Lady Buckington and my future niece, Carlotta, as well. You must favor us and reconsider.”

  They drew up in front of the manor house. The lanterns were all glowing, and Yolanda waited on the porch, her turban showing like a lemon in the shades of evening. She came down the steps, her dark face lined and anxious.

  “Has Minette taken to the worse?” asked Emerald.

  “No, Miss Emerald, she’s perked up fine, like one of them wilted daisies.” She lowered her voice as she stopped in front of Emerald. “It’s Ty. He upped and went to Chocolata Hole, lookin’ for his cousin Rafael.”

  “Levasseur?” whispered Emerald so that the doctor wouldn’t hear. Her heart lurched at the thought. “Why does he wish to see Rafael? Did he say?”

  Yolanda’s face glistened with sweat, and her eyes were troubled. “He been saying the reason for long time. You knows how Ty feels, Miss Emerald. He’s been looking at the blue water since he was a boy and prayin’ he can sail it. It was only ‘cause he had to hide in the Blue Mountains that he’s not joined the pirates yet. Now he says he’s going a-buccaneering with Henry Morgan and the others. He’s wanting to sail with Captain Erik Farrow, he says. But says his French blood makes Rafael’s bargain sweeter.”

  Her hands clenched. Rafael’s bargain? “What bargain?”

  Yolanda shook her head. “He’s not saying.”

  “He can’t sail with Levasseur,” she hissed. “I won’t let him.”

  “You’d be blessed to stop him if you can. When I tole him so, he smiles. ‘You behave yourself, Yolanda,’ he tells me.”

  “I’ll stop him,” she promised grimly. “I’ll have Baret stop him for sure.” She became aware that Dr. Vasquez watched them whispering. Leaving Yolanda, she walked toward him.

  “My cousin is upstairs, Senor Vasquez. This way, please.”

  “I am at your disposal, Senorita.”

  Emerald now agreed with Lady Sophie in her doubts about Dr. Ricardo, even though he was indisputably a physician. Knowing how Felix had hired the now dead assassin to destroy Baret, could she trust Geneva and Jette’s safety to Miguel’s uncle at Porto Bello?

  Emerald wondered if she could speak with Carlotta. Perhaps she could learn more about the doctor from her, since the girl appeared in no mood to cooperate in the arranged marriage with his nephew. Since that was true, there should be little reason for Carlotta to betray Baret as the captain of the pirate vessel who had taken the Don Pedro. As long as Carlotta was determined to marry Sir Jasper and live in Jamaica, she would wish Baret to hold Miguel prisoner. Her love for Jasper was beneficial after all, thought Emerald wryly.

  Yet any hope of speaking alone with Carlotta was slim. The girl had disappeared from view soon after her arrival, and Emerald suspected she was under the watchful eye of both her father and her betrothed’s uncle. They would make certain she didn’t manage to escape again before the voyage to Porto Bello.

  There was a chance that Sir Jasper would try to come for her secretly, but Emerald held little hope for that to occur. Jasper was a paid vassal of Felix and would not risk angering him by running away to Tortuga with his daughter. Evidently Felix had well-laid plans to use Carlotta in his dealings with the Spanish dons, and woe to Jasper if he interfered.

  Jasper was not the sort of man to throw his life and riches to the wind in a daring raid to have the woman he wanted. His odious behavior toward Emerald had not been intended to cost him anything. With her father believed dead and Baret away, Jasper had thought he could get by with his actions. Had he known he would end up in a duel with Baret and be shot, Jasper would have avoided her.

  The return of Carlotta to the Main was certain, as was her marriage to Miguel, if Baret released him. But even if Carlotta had nothing to gain by keeping her secrecy about his involvement, who knew whether the mood of a girl given to fits of temper and jealousy would remain trustworthy? Baret must be told that Carlotta was at Foxemoore in the company of Don Miguel’s uncle. Was it even safe for Baret to show up here? He might now be considered the king’s agent, and Earl Winston Cunningham of the High Admiralty might be willing to have the charges of piracy and disloyalty to the king dropped, but Baret’s many enemies remained, as did her father’s.

  Several hours after Dr. Vasquez had treated Minette, Emerald stood at the window of her cousin’s room. The doctor had assured Emerald that the girl was more exhausted than dying of some treacherous disease. He had ruled out typhoid and cholera and suggested plenty of rest and good food, then left medication to treat the fever.

  “The little senorita will be up and waltzing at your betrothal. You have nothing to fear.”

  The news was heartening after an afternoon when events had left Emerald wondering what else could go wrong. Her return to Foxemoore had turned into a battleground, and it didn’t appear to be over yet. There was still the reaction of the Great House to her removal of Mr. Pitt from his position of overseer.

  And she wasn’t certain what Lady Sophie or Lord Felix would say about Ngozi’s being in charge. Overseers were usually Europeans. Emerald was sure she hadn’t heard the end of the matter, either from the House or from Mr. Pitt. He was furious enough to complain to Lady Sophie. And the first thing that went wrong among the slaves on Foxemoore would be blamed on the ineptitude of Ngozi to handle the position. Emerald’s fears brought second thoughts about her bold decision. Had she acted too hastily?

  Fears of all sorts enlarged into threatening shadows that stalked the empty rooms of the manor house. The big yellow moon offered a smile of brightness as it began to set behind the vast cane fields, setting them aglow, but the house grew darker.

  She left the window and looked over at the bed. Minette, bathed and wearing the first clean gown she’d seen in months, was resting peacefully, fast asleep from the medication. Emerald could almost imagine a wistful smile on her face as visions of hope and happiness were resurrected from the depth of hopelessness she had known in the slave fields under Mr. Pitt.

  Emerald’s own smile faded into a look of d
etermination. Nor will I forget those who have no hope still but who are doomed to live and die in the sunbaked furrows of the fields. And the prisoners at Brideswell…

  She would work a little at a time to ease their burdens and would contact the church about holding a worship service at the prison house. She wouldn’t forget the miserable wretches she had met while there. Faith and the others would soon receive clothing and other items to make their existence more bearable.

  She sighed as she walked over to Minette. There was so much to do and seemingly so little time to accomplish it all. Surely Felix had not told her the truth about Baret’s wishing her to voyage with Geneva and Jette to Porto Bello.

  Jette. She remembered that he had overheard. The boy would not rest easy now, thinking he might be sent to the Main. He’d be on pins and needles waiting for the arrival of Baret to beg that something be done so he wouldn’t need to be with Felix.

  Minette’s hair was still damp from the good washing that Yolanda had given her, and it lay in ringlets across the pillow, amber in the moonlight. She was dreaming of Erik Farrow, thought Emerald with a smile. Again she took time to pray and express her thanksgiving to the Lord for having protected them both through their fiery trials and bringing them safely together again to face the future.

  Emotionally exhausted and physically tired, Emerald then went down the narrow hall and passed the little gallery her father called the “crow’s nest.” She descended the steep flight of steps that hugged one side of the wall. Below in the receiving hall, Zeddie dozed and snored in a wicker chair by the door, his pistols on his lap and his feet propped up on a settee. She smiled and walked past quietly.

  This was the first moment Emerald had had to herself, and she realized how hungry she was. Some mango and hot tea would be delightful before she tumbled into bed.

  As she walked softly toward the back of the house to the cook room, she made plans for tomorrow. There was no choice; she must write a message to Baret, warning him about Miguel’s uncle being on Foxemoore. First thing in the morning she would send Zeddie with the letter into Port Royal. The buccaneers’ meeting with Henry Morgan as Modyford’s admiral was under way, and Baret would be there.

  For the first time she considered what Felix had told her in Geneva’s bedroom. Was it likely that Baret would tell his uncle he wished her to voyage with Geneva and Jette to Porto Bello? The idea seemed contrary to what she knew of Baret. It didn’t seem reasonable that he would want any of them on the Main—not when Morgan intended to attack. And if his father was a slave there, would Baret want more of those he cared about at the planter’s hacienda? She frowned. There was so much to tell Baret that hinted of new dangers.

  She touched the ruby at her throat.

  6

  THE KING’S HOUSE

  While Henry Morgan and his buccaneer captains were preparing to covertly sail against Spanish shipping, dark and dangerous news of another sort arrived at the governor’s official residence. Because of that news, Governor Modyford, Captain Morgan, and Baret Buckington—alias Captain Foxworth of the buccaneering vessel the Regale—gathered one evening in the parlor of the King’s House as the sky darkened with purple hue.

  From the time of Morgan’s return from successful raids on Villahermosa and Gran Granada, the governor had befriended him, and both Morgan and Baret had become frequent evening visitors at the King’s House, coming and going secretly by way of the small walled garden.

  Baret stood near a screened door that opened onto the garden. The evening smoldered, matching his mood and the mood of Morgan. A breeze that did little to cool whispered through the thick green foliage of the plantain trees, adding humid fragrance to the smell of tobacco.

  Dangerous men, Baret and Morgan were both now restrained in the presence of Gov. Thomas Modyford, who was neither a stranger to buccaneering ways nor a lover of Spain. Tonight he had more reason than ever to secretly support “Harry Morgan’s Way,” as the pirates spoke of the captain’s successful attacks on the Main. Baret had brought Sir Thomas painful news, and Thomas mulled it over with bitterness.

  Baret held a Venetian glass of sweetened limeade, and his keen dark eyes sparked with leashed energy. He was armed with a long rapier and a pair of French pistols and was dressed fashionably as Earl Nigel’s grandson, who presently was in favor with both the Jamaica Assembly and the Court of King Charles.

  Wearing a cool white cotton buccaneer shirt with wide sleeves, dark trousers, and calf-length boots with silver buckles, he stood looking unhurried and thoughtful. His hair, as dark as ebony, was drawn back with a leather cord and, as a royalist, worn in the style of the king’s royal-blooded Cavaliers.

  “You’re confident you can rely on his information?” asked Sir Thomas.

  Baret remembered his last productive confrontation with the Spanish capitan whom he had abducted from the Don Pedro. Miguel Vasquez, son of the don who had bought Baret’s father as a slave, had finally broken down and admitted all he knew. He was still a prisoner in the one place Baret was convinced that neither Felix nor his spies would think to search—or dare to: Captain Erik Farrow’s ship, the Warspite, anchored only a half mile out in the bay, deliberately away from his own vessel, the Regale.

  “In this instance, Sir Thomas, the informer’s words can be vouched,” said Baret, restraining a look of pity for Governor Modyford.

  Sir Thomas lowered his tall hefty frame into a wicker chair and sighed. His wide thin mouth, which usually bore a twisted smile of perpetual boredom beneath a wide floppy mustache, was now taut. Like many in the tropics, his head was shaved due to the heat, and he wore a clean purple head scarf that went along with his taffetas. Modyford, who had come out to the West Indies as a young man in the days of Cromwell, appeared not so different from the pirates he had previously hanged. His heavy hand, sporting a number of bejeweled silver and gold rings, gripped the ornate knob of his shoulder-high walking stick.

  “This isn’t pretty news for Lady Modyford,” he said of his wife.

  “You have my sympathy, Sir Thomas. I could wish it weren’t true.”

  Modyford nodded, preventing his emotions from spilling over. Baret respected him for it. There was no indecision in his wide jaw. Here was a governor who could not be controlled by the Spanish sympathizers either in London or on the Jamaican Assembly. His decisiveness was one reason Baret and Morgan both trusted him. Felix, who worked with Thomas Lynch, the factor of the Royal African Company, had not been able to influence Modyford into a pro-Spanish stance. The governor had the brute strength of a bull, the cunning of a diplomat who was wise to the ways of his opponents in Madrid and London, and he had befriended Henry Morgan, knowing he could use a man of his abilities for the protection of the island from the dons. That gave Baret more confidence.

  His brassy complexion was typical of many of the gentry in Jamaica who downed too many rum toddies in the tropical heat. Otherwise, Modyford was an exemplary English governor who had been appointed by King Charles.

  But now, Modyford had just learned what had happened to his son.

  Four years ago Modyford had sent his eldest boy, Jack, in the frigate Griffin to fetch Lady Modyford. The frigate had disappeared somewhere on the Caribbean.

  “Thinking of Jack’s death has been painful. Lady Modyford and I suspected that the boy was doubtless either murdered or sent into the South Seas by these our cruel neighbors. But the news you bring, if true, Baret, is far, far worse.”

  Baret’s dark eyes were grave. Don Miguel Vasquez had informed him that a Spanish captain, Francisco Martin, told of two English ships that had been wrecked on the Florida coast in August of ‘64, soon after Modyford became governor. Five men were said to have survived and, after living with the Indians, were later captured by the Spanish. One of those five was a young man with a “very good face and light, somewhat curling hair,” who said his name was Jack, or John, and that he was the son of the governor of Jamaica.

  Baret understood Modyford’s distress. What had happe
ned to his son had also happened to Baret’s father, Viscount Royce Buckington. When thinking of loved ones in relation to the Inquisitors, it was preferable to believe them buried at the bottom of the Caribbean rather than chained in dungeons where filth and excrement bred misery and disease.

  “He’s a prisoner, then,” breathed Modyford, dazed, “in Porto Bello.”

  “It isn’t certain whether he’s in Porto Bello. He could have been moved to Peru. The informant did not know.”

  Modyford groaned. The Peruvian silver mines were places of living death.

  “However, I’ve news my father is in Porto Bello,” confessed Baret. “And there are prisoners with him. There’s a chance—a small one—that your son may be one of them. If not, someone may know where he is.”

  Modyford was thoughtful. He looked at Captain Morgan. “Whether Jack is a prisoner or dead, anything you attempt on the Caribbean must be deemed of justifiable cause in London. If you go beyond the legal commission I’ve granted, I’ll not be able to save you from His Majesty’s ire or the Spanish ambassador’s ranting for your head. I can do little more than try to defend you to Albemarle,” he added. The duke, Baret knew, was Modyford’s cousin, serving Charles in London.

  Morgan did not appear unnerved. He looked at his Havana seegar, which he had not yet lit, and turned it over as though inspecting and relishing its leaf. Morgan was a sturdy Welshman with hard clever eyes that stared back evenly from beneath the dark brows that slashed across his flat baked-brown forehead. A wide curling mustache and short beard blended into a head of thick brownish hair that fell to an inch or two above his wide shoulders.

  He emptied his rum toddy in one gulp. “No need to fret, Sir Thomas. You’ll never see Harry Morgan do anything to cause you legal embarrassment. I’ll not self-destruct in the clutches of the sweet Spanish sympathizers. The legal commission gives me berth to move, and move I will—but as soft-footed as a cautious fox.”