“I gave their leader’s woman a gift of a braid of my hair as she liked it so much.”
Mulligan started to chuckle and that turned into a laugh.
“Oh, my dear, sweet colleen, you bonded yourself to her as a daughter.”
“I did what?” Scarlett exclaimed. That was a bit different than being a daughter of the tribe that Françoise had told her.
Mulligan sobered and looked her in the eyes.
“Hair is sacred to their women; some rub the red clay into it to show that they are on a spirit quest and some even wear black or red makeup across their eyes like a mask. Those are spirit seekers and are on a life quest.”
“What like this?” Scarlett asked and ran her fingers across where she put her face makeup.
Mulligan nodded.
“Now I understand. I was wearing my warpaint when I gave her my hair. They think I am on a spirit quest.”
She explained the makeup to Mulligan.
“Not just a spirit quest. They’ve marked you as being on a life quest and any Kalingo or any other Carib will offer you help, and to be honest, I’ve never heard of a white man or woman being treated that way before.”
Scarlett sipped her drink and thought, then asked,
“If we want to make the most money, where we should go?”
“Well Espanola and Puerto Rico are both close to Kingston where there is an active market at Port Royal for any goods that are taken, but if you want to make real money, you need to get down to the Spanish main. They are shipping galleons full of gold, silver, pearls, rare woods, and hides from the mainland. That, my girl, is where the serious money is to be made. If you have the balls, that is.”
“Competition?”
“You be up against mainly French Buccaneers based out of Tortuga and Hispaniola. The British Navy have a couple of ships based in Jamaica and there be a few English privateers, but you be better set than most with them ships of yours.”
“You’re very well informed for a tavern owner on a little island,” Scarlett observed.
“Well to be honest, I weren’t always a barkeep. I got the money to set this up from a couple of voyages with a French ship, but sailin’ don’t suit me. Too many men and not enough colleens, if you know what I mean.”
They overnighted to give the crew a chance to stretch their legs on shore then set off to the West and Puerto Rico.
They passed an island marked on the chart as Santa Cruz but saw no sign of any settlements apart from Carib villages with their long canoes pulled up on the sand. They stayed on course for Puerto Rico (Spanish for Rich Port).
The heat was oppressive even though the North East trade blew constantly. The tar between the deck planks oozed up and that in the rigging dripped down. The men turned a golden brown as they tanned only after they burned and peeled a couple of times. Scarlett kept covered but even her skin gradually took on a golden hue.
“Sail Ho!” came the cry from the lookout.
They turned a couple of points to the South to intercept it and raised a signal to the Merlin to close up. As they got closer, they saw it was a large square-rigged ship flying a Spanish flag. Scarlett dressed in her fighting gear and applied her war paint. On an impulse, she drew in a single red tear just below her right eye. She looked in the mirror and admitted to herself she looked damn scary.
Equipped with her sword, dagger, and pistols, she went to the Quarter deck and saw they’d closed to about half a mile.
“We will be up on her in ten minutes,” Steven reported.
“Get the guns loaded and the men armed. We need to take her fast. Signal the Merlin that we will attack. Francois knows what to do.”
The blue and white flag flew up the lanyard, and the Merlin peeled away to get into position. If we had a gun in the bow, we could have put a shot across her already, Scarlett thought and put that idea away for later discussion with the Master and Steven. She knew the best way to win a fight was to overawe your opponent then hit so hard they give up without hitting back. However, how you did that with a ship, she had no idea. Yet.
The Spaniard gave no sign of slowing down and even looked like they were preparing to fight. Men were moving around the deck in a purposeful manner and their gun ports opened.
“I want all the boarders armed with hand cannon and the swivels manned,” she ordered, “when we get alongside, let them have a volley before we go over. Are you loaded with chain?”
“Aye Skipper, we’re close enough to let them have a taste if’n you have a mind,” Steven replied.
“Jim, swing her so we cross their stern on our starboard side,” Scarlett commanded her quartermaster, “then once we have fired, bring us up alongside her.”
“Steven, grapeshot for the second broadside from dead close then we board.”
Steven ran to the guns and started yelling orders. The men obeyed with enthusiasm. This is what they came for. Now we will see how you take being shot at, Scarlett grinned.
The bow swung to larboard, and the guns spoke. The first two gunners were a little over excited and fired early, prompting Steven to cry,
“Take your fucking time and hit the damn target. Shooting at the fucking sky ain’t goin’ to stop ‘em”
The following six guns were on target and the Spaniard, who they could see was called the Santa Theresa, lost her mizzen main and her mainsail developed a couple of rips. She slowed, and Jim swung the helm over to bring them alongside. As soon as they bore, the Spaniards guns started to speak and shot slammed into the Fox’s bow and whistled across her deck.
A man screamed as he took a splinter. Another died as his head was vaporised by a direct hit.
“Fuck it! Get us alongside now!” Scarlett screamed.
The two ships closed, and the guns fired once more sending a hail of grapeshot across the Spaniard’s deck. The Merlin closed on her other side.
“Ready the boarders!” Scarlett shouted, pistols in hand.
The hulls ground together, and grapnels were thrown.
“FIRE!” Scarlett yelled from the rail as she emptied her pistols into the faces of the men across from her. The men touched off their hand cannon and swivels. The hail of scrap metal then ripped across the other ship, tearing flesh.
The guns were dropped and blades drawn as the men threw themselves onto the other ship’s deck, but the Spanish sailors were beaten and huddled by the mast with their hands held high.
Scarlett stepped aboard with an almost balletic grace and walked up to the quarterdeck where the Spanish captain stood with his first officer. She was as mad as hell. She lost two men and her ship was damaged.
“Does anyone speak English?” she shouted.
A man stepped forward, his hand in the air, “Aye, I do,” he admitted with a Tyneside accent.
“Come here,” Scarlett commanded and gestured with her sword, “translate this.”
“I am Scarlett, skipper of the Fox and I want you to tell anyone you meet that if they see me coming and strike without a fight, I will let every man on the crew live. But if you fight me, I will kill two men for every one of my crew that are killed or hurt.”
She didn’t know it, but he translated her introduction as “She is the Scarlett Fox,” a name that would stick.
“I lost two men,” she continued and turned to the captain, “so you owe me four lives.”
His eyes widened as he understood what she said and opened his mouth to protest. Scarlett’s sword flashed and a wide gash opened across his throat. She spun, and her dagger took the first mate through the heart.
The translator shrank back in horror, but she ignored him as she walked down the line of captives.
“You still owe me two,” she stopped in front of one who was obviously a Carib. He looked at her, eyes wide, and she held her hand in front of his face so he could see her tattoo.
“Not you,” she said and looked to the next man who shrank from her gaze. He was pockmarked and showed signs of being infected with syphilis. “Throw him over the
side,” she ordered, ignoring the screams as he was dragged away. She moved to the last man in the line, looked at him thoughtfully, then turned and beckoned for her translator.
“If you and him,” she indicated the Carib, “join my crew, then I will spare this man’s life.” There was a scream, a splash, a few desperate cries, then silence.
That was translated and the Carib nodded, “We will join you.”
“Good,” Scarlett smiled as if nothing had gone before. “Tell the rest that we will put them ashore when we see a good spot.”
She turned to Bill Martin, her second mate, and said,
“This tub is yours. Take ten men to man her.”
She turned back to the translator.
“What’s your name?”
“Archie Dawson.”
“From where?”
“Wallsend.”
“And the name of the Carib?”
“The Spanish called him Montoya. It were as close as they could get to his name.”
“Get over to the Fox and take him with you. Does he speak any English?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Montoya stepped up to the two of them and said something in Spanish to Archie.
“He wants to know what tribe you are from.”
“Tell him I am of the Kalingo, daughter of Unkata.”
Archie looked surprised but translated it and Montoya replied.
“He says he is of the Taino and will join you on your quest.” He said quest almost like a question, but Scarlett just smiled.
“What was all that about?” Francois asked her when they were alone.
“All what?” she replied innocently.
“Killing the captain and the other two.”
“I have been thinking. If we want them to strike, then we are going to have to build a reputation that makes them more afraid to resist than to fight.”
Françoise’s brow creased as he considered that.
“You think butchering a few now will make it easier later?”
“Eventually. Our reputation will have to spread first but soon, they will see us coming and give up without a fight.”
“A novel idea. To use terror as a weapon mon cher.”
“I have had another thought. Well two, actually. If we had a gun in the bows, we could fire a shot much earlier than we can now, and second, we need some way of letting them we chase know who we are.”
Françoise went to talk with Steven, leaving Scarlett to watch the repairs being carried out. She would have to say some words over the body of the dead sailor and the man with the splinter through the gut wouldn’t last long. That could wait until they were underway.
Bill Martin appeared at the rail of the Santa Theresa and beckoned to her.
“She carries a cargo of Comaru and Mahogany with some spices. It be worth a pretty penny,” he called across, “and the hull be in good order.”
“We will sell it in Jamaica. Search the captain’s cabin thoroughly. He may have a strong box hidden in there,” she replied.
Repairs made, they made sail and continued West, slipping past Puerto Rico without seeing another ship. A short crossing of seventy miles saw them off the Western tip of Espanola and they started to see small coastal craft. Most were too small to bother with, but they saw and took a couple of larger ones that were carrying general goods.
Scarlett, fed up with feeding their growing number of captives, ordered a small coastal trader to be captured. She put all the captives on it and set them free to sail to the nearest port. She had Dawson tell them again to tell everyone that if they resisted the Scarlett Fox, she decided she quite liked the name, she would give no quarter.
When they had half a dozen ships in tow, they sailed West to Port Royal, Jamaica.
Chapter 8: Port Royal
They entered the harbour around the headland protected by Fort Charles and anchored off Fishers Row. They were not only under the guns of Fort Charles but those of Fort James that sat at the other end of Fishers Row.
“We should be safe here,” Scarlett noted with a certain amount of irony.
She went ashore and met Françoise on the dock. They were discussing what to do next when they were approached by a man in uniform and two soldiers.
“Are you in charge of that convoy?” he asked Françoise.
“No, she is,” he replied, nodding to Scarlett.
The official’s eyebrows rose as he took in Scarlett’s dress, noting her shapely figure and mane of hair. His eyes rested on the domes of her breasts that were pushed up by the bodice.
Her hand went to her sword hilt and he quickly focused on her face.
“And you are?” she asked, giving him an unfriendly glare.
“The Harbourmaster’s clerk. I am responsible for registering ships that dock and collecting the docking fees,” he replied, puffing himself up.
Scarlett gave him a long, flat look then pulled out a purse.
“I have two ships of my own, The Fox and the Merlin. The rest are for sale along with their cargo.”
“Makes no matter what you do with the ships. The fee is the same,” he smiled, took up a satchel that was hanging from his shoulder, and opened it to reveal a board with paper attached.
“Now, the names of the ships and the owner please,” he asked, poised with a piece of charcoal to note them down.
Between them, Scarlett and Françoise managed to give him names for all eight ships and had Scarlett Browning listed as the owner. The fee was an exorbitant shilling for each ship.
“Where can we find a good agent to sell the ships and cargo?” Scarlett asked after she handed over the fee.
His hand came out again, and Scarlett placed another shilling in it.
“Try Malakai Harwood. You can find him in the third house on the left on York street, which is over there,” he replied with a nod of the head as he pocketed the coin.
Scarlett and Françoise walked down Lime street until they found York street and a house with a brass plate with Harwood’s name and ‘Shipping Agent’ engraved on it. It had a big brass knocker, so Françoise knocked.
A girl dressed as a servant answered the door.
“What d’ya want?” she squawked in a thick London accent.
“Scarlett Browning to see Mr. Harwood,” Françoise responded.
The door shut and they heard the wretch shout, “Some woman and a bloke to see ya!”
There was a muffled response and the door opened again.
“What’s it abaaat?”
“The sale of six ships and their cargos.”
“They got some ships to sell,” she shouted over her shoulder.
“Well show them in!” a man’s voice called.
“Daan there, last door on the right,” they were instructed after the door was swung wide.
They walked through the open door and down a corridor to be met by a large man dressed in brown breeches, silk stockings, a blue waistcoat, and a brown jacket. He wore a white wig and was sweating in the heat. His round face was flushed but his eyes were sharp and took them in at a glance.
“Malakai Harwood,” he introduced himself in a Liverpool accent as he showed them to a pair of chairs in front of a large dark wood desk.
Scarlett introduced them and took a seat.
“We are looking to engage an agent to dispose of six ships and their cargos and you were recommended,” Scarlett opened the discussion.
“You are privateers?” Harwood asked, taking in the array of weapons on display.
“We have Letters of Marque,” Scarlett replied.
“Good, then we can do business. My terms are simple. I sell your acquisitions for a twenty percent commission.”
Scarlett looked at him steadily for a long moment.
“I’m trying to decide whether you are trying to take advantage because I am a woman or you are just trying to rob me,” she said softly. “I will pay you five percent commission.”
Malakai’s eyes widened then took on an amused gl
int.
“Fifteen percent and a guarantee that I am your sole agent.”
Scarlett smiled sweetly.
“Oh! That’s nice you want to keep me all to yourself,” she said, then her gaze hardened, “ten percent and you get all the ships we bring to Jamaica.”
Malakai laughed. “You have a deal.”
Scarlett spat on her palm and held it out. Malakai spat on his, and they shook sealing the contract.
“You obviously have experience in negotiating. May I ask where from?”
Scarlett told him she was from Baytown in Yorkshire and he knew enough. He came from the other side of the Pennines and knew of the Baytown smugglers. When he lived in England, he did business with them.
Françoise supplied him with a list of the ships and their cargo.
“Are you planning to stay here long before you sail again?” Malakai asked.
“Long enough to resupply and let the men have some fun,” Scarlett decided on the spot as she wanted to stick around and see how Malakai did with their first prizes.
“Good. There is an auction held every Thursday where goods get sold off. I will put yours in to the next one. Do you have any slaves to sell?”
“Any crew that survived were set ashore in Espanola,” Françoise told him.
“Well, there is a slave market every Saturday. The colonists pay good money for healthy manpower for their farms,” Malakai told them. “It’s been running ever since Drake brought the first slaves over from North Africa. The Spanish and Dutch are bringing them in to their islands and any that can be, let’s say, diverted here will fetch a pretty penny.”
While Scarlett wasn’t against slavery, it was quite common everywhere at that time, she wasn’t going to get into the trade herself unless a cargo of slaves fell into her lap. She wouldn’t turn down the profit, that was for sure.
They left the building and walked through the town. Every second building seemed to be a tavern or a brothel and the place was full of sailors spending money like it was water. Even though it was early in the morning, drunks were laid out on the streets and a brawl boiled out of the doors of a tavern as a dispute got out of hand.
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