Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  He was livid with rage, yet there was bewilderment in his face. He glanced from her to Baret as though he had begun to guess all was not as he had thought. Then his sharp eyes swerved out toward the Black Dragon. His lips thinned.

  “Treachery, Monsieur Foxworth?”

  Baret’s dark brow lifted innocently. “Of what treachery do you speak, Rafael? Have we not played the game fairly? You have heard the decision from the lips of Emerald herself. She has spoken freely without duress or pistol or sword—or even the influence of Sir Karl ton.”

  The mention of Karlton seemed to further infuriate Rafael. He hurled his hat down onto the sand. “So! There is treachery!”

  “Wait a minute,” Morgan snarled. “What goes here?”

  “Perhaps Rafael would care to explain,” said Baret smoothly. “I for one will abide by her decision.”

  Emerald looked at Rafael’s smoldering eyes. He could charge Baret with boarding the Black Dragon and seizing a prisoner, but that would mean admitting to Morgan that he and Lex Thorpe had held her father prisoner to force her cooperation.

  “Well?” demanded Morgan. “What are you squawking about, Captain Levasseur?”

  “I think,” said Baret, “Captain Levasseur has nothing more to say.”

  Rafael glared, but he stood without moving. His hands opened and closed with dammed-up anger. His jaw flexed. Moments ticked by in which his gaze locked with Baret’s. Then he let out a breath. “You win, Monsieur Foxworth. But I will not forget your treachery.”

  “You dare speak of treachery, my captain? You best ask yourself whether I will forget your offense.”

  “It is not over, Monsieur. Of that you both can be sure.”

  Morgan stepped forward. “Are ye saying you’ll not abide the decision Lady Harwick has made before us all?”

  Rafael appeared to reconsider as he glanced at Morgan, then at the sober faces of the captains looking on. He smirked, then bowed elegantly. “Ah, Monsieur Morgan and Monsieur Captains—of course, I will abide.”

  Emerald was gripping her skirts. He couldn’t be trusted.

  Baret knew that as well.

  But did Morgan?

  17

  THE RENDEZVOUS

  After the confrontation on the beach, the fiery emotions lulled, but like a storm not yet past, Emerald’s tension remained. She knew that neither Captain Levasseur nor Captain Lex Thorpe had genuinely accepted their defeat at Baret’s hand. It was in their interests to show a false face, even after discovering that Karlton had escaped the Black Dragon.

  As the final day of Morgan’s rendezvous approached, Emerald attended her father aboard the Regale. He continued to recuperate from his ordeal and regularly vowed that Felix would pay for his treachery when he returned home.

  As for Ty, eventually he would sail with her father as a crew member on the Madeleine, but until Karlton returned to his ship, Ty was to stay on the Regale. Baret sent him to Yorke and Jeremy to learn the ways of the sea.

  A few days after the encounter on the beach, she and Baret stood at the ship’s rail at evening, looking out at the vessels at anchor.

  “Yorke and Jeremy are better seamen man buccaneers,” he told her. “They’ll discourage Ty from seeing the glamour of the ways of men like Morgan. Your father has discussed with me his intention of giving the Madeleine to him one day on the condition he sails as a privateer merchant rather than a pirate. But he doesn’t want him to know yet. Yorke once captained a merchant ship out of Bristol, so he’s the best man to teach him.”

  She turned toward him. “You’ll have a hard time convincing Ty you’re not a buccaneer hero. After you humiliated Levasseur on the beach and rescued my father from the Black Dragon, he wishes to follow you instead of Rafael.”

  He smiled. “I’ll need to put a swift end to his dreams of the Brotherhood. Believe me, once my father is free of Porto Bello and we’re in England again, I’ll have had enough of the lot of them.”

  Emerald wondered if he would ever completely walk away from the lifestyle or from the ship he loved, but she remained silent. She glanced at him.

  He was watching her. Her eyes grew warm and limpid as they looked at one another, and he reached out for her. As yet, they had not decided when the marriage ceremony should occur.

  “This is where we first began, aboard my ship. It seems a fitting place to end one relationship and begin another that will last a lifetime.” He enfolded her in his arms. “How long are you going to make me give up my cabin? This is the third time I’ve had to pack my bag and sleep below deck.”

  She laughed. “Maybe it’s just your captain’s desk you don’t want to give up.”

  He held her gaze, looping his finger around the ruby pendant. “Will it disappoint you to be married aboard the Regale with Morgan’s buccaneer ships anchored around us? I could wish to marry you at Whitehall with His Majesty in attendance. You deserve better than this.”

  Emerald didn’t think anything could make her unhappy now. She glanced at the various vessels in the purple twilight and felt the gentle, warm Caribbean breeze.

  “I wouldn’t consider denying you your cabin again,” she teased. “It’s a long way to Porto Bello. And as I told you that night at Governor Modyford’s residence when you gave me this pendant, I am as much in love with Captain Foxworth as I am with the viscount.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. When?”

  She sighed and rested her head against his chest. “After we actually set sail … when we’re well at sea with the Caribbean around us as far as the eye can see … at twilight, like now, with my father performing the vows.”

  “I can promise that much. And when we get to England, I’ll marry you again at court if you like. Though I’m not at all sure the company of royalty will be much better.”

  Their lips met, and she felt loved and secure in his embrace, knowing that in the end the one thing that truly mattered was that the Lord would bless their union and fill their hearts with His presence. Of that she was confident, because she was certain that Baret had submitted to His lordship.

  The next day, as Emerald set about to wash and mend her betrothal gown for the upcoming wedding ceremony, she thought of Minette and felt a pang that her cousin wouldn’t be present. Still, Minette was safe at Foxemoore with Jette and Sir Cecil, and Emerald preferred her there rather than on the dangerous voyage to attack Spain.

  She was surprised by Hob, who had managed to come up with a needle and thread as well as other odds and ends she needed to mend her dress.

  “Miss Carlotta done left some things, an’ I be thinkin’ ye could use ’em,” he told her and set a large box down on the cabin floor.

  “Hob, you’re an angel,” she declared, stooping and going through the feminine items with delight.

  He chuckled. “Been called all kind o’ things but nae an angel. Comin’ from ye, Miss Emerald, I be likin’ it.”

  Zeddie poked his head in. He held another—smaller—box, and his one good eye twinkled. “A gift from the captain, m’gal. But he says ye’ll need to give it back to him before the ceremony.” She stood and walked over to take the box, bewildered. “A gift I need to give back?” and she laughed.

  “Aye, says he’ll be needin’ it.”

  She opened the box, and then she understood. It was the Buckington ring. She smiled and closed her palm about it tightly. In a week she would be Mrs. Baret Buckington.

  That same morning, Erik Farrow rowed over from the War-spite and boarded, bearing a summons from Morgan to row out to the Golden Future. “The captains are arriving now. There’s to be a council.”

  Baret cared little for an attack anywhere on the Main except the one place that drew him like a magnet. But he knew Morgan was wise enough not to reveal their destination until after they had set sail.

  Erik glanced about. “Is Captain Harwick coming to the meeting?”

  Baret frowned. “No, I’ve asked him not to. I want no further trouble with Rafael and Thorpe right now, and Karlton’s
in a riled enough mood to draw pistol against both of them.”

  “What about Flynn?” Erik asked of the other survivor from the Dutch slave ship.

  Baret had brought the man aboard the Regale, and he was recovering below. “Flynn’s our good fortune. He has valuable information Morgan must hear. Lex didn’t realize what he had that they were about to send to the bottom of the sea.” He turned to Yorke. “Bring Flynn. Is he able?”

  “Able and anxious, Cap’n. And he’d like to draw pistol on Cap’n Thorpe.”

  “Then make certain he doesn’t have one,” said Baret dryly.

  “Aye, Cap’n, and I’ll be makin’ sure.”

  “Pinnace is ready, Cap’n,” Jeremy announced.

  Ty was waiting by the ship’s rail to hand Baret the rope ladder. Baret could see by the feverish gleam in his fine dark eyes that he wanted to come, but Baret was determined to keep him as far away from the buccaneers as he could.

  “Wait with Jeremy,” he said, adding gravely, “I’ll be needing you both at Porto Bello.”

  “Yessir!” said Ty, and his strong shoulders went back.

  The crew rowed Baret and Erik across the blue-green water to Morgan’s ship. As Baret stepped aboard, his hard gaze flickered over the ruthless breed who had gathered, wearing their velvets and Mechlin lace, sometimes stained with brine and blood. The less fashionable Englishmen wore faded calico and head scarves, but even so, they took pride in their long rat-tailed mustaches.

  Beneath the sailcloth was a table and several chairs. The chief seat waited for Morgan. Most of the buccaneers lounged against the ship’s railing or sat on the quarterdeck steps. All wore their weapons, since no one completely trusted the others. Captain Jackman, a Morgan lieutenant and now a captain of his own brigantine, was there. So was Captain Morris of the Dolphin. Pierre LaMonte was perched on the rail, scanning the others in silence, along with Jean David Nau, better known on the Main as Captain L’Ollonais, whose reputation along the Mosquito Coast brought terror to the Spanish colonists. It was said his family had died by the hand of Inquisitors from Cadiz. Rather than turning to God, he had turned insanely hateful of all Spaniards. Dutchman Roche, with blond hair and blue eyes, was there, as well as Captain Michael le Basque, who was perhaps one of the best swordsmen present.

  Baret’s glance also found his enemies. Captains Levasseur and Lex Thorpe saw him at the same moment. A tense, expectant silence hovered over the meeting as the captains wondered what would happen. There wasn’t a buccaneer present who didn’t now know that Baret had boarded the Black Dragon and released Sir Karlton.

  Levasseur stood with mocking gallantry and bowed. Baret and Erik did the same, doffing their hats. Lex Thorpe laid his dirty hat against his chest. A jeering smile was on his wide mouth.

  “Why, a fair morning to you, my captains. I assume you both slept well?” Baret inquired innocently.

  “Me crew slept cozy,” said Lex. “So cozy a thief coulda come aboard me ship and they wouldn’ta heard his puttering li’l feet.” And he looked at his lieutenant Hacket, his smile gone. “Ain’t that a fact, Hacket?”

  Hacket nervously shifted his stance.

  Lex nudged him with an elbow. “I asked ye if ye slept cozy-like.”

  “I slept well, Cap’n, aye. I did to be sure.”

  There were a few chuckles, but they died away when Henry Morgan appeared on the quarterdeck.

  However dark the hearts of those present, the view from Morgan’s ship presented unsurpassed beauty. Baret looked upon the blue sea and the anchored vessels, all in fine colors, while pelicans dove for fish, making pleasant splashes.

  Morgan was wearing a flat-topped, flat-brimmed Spanish hat and a simple thin cotton shirt over which he carried a heavy-studded leather brace of fancy boarding pistols. His brown mustache had grown longer, and the blazing Caribbean sun had turned him as brown as a walnut. A pair of plain gold rings dangled from his ears, and his hair blew in the breeze.

  He wasted no time with announcements. “The fate of the English garrison sent from Jamaica to reinforce Old Providence has met with the mercies of the guarda costa. The island has fallen to the Spaniards. After promising them quarter, they killed them all except two or three.”

  The captains muttered their dismay.

  Levasseur unleashed his rapier, his black eyes snapping, but even as he spoke, it wasn’t clear to Baret whether he was upset with only the Spaniards.

  “They will pay! Oui! How they will pay!”

  Baret exchanged glances with Erik.

  They both knew well the background of Old Providence. It had been settled by a group of Puritans who were later driven out or killed by the Spanish. The island had recently been reclaimed by the previous leader of the Brethren of the Coast, the Dutch pirate Captain Mansveldt—“Mansfield,” the English called him. Mansfield had sailed from Jamaica with an authorized commission to attack Dutch Curacao. Instead, he returned to Port Royal with the announcement that he’d captured the Spanish island of Old Providence and raided Cartago. He asked for an English garrison to be sent there to keep the Spanish from retaking the island.

  Now, Governor Modyford’s friend Sir Thomas Whetstone, Maj. Samuel Smith, and Captain Stanley, who had headed up the new garrison, were thought to be prisoners in the dungeons of Panama. A woman who had just sailed there to meet her husband was also missing.

  Governor Modyford hurriedly arranged for a garrison to be sent, but he could not draw on the newly organized militia that was intended for the defense of Port Royal, so he called for volunteers. Among them was Sir Thomas Whetstone, who had been speaker of the House of Assembly for the past two years.

  Almost halfway between Jamaica and Porto Bello, Old Providence was a rocky, rugged island almost completely surrounded by barrier reefs having good anchorages. A smaller island, Santa Catalina, was separated westward by only a narrow boat channel. Baret knew the buccaneer names—Jones Point, Split Hill, The Brothers, Crab Cay, Iron Wood Hill, Boat Rock.

  Mansfield’s idea of making the island a permanent base for the buccaneers had been a good one. It was much closer to the Main and shortened the distance the buccaneers had to voyage to attack the Spaniards. From Port Royal to Porto Bello was 625 miles, but from Old Providence it was only 300 miles southeast.

  “They’ve broken our back at Old Providence this time,” Morgan said.

  “Then we’ll sail to purge the island of their hides,” said L’Ollonais.

  Morgan’s eyes glittered cold. His hard brown face was like stone. “We’ll not waste our time there, no, not by a bloody eye. We’ll hit hard where they’ll hurt the most. The soft belly of the treasure cities. As you say, Rafael, they will pay!”

  A cheer went up.

  Baret was uncomfortable and remained silent.

  “All right, ye gallant captains, we’ll waste us no more time, seeing as how all of you will have in mind the place to attack the Spaniards. The discussion’s open. And then we’ll decide and vote.” He lowered himself into the chair, lit a seegar, and listened without comment while robust discussion broke out in voices that mingled French, English, and Dutch accents.

  “Attack Havana! A night attack. An’ we’ll take us a few sweet papists as prisoners. Har! That’ll make em’ sweat!”

  “Havana?” Baret said. “It’s one of the strongest towns on the Main. At least fifteen hundred men would be needed—representing at least another dozen ships. We don’t have them, and we won’t get them.”

  Lex Thorpe stirred with a leer on his face. ‘Ye be speakin’ as if ye know a thing or two, Captain Foxworth. Now, I be wonderin’ why. Don’t ye be wondering ‘ow he knows, Hacket?” he asked his lieutenant.

  Hacket looked nervous and shrugged.

  “Maybe this man can enlighten your wit, Captain Thorpe,” Baret said. “All things are conceivable.”

  And as Lex’s malevolent eyes narrowed, a few of the captains laughed.

  “Wit from Lex? Do you not ask too much, mon ami?” said Pierre LaMonte.r />
  Lex stalked forward, snarling. “Ye yellow-livered French shark! For a piece o’ eight I’d skin ye alive ‘ere an’ now and toss your remains to the bottom of the Caribbee.”

  A gold doubloon landed on the deck from somewhere, and more laughter broke out, including Pierre LaMonte’s. He remained where he was, sitting loosely on the side of the ship’s rail. His swarthy French face mocked Lex.

  “Get on with it,” Morgan shouted. “What were ye sayin’, Baret? You have proof Havana can’t be taken now?”

  “I’ve a man here who was previously imprisoned in Havana. There’s no chance of taking the town unless you can come up with another few hundred men. You yourself were present when Modyford told us of the armada de barlovento arriving from Madrid. Two of those galleons operate from Havana harbor. They may be clumsy, but they have more guns.” He turned. “Flynn, you were a prisoner in Havana?”

  A thin and ailing man came forward, casting an uneasy glance toward Lex Thorpe. Baret could see that Lex recognized him as the prisoner he’d kept with Karlton, and Thorpe shot Baret another dark look.

  “I was there, Colonel Morgan. It is well fortified, and the harbor is safeguarded with guns. Ye could take it, yes, but not with the fleet you have now—and if I were you, I’d not risk it.”

  The captains considered in silence, and then Morgan declared, “’Tis one of the strongest towns in the West Indies. We’ve not enough men.”

  “One would think ye’ve already made up your mind,” Lex murmured.

  “Do you have a better suggestion, Lex?” Morgan snarled.

  “Aye, I has me a place. Santiago—we’s can all remember how successful ol’ Commodore Mings was when he attacked there.”

  “Santiago’s been strengthened since Mings’s raid. We want a place that’s grown fat and lazy with greed and pride, a town that sleeps like a glutton, overconfident-like,” said Morgan.

  Baret’s glance crossed with Morgan’s. They already knew what they wanted.

  Another captain mentioned Trinidad; someone else, Sancti Spiritus, where the early Spanish settlers had found placer gold. There was also Bayamo and San Cristobal on the south side of the island, and Baracoa and Santa Cruz on the north shore.