Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Baret, wearing a thin mustache, looked like the dark and earthy young King Charles, and a faintly sardonic expression hovered on his mouth as he considered Morgan’s words. Then he glanced at Modyford to gauge his response.

  The governor appeared satisfied and equally cautious. He removed a yellow handkerchief and wiped his heavy brow. He bit the end of his own seegar and watched Morgan refill his glass with rum.

  There had been other sobering news, which frightened all Jamaican sugar planters and Port Royal merchants. Reports from Cuba had reached the governor and the Assembly that Madrid had ordered the various dons on the Main to assemble a fleet and seize Jamaica.

  “The Spanish Council of the Indies has managed at last to get their ships away from Madrid’s navy,” he warned.

  “The armada de barlovento?” asked Baret, troubled.

  “Aye, and the armada has arrived, I’m told. Six warships. Their upkeep will be charged to the various Spanish provinces. Two went to Vera Cruz to guard the base of the flota, two to Cartagena to protect the galleons, and two are operating from Havana.”

  Baret looked at Morgan. They knew why the ships had gone to Cuba—to keep the western end of the island free of any buccaneers tempted to attack the plate fleet.

  “Do they have an admiral?” breathed Morgan over the seegar he’d finally lit.

  Modyford leaned toward the carved logwood table and lifted a sheet of paper. “Admiral Alonso del Campo y Espinosa.”

  Morgan considered the name. “Never heard of ‘im.” He looked at Baret, who wore a half smile.

  He shook his head no. “Spanish warships are no match for the buccaneers, Sir Thomas. The galleons are fit for Spain but not for the Caribbean. They are much too expensive for the provinces to maintain. They are too large, and their keels sit so deep in the water that they can’t chase the small and nimble vessels of the buccaneers into the shallow channels.”

  “He’s right. They’ll not chase us out of the scores of bays once we’ve slipped them.”

  Baret knew that Morgan had already arranged his rendezvous at a particular group of the South Cays of Cuba. The word was out not only in Port Royal, where he was head of the newly formed Port Royal Volunteers, but also in Tortuga, St. Kitts, and Bermuda.

  Even now, the buccaneers and pirates interested in joining him for the expedition were preparing to voyage there. One by one the various vessels would come in before the last day of the rendezvous, 28 of March, to receive their commissions from Morgan. They hoped to have some two dozen vessels and seven hundred buccaneers, a mixture of British and the feisty French from Tortuga.

  The fact that Morgan had been legally appointed admiral by the governor of Jamaica had already wooed the restless buccaneers to make ready, even though the place of attack was not known. That decision would be finalized at the point of rendezvous. Baret had only one place in mind that he was interested in: Porto Bello.

  “I hope you gentlemen appreciate the difficulty facing me as governor.” Modyford pushed himself from the chair and began pacing. “His Majesty has ordered the buccaneers to attack the Dutch—” he looked at Baret “—and you refuse and insist on letters to attack Spain.”

  “Did I not fight the Dutch at Barbados?” Baret asked innocently. “My grandfather is pleased—why not the king?”

  “Why not, indeed! With Morgan’s own uncle dead at Curacao—”

  “Uncle Edward died of a heart attack,” interjected Morgan. “And I told him to leave the poor Hollanders be. They’ve enough trouble with Spain. And you think Baret has a heart to fight ’em when it was the Spanish butchered his fair mother?”

  “Yes, yes, I understand, but I’m put in a pretty way. I cannot openly condone your attack on the Spanish Main or issue commissions to such a cause without losing my own head to the king. I must walk a tightrope between angering London, which wishes no open provocation with Madrid, and pleasing the Brotherhood, who do. London demands I ‘peacefully pursue’ trade in the Indies but offers no means to enforce peaceful cooperation from the dons! And I cannot protect Jamaica and appease the Brotherhood unless I issue commissions to attack Spain.”

  “There can be no peaceful trade until the back of Madrid is broken,” said Baret.

  “He’s right,” Morgan agreed. “Spain does not speak English. They understand one language—seeing their treasure ships gutted and sent to the sharks.”

  “I need my own frigates,” Modyford said to himself, still pacing. “But my request to London is ignored. Yet they warn me to keep the Brotherhood on good behavior. How can I unless I give commissions against Spain?”

  “You have our utmost sympathy, Sir Thomas,” said Baret gravely.

  But the amused glimmer in his eyes brought a frown to the governor’s face. “If I only had frigates …” he repeated.

  For two years Modyford had been trying to persuade the Privy Council to send out frigates so that he wouldn’t need to rely on the buccaneers, but to no avail. King Charles insisted he couldn’t afford their upkeep.

  “The Brotherhood has no heart to attack the Dutch,” continued Morgan, leaning back in his chair while Modyford walked to and fro. “It’s Spain. No one else. Nothing less.”

  “And the Dutch have no wealth,” added Baret with dry humor. “Will the king pay for our sailing and rigging to attack the poor Dutch colonies?”

  His innocent tone suggested otherwise.

  Morgan looked at the governor over his seegar. “Ye know he’s right, Sir Thomas. How else can we protect His Majesty’s Jamaica if we cannot collect wages from Spain for our upkeep? And if the Brotherhood has no wages to spend in Port Royal, how will the merchants get rich on pieces of eight? And who will make the Caribbean safe for the planters to haul their sweet sugar to Mother England?”

  “Ah, well spoken,” Baret said.

  Modyford gave a short laugh. “You have me, Harry, and everyone knows you’re a smooth talker. When it comes to commanding the buccaneers, that’s a valuable asset to me now. Aye, I’ve no choice but to let you sail against Spain. But remember! If anything goes wrong on this expedition, it’s my first duty to denounce you. And that goes for you as well, Baret. Your victory at Barbados will count for little. There’s still those, including Felix, who would love to see you hang.”

  “I’m well aware, Thomas. But freeing my father at Porto Bello, and perhaps even your son, is the answer to a good many unsettled things.”

  “Then I wish you and Harry Godspeed and happy hunting.” Sir Thomas lifted his glass, and the old twisted smile was back.

  Morgan stood and bowed. “We have us a gentleman’s agreement, Sir Thomas.”

  Baret parted fellowship with Morgan, who went inside the Red Goose with Jackman and Morris. Arriving on the wharf, he took the worn stone steps down to board the cockboat, where his half-caste waited to row him out a quarter mile to the Regale. The moist warm breeze from off the glittering blue water tugged at his hat.

  Suddenly a shadow disengaged itself from other shadows and moved toward him.

  Baret’s hand went toward his pistol.

  “Ho! ‘Tis only me, Captain Buckington. I bring a message from your lady fair.”

  Baret recognized the lank frame of Zeddie approaching him.

  The man drew near and held out a folded message. “Foul news, an’ she thought you ought to know before you ride into Foxemoore.”

  Alert, Baret read Emerald’s letter. The unexpected arrival of Ricardo Vasquez meant trouble indeed. Was this an unfortunate coincidence or a devious, well-laid plan by Felix?

  He knew little about the physician from Madrid. Had he come to Spanish Town seeking the runaway Carlotta to marry his nephew Miguel, or were Carlotta and the medical treatment of Geneva a ruse for a more sinister endeavor to bring Geneva to the don’s estate in Porto Bello? Yet, neither Ricardo nor Felix could know that Baret had been involved in taking the Don Pedro, or that he held Ricardo’s nephew a prisoner. Carlotta knew. But Baret didn’t think she would betray him, because she w
ould do anything to stay on Jamaica and marry Jasper.

  “Porto Bello,” Baret mused.

  “Not a friendly spot for curin’ what ails a person, I’m thinkin’. Him coming to the hacienda in Spanish Town when he did to find Miss Carlotta smells a whole lot like fish left too long in the sun.”

  Baret folded the message. Unanticipated events controlled by Felix made him uneasy. A trap was being set, but was it for him or for someone else? Of what benefit to Felix’s cause was it to bring Geneva to the estate of Don Miguel Vasquez? Did Felix know that Baret’s father had been a slave there? Felix thought Royce Buckington was dead. The old scholar Lucca had been able to deceive Felix in a letter written to Baret from Maracaibo. Lucca, knowing that Felix’s spies would intercept the letter, had deliberately given false information as to Royce’s death.

  But had Felix since discovered the truth? What if Ricardo knew otherwise? Since Miguel knew where Royce was being held, it was likely that his uncle did also. If he did know, he’d mention it to Felix. That meant Baret must make his move to rescue his father before Felix voyaged to Porto Bello or sent a message to the don to have him killed.

  “Return to Foxemoore, Zeddie. Tell Emerald nothing will keep me away. I’ve important matters to take care of here first, but I’ll arrive the night of our betrothal.”

  “I’ll tell her, but what of the Spaniard? Might’n all this be a trap set for you? What better place than at the betrothal, when you’re unsuspectin’ of treachery?”

  “If it is a trap, I’ve a few surprises of my own,” he said and thought of the physician’s nephew, Miguel Vasquez, held a prisoner. He would soon have Miguel moved from Erik’s ship and back aboard the Regale for the voyage to Porto Bello. Neither Ricardo nor Felix could successfully move against him as long as he held such a noteworthy prisoner. He smiled. Once inside Porto Bello, he intended to use Miguel to lead him to his father.

  Zeddie cocked his good eye at him. “Am I right in thinkin’ she didn’t tell you about Ty?”

  Baret remembered the young man who had escaped to the Blue Mountains. The threatened branding of Ty had been the reason Emerald first came aboard the Regale, looking for jewels to pay Pitt to not carry out the branding. In the end, Pitt brought Ty to the town pillory and had him branded.

  Zeddie straightened his periwig. “She probably wouldn’t tell you about Ty since she’s protective of him, as well she should be. But I’ve got some worries, knowin’ how that rascally mouthed other cousin of hers is as sharp as a barracuda.”

  “You mean Rafael Levasseur?” Baret’s eyes narrowed. “What about him and Ty?”

  “Ty didn’t say so, but I’m thinking, if he seeks any pirate ship to sail, it’ll be aboard the Venture. Ty’s as proud of his French blood as any of ’em. He’s been planning to escape Foxemoore and run away to Tortuga to join Levasseur since he was twelve. He was going to escape with Jamie Bradford, except Pitt caught him first.”

  Baret’s dark eyes turned hard. “Does Emerald know he plans to join Levasseur?”

  “If she’s guessed, she ain’t said so. I’m thinking she doesn’t, since she’s had her hands full with the ailing Minette and going up to the Great House for help. There’s nothing she can do to stop Ty. An’ that’s what has me worried. That Levasseur is a cunning fox, and if he can use Ty in any way to get what he wants from Emerald—well, your lordship, you’re seein’ the direction of my thoughts.”

  “Quite well, Zeddie. Where is Ty now?”

  “I wish I knew. He left Foxemoore this afternoon. He’s lookin’ for Levasseur.”

  Baret looked out toward the bay and the various-sized vessels lying at anchor. Although there was a state of war between England and Holland, and France had sided with the Dutch, it didn’t significantly affect the relationship between the various nationalities among the Brotherhood on Tortuga. Morgan confidently expected the French buccaneers to be joining him at the point of rendezvous in the South Cays of Cuba. But Baret hadn’t seen Levasseur’s Venture since his own arrival. Was he even here?

  Yes, it was too late to stop Ty, and his unwise association with Rafael would mean trouble. Baret was certain of that.

  7

  THE SINGING SCHOOL

  Emerald didn’t know what to expect from the Great House when the news of Pitt’s replacement by Ngozi reached the family. She hadn’t needed to wait long. Lady Sophie sent the house servant Henry with a terse note: “You’ve exceeded your authority. I’ll not have an African slave as overseer.”

  Henry averted his eyes as he handed a second note to her. “From Lady Buckington,” he said of Geneva.

  Emerald, standing on the front porch of the manor house, looked up and saw a familiar gray gelding and rider coming down the road between the cane. Pitt!

  She read Geneva’s message. “Emerald, I fear you’ve acted rashly by removing Mr. Pitt. This matter must be discussed at length with all members of the family who own shares in Foxemoore. Felix doesn’t yet know what you’ve done, but I’m sure he’ll disagree with your action. And you already know how upset Sophie is. Have you forgotten the slave uprising that took the life of Beatrice? Lavender still mourns her mother and is quite frightened of the slaves. She’ll not venture to the manor house without a bodyguard. I realize you think well of the slave Ngozi, but we simply can’t have an African as overseer!”

  Emerald lifted her eyes from the letter to rivet her gaze on Mr. Pitt. So. He was free from the boiling house and back in the position of overseer. He would be sure to vent his cruelty upon the slaves that had bound him. They were not with him today, she noticed.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Emerald,” whispered old Henry. Turning, he went down the porch steps to where a horse was waiting and rode back up the road to the Great House.

  Emerald remained where she was, her face set as Mr. Pitt slowly rode forward. She was less worried about the embarrassment put upon her by having the family overrule her decision than she was of Pitt’s regaining his power.

  “That jackanapes. For a piece of eight I’d send his innards flyin’. It might be worth my own hangin’.”

  “He isn’t worth it,” she said, laying a hand on Zeddie’s arm. “We haven’t heard the last of this. One thing everyone seems to forget is what Baret will say when he arrives. There’s still hope of getting rid of Pitt.”

  As Zeddie scowled his one good eye and kept his hand on his pistol, Emerald walked to the front step and waited in the glaring sun.

  Minette, up and about and recovering from her illness, had come to the bedroom window above the porch and was looking down at Pitt with loathing.

  Lord, help me to be wise, Emerald prayed.

  He rode up and reined in his horse. Then he swung himself down from his Spanish leather saddle and, removing his wide, dust-soiled panama hat, strode toward the porch. His leathery brow was dotted with sweat, and his grizzled red hair hung limp. The canvas shirt was torn away in places, showing his muscled arms and bare chest.

  Pitt’s prominent pale eyes held mockery, and his wide mouth spread into a grin. He flicked his prized whip absently against a bronzed hand. Then his smile faded as he looked at Zeddie.

  “I come in goodwill, Miss Harwick, but if that one-eyed gooney aims to lift that pistol against me, I’ll do what I have to do to save my neck.”

  Zeddie leaned over the porch rail and spat.

  “If you’ve come to gloat, Mr. Pitt, you best save your celebration,” said Emerald. “Your position as overseer will be short-lived. When Baret Buckington gets here, the family may change their mind about Ngozi.”

  His eyes hardened. “I wouldn’t count on it, Missy. There ain’t a planter in Jamaica willing to trust a Negro as overseer. Lady Sophie done trusts me, and I’ve done her well in my job. The sugar’s at full production. The slaves ain’t caused any more hassle since twenty of the troublemakers were hanged, and I aim his highness the earl hisself votin’ to keep me in my proper place.”

  Emerald feared he might be right, but she was determine
d to stand her ground and work till the end to have him removed.

  “Yes, you’ve done your job where sugar production is concerned, but you’ve used your whip to get it done. There’ll be no more of that if I have anything to say about it.”

  “Pardon me sayin’ so, Missy, but it just may be you ain’t going to have that much to say.”

  Both Emerald and Zeddie looked at him, alert, catching that his snide voice suggested more than his words. What gave him such confidence?

  “I’ve already explained about Baret Buckington. My betrothal is in two weeks.”

  “Sure, Miss Harwick.” He swept off his hat and grinned. “An’ I’ll be the first to congratulate you. You and your father were real smart to trap him.”

  Zeddie straightened from the rail, but Emerald laid a hand on his arm again.

  “I’ll ask you to leave my presence, Mr. Pitt. From now on, I’ll have Captain Buckington give you your orders. In the end it will be he who decides whether you stay on as overseer or Ngozi takes your place. But I’ll warn you. If you so much as lay a hand on Ngozi or the other slaves to vent your hatred, I’ll beg him to bring you to Brideswell.”

  Pitt looked like a growling dog forced to keep its distance. “Like I say, Miss Harwick, I come in goodwill. I’m needing my things from Karlton’s old room.” He gestured his head toward the top floor and, seeing Minette in the open window, glared his animosity.

  “Your trash has already been packed!” she called down. “Zeddie threw it out by the smokehouse. You step foot in Uncle Karlton’s house again, and I’ll shoot you like I did at the lookout house!”

  “Minette!” cried Emerald, looking up at her.

  “So you admit you fired that pistol at me, you little wench!”

  “Too bad I didn’t aim higher!”

  “Minette!” Emerald turned quickly to Zeddie. “Go upstairs and pull her away from the window—”

  “I shoulda whipped you to an inch of your life when I had the chance,” Mr. Pitt shouted.

  “You try it again! You just try it!”