Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “Aye, we did,” said Tom and spat. “There’s no one to save. There were two Arawaks. One had no eyes, an’ the other had no arms.”

  Baret clenched his teeth, still bending over Miguel.

  “What’ll ye ‘ave us do with the Spaniards in the donjon, Harry?” asked Tom.

  “Drive ’em into the magazine and bolt the door. Blow it up!” Then Morgan shouted to the pirates, “Our work isn’t done yet! We’ve two more guard castles to take before Porto Bello’s riches open up before us! Onward! We take the Fort Castle of Santiago de la Gloria!”

  Baret, taking rest in the harness maker’s shop, which Morgan was using as his command post, pushed himself up from the bench and walked to the door to look out onto the noisy street. Ugly sights were seen, and hideous sounds came to his ears. Baret muttered something under his breath and swung toward Erik.

  “This is like hades. These pirate dogs are no better than the Inquisitors!”

  Erik emptied a jug of water and made no reply.

  “Easy, Cap’n,” Yorke said to Baret. “Your father could be in one of the other two dungeons.”

  “Unless,” said Erik grimly, “it is as Sir Cecil has long suggested to you—that he has not survived.”

  “Miguel swore that he was alive!” said Baret, refusing to accept the possibility.

  “And he may have lied, thinking it would save his skin.”

  “Will ye go on or turn back, Cap’n?” Yorke asked.

  Baret believed he had little choice. He had come this far, he thought. There was no turning back. “Where is Morgan now?”

  “Attacking the second fortress. The castillano,” said Erik of the Spanish commander, “is holding them off bravely enough. Morgan’s built ladders to scale the walls.”

  The fort stood just north of town. Its yellow-brown walls, quarried from local stone, boasted of a series of salients, curtains, and bastions about ten feet high. A crenelated donjon tower, packed with crossbowmen and harquebusiers, fortified the various barracks and storehouses.

  Buckets of boiling oil and cannon balls were being launched against the buccaneers scaling the walls of the Santiago Castle keep. Bullets hissed from all directions as Baret climbed the parapet. He gained a foothold and pulled himself over the wall.

  He and Erik joined Morgan, wielded their blades to take the gun platform, then fought their way into the courtyard, where Spanish soldiers in yellow and red tried to hold them back. Their swords smashed and struck without pity. Soon overwhelmed, the Spaniards sought to escape into the underground vaults and storerooms already crowded with civilians who had fled to the keep after the fall of San Geronimo.

  The Spanish commander was deadly with his Toledo blade as he directed the defense of the castle keep with cool precision. But after having killed several buccaneers, he at last retreated with the remnant of his garrison into the refectory of the officers’ quarters.

  “Get that battering ram!” shouted Morgan. “Strike hard, and the castle is yours!”

  Soon the refectory door was sagging from its hinges.

  As the buccaneers clambered down the steps, they confronted a handful of soldiers, panting and sweating. “Santiago! Santiago! Viva el Rey!”

  “I call upon you to surrender,” Morgan shouted to the commander.

  But the castillano spat, “Never, diablos! An honorable commander of His Most Catholic Majesty does not surrender to heretics! Better to perish fighting them!” He raised sword hilt to his lips and kissed it.

  Captain Hans Sensolve snarled, “Let me finish him off, Morgan!”

  “No!”

  But the castillano started forward, and someone’s boarding pistol exploded with a deafening sound. The commander half turned, then collapsed upon the bodies of the soldiers who were sprawled dead on the floor.

  Baret had one purpose in mind. He and Erik, Yorke and Jeremy, lit firebrands and went down into the humid and light-less foul dungeon below the fortress castle.

  Once there, for a moment Baret didn’t move. The sight was repulsive. Light from his fiery torch illuminated the Maltese cross crudely incised into a stone lintel above the torture room door. The Holy Office had recently been at work, judging by the shiny state of the torture instruments. Neither rack nor pulley had gathered dust, and no rust stained the iron frame of that brazier upon which branding irons were heated.

  “The cells are this way,” said Baret, his voice emotionless.

  “Wait,” said Erik, laying a hand on his arm.

  Their eyes met.

  “Let me go first.”

  “He’s right Cap’n,” Yorke whispered.

  Jeremy was trembling. “So this is ‘ow me brother died—”

  Erik sent three heavy bolts crashing back from their sockets. The door opened as if to the gate of hell.

  For a moment Baret half expected Apollyon to come forth in a cloud of fire and brimstone. But only a nauseating stench surged upward.

  “Nobody could be alive down there,” Erik breathed.

  “Wait—I’ve come too far. Do you hear anything?”

  “Aye, Cap’n—like a whine—”

  Baret brushed past Erik and, holding high his torch, started down the slimy steps with jaw set “Anyone down here?” he shouted.

  Feeble cries sounded and echoed in several directions.

  “For the love of Jesus! Help—”

  Baret went on down the steps, followed by the other buccaneers. He held his torch inside a low rock-hewn chamber no more than ten or eleven feet wide.

  “God ‘ave mercy,” whispered Jeremy at the sight.

  Baret stared. Eleven Englishman, naked and as gaunt as scarecrows, were secured by ponderous chains. Swiftly he cast the light of his torch across their faces, daring to hope, to believe again that a thousand prayers may have been answered by the grace of God.

  His breath sucked in as the face of one of the men turned toward him. Baret had found what he had long searched for, and he let out a jubilant shout of joy.

  “Father, it’s me! It’s your son, Baret!”

  “Baret?”

  He grabbed his father’s feeble frame. “By the grace of God, Father!”

  Royce Buckington let out a cracked and broken cry of incoherent joy. “My son! My son! I knew you would come one day! I knew you would come …”

  Gradually a comparative silence fell over the castle of Santiago de la Gloria, but in the town bedlam reigned. Semidrunken pirates found merriment frolicking on Madeira wine while they mockingly dressed in fancy women’s hats, gowns, and other silks discovered on their spree of vice and debauchery.

  By the end of fifteen days, Porto Bello had been thoroughly ravaged and looted. Morgan’s catch was 250,000 pieces of eight, plus a hoard of glittering goods and slaves. The ships and boats had been brought into the harbor and the goods loaded: boxes of silver, gold, jewels, fabrics; chests and coffers. The guns that could be transported to Jamaica or Tortuga were loaded as well, while the others were spiked. The buccaneers and pirates then boarded their vessels and set sail for Port Royal, their decks and cargo holds filled with treasure and shackled slaves.

  Baret had taken nothing from the city except his father—and hideous dark memories that would not be easily forgotten. Royce had been carefully attended during those two long weeks, and although he was very thin and could walk only with crutches, his olive green eyes, so like his son Jette’s, began to sparkle with life and energy.

  “I have everything to live for,” he said with a laugh. “I have two sons—one of them Jette, whom I have never seen! What more could an old buccaneer pray for?”

  “You speak too soon, my father,” said Baret. “You’ve forgotten the treasure of the Prince Philip. We sail first to Margarita—and then to England to salvage our reputations before His Majesty.”

  Royce smiled wearily as he was rowed out across the bay toward the Regale. “Who told you about Margarita?”

  “We will have a thousand tomorrows to discuss the past. Now you must only enjoy t
he freedom of this day.”

  As planned, Karlton Harwick had sailed on the Regale to Porto Bello harbor along with the other ships, and he was waiting to receive them aboard.

  Baret’s gaze searched for Emerald. Then he saw her standing on the quarterdeck steps, a vision of purity and beauty as the breeze touched her hair and the silken skirts about her ankles.

  Her anxious eyes scanned him for injury. Then she smiled and came running toward him, her arms outstretched.

  He held her within his strong embrace, and his lips found hers. A minute later he said quietly, “It’s over. The long search, the anger. We can be free in England or Jamaica, wherever we choose.”

  “And the son of Governor Modyford, is there news?”

  “Unfortunately, the freed prisoners believe he was sent to, the mines.”

  “Oh no….” Her eyes looked deeply into his. “What about the treasure?”

  “It waits. We’ll deliver it to the king along with the journal. I’ve proof my father is innocent of piracy.”

  “And Lord Felix?”

  “We’ll not think of him now.”

  “Then—then Geneva and Jette weren’t in Porto Bello as we feared?”

  “No, thank God. Sir Cecil and Lavender must have convinced Geneva of the insanity of Felix’s wishes to take her there.” He sobered. “Don Miguel is dead, but his uncle will return to much more loss than his nephew’s death. Porto Bello is ravaged.”

  He saw her wince in revulsion, and his embrace tightened. “I’ll not be sailing with Morgan again.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  He looked at her with longing. “Do you know how beautiful you are? And after what I’ve seen, you look as pure as an angel. Come, Lady Buckington, I want you to meet Earl Royce Buckington, your father-in-law.”

  He said nothing to her about one troubling thought: Where was Captain Levasseur?

  20

  AT THE COVE

  While Morgan’s buccaneers and pirates continued to hold Porto Bello ransom, a Spanish horseman escaped from the city and crossed the Isthmus to Panama. He reported at once to Viceroy Don Juan Perez de Guzman, who earlier had sent Governor Sanchez of Porto Bello to recapture Old Providence. Now, faced with the alarming news that a large force of “Inglish” buccaneers was besieging the port, the viceroy mobilized 3,000 troops and set out immediately to relieve Porto Bello.

  And while the attention of the Spanish garrison was fixed upon stopping Morgan, the Regale slipped away unnoticed past Nombre de Dios and Cartagena and sailed up the coast to Santa Marta, or “Margarita,” as the English called the island.

  Emerald looked on proudly as her new husband—who wanted to steer his own ship through Margarita’s double line of reefs—tacked as confidently as though sailing in Port Royal Bay. She watched the shortening of the ship’s canvas as Baret maneuvered behind a steep headland choked with a tangle of vegetation, where a dozen varieties of palms grew in clusters among rocks of volcanic origin. Margarita’s beach inched steadily toward the Regale?, prow.

  They set anchor out of sight in a cove on an isolated section of the Main. There they would await the secret arrival of Captain Farrow’s Warspite and her father’s ship, the Madeleine.

  Emerald was concerned that, before leaving the harbor at Porto Bello, her father had insisted that he was well enough to captain his ship. Ty was sailing with him. He had looked equally proud at being aboard the family vessel that he had recently learned would one day be his.

  That night, anchored in the moonlit cove, as they waited for the others to arrive, Emerald met with Baret and his father, Royce Buckington. She paced the floor of the round room, then stopped before the windows where she could see the surface glimmering with silvery wavelets.

  “He should have been here by now,” she murmured to herself.

  Baret, who was briefly going over with his father his plans for retrieving the treasure, glanced in her direction.

  “Don’t worry. There isn’t a seaman in the Caribbean able to handle a ship better than Erik. I’ve asked him to keep the Madeleinein sight. They’ll arrive by morning.”

  She turned from the window, hoping he was right.

  Baret, wearing a cool white shirt, stood by the round mahogany table where his father sat explaining a sketch of the Spanish church where the treasure was hidden. The confidence in Baret’s eyes relieved some of her concerns, and she managed a brief smile and went over to join them.

  Royce pushed a drawing toward him, and as Baret drew forward to study it, Emerald could see what looked to be an old adobe ruin among palm trees.

  “We’ll don Spanish uniforms taken from Porto Bello,” he told his father. “And Karlton will conduct himself as a sober and dignified Franciscan monk. You chose an interesting location, Father. The treasure’s been there these five years, and neither Felix nor the Brotherhood knew where to search.”

  Royce’s hard green eyes studied his son. “You’re certain you can trust Erik Farrow?”

  Baret lifted the silver drinking vessel, watching his father. “As certain as a man can be.”

  “Yet Farrow’s reputation on St. Kitts is that of a pirate.”

  Baret affected thoughtfulness. “Yes …”

  “And his reputation with the sword is noteworthy.”

  “He’s shared his skills with me. I first met him in England while a student. I hired him as a personal trainer at the armory. He’s proven a friend, Father, though admittedly there was a brief time when he served Felix. He had expected the hand of Lavender in return for his loyalties.”

  “And now he expects a share of the treasure?”

  Baret’s brow lifted. “As does Karlton. It seems only fair, Father.”

  “I agree with you there. And if you say Farrow is a friend, we will discuss it no more. Yet I cannot help wondering when and how it was that my son from Cambridge Divinity School became close with a man of Farrow’s character. Cecil and I shall have a long discourse when I see him next. He was supposed to keep an eye on you.”

  Baret smiled ruefully. “My father still sees me as a boy in velvet knee pants, taking music lessons in Paris.”

  “It seems I have much to catch up on concerning the recent changes in your life. I’m sure you will make them quite clear.”

  Emerald recognized the humor and glanced at Baret, who laughed.

  “Do you think a divinity student could have won the tongues of the Tortuga Brotherhood? There was only one way to glean information on your whereabouts, and that was to become one of them.”

  “Yes … so I see.” But Royce smiled when he said it.

  “There is the honorable matter of Barbados,” Emerald spoke up, hoping to dispel the roguish cast that had settled over Baret’s reputation. “Your lordship will be pleased with your son’s defense of the island against the Dutch. Once the treasure is returned to His Majesty, both of your good reputations will be restored. Earl Nigel says your son will be knighted by King Charles.”

  Baret’s dark eyes met his father’s, and he smiled over his goblet. “As you see, Father, I’ve chosen my bride well. She’ll defend me even before Charles.”

  Royce smiled at her. “I’ve a notion, my dear, that when we get back to England, you’ll have your hands full defending us—and Baret and I will both need some reforming.”

  She dimpled. “A pleasure, m’lord. But are you sure I’ll have sway with the king?”

  “Perhaps more than Baret will appreciate.” Royce glanced at him.

  Baret’s smirk reflected some understood irony between him and his father that she missed.

  “As for the treasure, I promised Karlton and the others a share when we took the Prince Philip,” Royce mused, and as though his thoughts had taken a turn that troubled him, he sobered. Using his walking stick, he pushed himself up from his chair and looked toward the window where the moonlight shone peacefully on the dark water.

  “When I made that promise I had no idea it would take so many years before I could keep it,
” he murmured as if to himself.

  Emerald recognized what was behind Baret’s expression as his gaze drifted over the once-strong man now weakened by torture. But the scars and the thin, malnourished body apparently only increased Baret’s love and pride. Royce remained on a crutch and was still recovering from malaria as well as from skin infections that had remained untreated for months. But despite everything, Baret had told her, his father was too resilient not to fully recover his health and stalwart demeanor with time and proper treatment.

  She hopefully agreed. A long rest in England would set him back on his feet. Even now his eyes gleamed, and his rugged face, though scarred, retained its handsome appearance. The inner scars were another matter. They were likely to heal more slowly, as Royce’s hatred for Spain seemed to have intensified.

  “I didn’t know it,” Baret told her before they came to the round room, “but my father and Geneva were once in love. That’s the reason she took such an interest in Jette and went to France to find him. I often wondered why she behaved almost as a mother.”

  The news had shocked Emerald. Geneva and Baret’s father in love! She had a notion that the matter between him and Felix would grow even more bitter because of Geneva.

  She was relieved that in spite of all the evil Uncle Felix had done him and his father, Baret now seemed satisfied to allow legal justice to take precedence rather than involve himself in personal revenge. He had his father again, the treasure was within reach, and he had also told her he wanted to do nothing that would mar their future—or the future of their children. He seemed confident the king would eventually arrest Felix and place him in the Tower.

  Emerald’s thoughts returned to the moment at hand as Royce turned his head, his green eyes snapping. “You are certain the others are all dead?”

  She saw Baret’s jaw flex. “Thanks to Uncle Felix, yes. Maynerd was hanged in Port Royal. I have no grief for him—after he left your ship he became little more than a bloodthirsty pirate—but Lucca was another matter. Felix was to blame for his death as well.”

  Royce’s lip twitched as he looked back toward the window, and his fingers tapped his walking stick. “Brother Felix … he has much to answer for.”