by Meg Hennessy
“During the War of Independence, my father had traveled as an ambassador with Franklin to Paris. He fell in love and stayed there. When the revolution started in France, he brought us back to America.” Jordan waved his hand, ending the discussion. “Aurèlie, have you ever discussed the medallion with anyone, your father, perhaps?”
“No, I do not think so, but why would that matter?”
“Why would the British ransack the house? My house has been violated in the past and you believe the consulate was looking in the library.” He nodded toward the piece in her hand. “Could that be the reason?”
“And my father’s lost wine, it was never stolen?” Her voice started to fade as she grimaced slightly and rubbed her stomach. With the little tint of green to her face, he suspected the rolling seas had roiled her insides. She was beautiful all the same.
Jordan smiled, appreciating not having to answer the question. “I bet you regret the wonderful breakfast.”
She moaned, guarding her stomach. “Oui, ever so much.”
“Told you to concentrate on griddle cakes and ginger.”
“You didn’t tell me why.” She fell back on the bed. “I hate ships.”
A sharp knock on the door jolted Jordan from his thoughts.
“Hold on,” he responded. Noting how beautiful Aurèlie looked, even in disarray, aboard a ship of pirates, he pulled an extra pair of black cotton breeches and shirt from a drawer and motioned to the water closet. “Put something warmer on. Change and I will take you above for fresh air, at least while it is safe.”
Aurèlie worked her way to the water closet and when she closed the door, Jordan shouted, “Enter.”
Loul stepped inside. “Jordan, the British, they are after us.”
“After us…why?” He unrolled his maps across the table to plan their navigation. He couldn’t stop the hint of suspicion about Aurèlie from swirling to the surface. Was that a rescue ship for her? If he left her in a polly boat, would the Brits pick her up and end their pursuit?
“What do they want from me?”
“You know those waters better than most privateers.”
“Why not wait for my return? Another puzzle piece which I have no place to fit. Either way, we won’t be caught.”
“We can’t fight ‘em, brother. She has thirty-five twenty pounders, more men, at least a hundred fifty to our sixty.”
“She might have more broadside strength, but we can outmaneuver them.”
Loul leaned over to look at the maps. “If they block our run to New Orleans, where do we lose them?”
“We head south to the Canarreos Archipelago—” Jordan hesitated, hearing a muffled cry from behind the door of the water closet. “Aurèlie?”
“Wait, Jourdain, I must speak with you. Je serai seulement un moment.”
The door to the water closet opened and Aurèlie stepped out. She looked so tiny dressed in his clothes but much less attractive to a crew of men who even he would not trust. A broad smile completely arrested her face as she approached him.
“Jourdain, I know the answer you seek. I know where your sister is.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Loul’s eyes widened with disbelief as he shifted his gaze over to Jordan.
“You had seen a map.” Jordan stepped aside and motioned to the maps on the table, making an effort not to sound skeptic. “Show me, where is she?”
“Jordan.” Loul motioned toward the window. “The British—”
“Loul, wait…” Jordan raised his hand to silence his brother as Aurèlie stepped up to the table, her eyes taking in the maps. She strolled around the table with her hand lightly tracing over the drawing until suddenly she stopped near the coast of Florida.
Jordan couldn’t settle his heart from the brutal rush of anticipation. His temples pounded and sweat burned his eyes. Could she really know? He swallowed a lump of fear that tried to douse a flickering spark of hope. His breath hung to the back of his throat, thoughts suspended, hovering around the night of Colette’s abduction but unwilling to remember too much. The immediate danger of the British ship faded in his mind as Aurèlie continued to move her hands about the large maps, settling no where in particular. Finally, she shook her head.
“I can not find the name.”
“What name?”
“Isla De Luna,” Aurèlie whispered as if trying to remember. “Oui, Isla De Luna.”
“How do you know this? The medallion?”
Aurèlie shook her head. “The spirit of Maisie’s mother. I ask her what she wanted and she say Isla De Luna. I know not what that means.”
“Isla De Luna? Maisie tried saying that one night. I dismissed it.”
“It’s Spanish,” Loul added. “Island…moon…moon island…must be near Cuba.”
Jordan examined the map. “Moon…half-moon…half-moon island…full-moon island, must be. We are in winter.”
“Where are they?” Aurèlie leaned in to see the map.
“They’re very small islands, cays, northwest of Cuba, Jardines de la Reina. One of the larger ones is shaped like a crescent, half-moon, the smaller one sits to the inside of that crescent.” He forced a casual shrug, glancing up at his brother, wondering if he had realized as well, who was rumored to live on that island. “They are called La isla de la luna llena. They are believed to be haunted.”
“Haunted?” Aurèlie brought her hand to her chest. “But why?”
“If it was the ghost who spoke to you,” Loul interjected, “could it be the spirit of our sister and that she is no longer alive?”
“Our sister?” Aurèlie’s eyes drew up in question, glancing between the two of them, as if seeing for the first time their difference in color. “I asked if she was Maisie’s mère.”
“This is dangerous,” Loul cautioned.
“Because they are haunted?” Aurèlie again asked, her face having paled slightly.
“No.” Loul shook his head. “Because it’s believed to be the home of—”
“No, it’s not haunted.” Jordan sent a warning signal to Loul. He was correct, it was dangerous but there was no need to go into detail about the islands. Aurèlie was spooked enough. “It’s so close to Florida where the British Navy is moored in numbers.”
“But haunted, non?”
Jordan heard the concern in her voice. Having powers like hers, a place being haunted might have a completely different meaning. But that wasn’t the danger they faced. He kept his voice calm in spite of the hammering of his heart. If Colette was captive on one of those islands, his greatest challenge was yet to come. “In the winter, a full moon illuminates the entire island. It glows at night. Not haunted, just folk-lore.”
Loul motioned toward the map, drawing Jordan’s attention back to the immediate. “We must lose a warship, Jordan, before dabbling in voodoo magic.”
Aurèlie drew in a deep breath. “My gift of sight is not voodoo, but intuition.”
Jordan’s gaze migrated back to Aurèlie, assessing her. She had visibly flinched from Loul’s remark, making Jordan wonder about her powers. The journey would be dangerous with the British so close, but if he knew Colette was on that island, he’d risk it, as would Loul.
“Do you know of any way to be certain she is there? voodoo or not?”
He noted her tight swallow as she considered her response. Finally, she nodded, very slowly and hardly discernible, but she assented. “I am Catholic, monsieur.”
“I’m not.”
“Perhaps…I know of something we could do. You must ask Papa Legba.”
“All right, where do I find him—”
An alarm sounded on deck with men shouting that the British were gaining.
“We’re needed on deck.” Loul raced out the door.
…
“Four and closing!” the man in the crow’s nest cried out as the British warship bore down on them.
“We’ll never out run them.” Loul showed up at Jordan’s side as he gauged the distance and speed of the o
ncoming warship.
“We’ll head toward Haiti, and lose them in the islands near Temple Rock. With the four- to five-hundred-foot cliffs, there are plenty of coves to slip into. We’ll lose them.”
“That might work.” Loul seemed pleased with the decision. He glanced over to Jordan. “You do know who lives on those islands Aurèlie named, don’t you?”
Jordan swallowed the lump that had risen from his stomach the moment Aurèlie had identified the islands. “Donato de la Roche.”
“A dangerous man.”
Jordan again nodded, remembering his encounter with the pirate in New Orleans. A most formidable opponent. Even Jean Lafitte hesitated to rattle his cage. “I should have trusted my gut and gone after him.”
“Three and closing!” the man in the crow’s nest monitored their distance.
“A great risk we take, brother. If only we knew for sure if she was still alive.”
“It makes little difference. We have no choice. It’s the only solid lead we’ve had.”
“To us maybe, but to our crew, no, it must be certain. She is not their loss, but ours.”
“Two and closing, Cap’n!”
“I’ll think of a plan they’ll buy. They’ll go.” Jordan stole another glance at the British ship through his binoculars. “Loul, who is Papa Legba?”
“A Voodoo God.”
“Oh.” Well he had asked for hocus-pocus and that’s what he got. Maybe Loul bought into this, but Jordan couldn’t. As the teeth of injustice dug deeper into his gut, he couldn’t stand the pain of it any longer. He had faith in Aurèlie but this—this he couldn’t do. Hocus-pocus was her specialty, not his. “I’ve never believed in voodoo…or God for that matter.”
“Brother, you must believe, for any magic to work. We have good intentions, the gods will respond, if you want them to.”
“I think we’ve made our intentions quite clear for some time now. The gods must be busy with other pressing issues, for they’ve shown no mercy for our search.”
“Could it be they gave you Aurèlie?”
The idea jolted Jordan. Could that be true? Was Aurèlie a gift?
“Well, Loul, he also gave us a damned British warship rounding up on us and somehow I don’t think the gods are going to be overly concerned about what happens to a little ship in their sea.” He pulled the black satin mask over his eyes. “Prepare for battle.”
“Helm up!” Jordan shouted as the British warship rounded to and fired broadside. Le Vengeur’s massive weight plowed the water, planks groaned in the wind, shifting direction as another round of grapeshot hit the main deck and quarterdeck, just above his cabin. But no man down.
“Tight to the wind, men.”
Le Vengeur rocked against the building waves grabbing at her gunwales, tilting in the shuffling seawaters. With the sudden shift in direction, the gulf back-lashed with water spraying over the quarterdeck, still smoldering from the grapeshot.
“A quarter aft!”
The warship came around, dropping her topsails and slowing down to broadside with cannons rammed home.
“Reef the sails. Another two aft!”
Le Vengeur suddenly dropped speed falling starboard aft of the warship. Water slapped against the worn planking of the hull as it dipped and plowed through the water.
The British man-of-war, seeing Jordan’s tactic, turned their helm but it was too late. Le Vengeur surged through the waters, striking the Brits starboard quarter with her flying jib. The force of the collision caused Le Vengeur to pivot, crossing the Brits stern, making it impossible for the enemy to fire.
Jordan brought his arm down hard. “Fire!”
Cannons exploded, recoiling off the gun deck. The shot raked the British main deck, shredding their topsails, fore to aft. Flames flashed and sulfur filled the air.
A stormy gale began to build as the sea churned into forty-foot swells, rolling the ship up and crashing downward. The bowsprit sank nearly under the sea, rising to shed water over the main deck. Thunder boomed and lightning cracked around the ship like a savage whip.
Le Vengeur made headway with the wind two points off her stern but the British warship had rounded and set their helm dead on, plowing the water with a deadly speed.
…
Aurèlie had barricaded herself against the wall, to the inside of the bed. Her ears burned from the explosions of cannon fire and her stomach lurched with each dip into the sea. She felt dizzy, and her legs trembled with exhaustion and fear.
She hated ships.
The cabin floorboards creaked with the movement, popping apart at the seams. When the ship plowed through deep waves, water rushed in through the door of the cabin and melted through the cracks in the wooden floor.
The medallion had been on the table with the maps. The maps were held in place but the medallion slid back and forth each time the ship pulled from the sea. Aurèlie crawled free of the bedside and toward the table.
Again the ship rolled back and forth with each driving wave. Explosions filled the air with smoke. Her eyes started to burn and blurred her vision. Holding on to the leg of the bed, she managed to work her way toward the table. She wrapped her hands around the leg and started to pull to the surface. Suddenly, the ship seemed to swirl in another direction, throwing Aurèlie off balance.
As she lost her balance, the medallion hit the floor.
She stretched under the table and caught the chain with the tip of her fingers. Men were shouting, water flowed in from the upper deck and the floorboards continued to snap and pop. She held on, trying to get the medallion into her hand.
Another roll with the sea threw her to the opposite side, slamming her against the wall. The medallion slipped from her grasp. She tried again to reach it only to be slammed back into the wall.
The ship heaved upward, nearly standing on its stern, throwing Aurèlie against the door of the water closet. Several floorboards gave way, water rushed through, and with the medallion, it swept out to sea.
…
Jordan checked the gaff sails for direction. Gale strength winds now churned the dark seawaters and threatened his escape. He’d have to wear the ship into those winds. Loul had gone below to check on Aurèlie.
“Crack those sails. Tight to the wind.”
Le Vengeur soared over the water. Every time she hit the ocean, the bowsprit buried itself deep within the swales. The ship jolted and groaned as she broke free and rose, dumping water over the main deck. Tackle blocks snapped, riggings popped free. The mizzenmast creaked and swayed in the wind.
“We blow out a mast!” one of the crew shouted.
“That’s a risk we take. Helm up and stay tight to the wind.”
Loul reappeared on deck. Jordan held his breath, knowing how much Aurèlie hated ships and her lack of experience steadying her sea legs. “She all right?”
“I’ve got her anchored now but the medallion…”
“The medallion?”
“Lost, washed out.”
“So much for God giving us a hand. Like I said, Loul, we’re on our own.”
With topsails down, the man-of-war was losing speed in the gale winds that had whipped the sea into a frothy boil. The wind howled as if the cannon fire had awakened a great sea force. Only four knots behind, the British were slowing and with the wind at their stern, Jordan knew they’d not risk their ship.
The mizzenmast shifted, popping the deck planking around its base.
“Reef the mizzen.” Jordan knew he’d lose speed, but gauging the British position, he could afford it. “We’re going to Temple Rock.”
Loul shook his head. “We could be trapped there if they find us.”
Jordan disagreed. Temple Rock was a plateau in the middle of the ocean waters. Surrounded by large cliffs of bleached rock that sank down into the sea like long-aged fingers. The weathered rock created inlets and gorges high enough to hide a ship.
“We’re going in aft. Go, Loul, give me the steering I need.”
Jordan watched
through his spyglass as the British ship fell off the horizon and hopefully the ends of earth, if only it were flat. But he didn’t feel that lucky today. The crew had cheered the disappearance of the Brits but fell silent as they sailed near the four hundred foot cliffs of Temple Rock.
The inshore currents dodged around rocky reefs, water spouted upward then churned into swirling boils. The wind, shredded by the large walls of rock, whipped in all directions, as did the currents. Though the waters appeared calm, Jordan had sailed enough to know the dangers of the inlet tide and underwater currents, having used the island as a place to hove the ship and resupply.
Temple Rock had become a refuge during Saint Dominique’s slave revolt. Many of the natives had hidden on the island in fear of retribution but when none came, they had remained. The natives had treated Jordan well, as he had often brought much-needed supplies to them.
The sails fluttered against the assailing winds as the ship gently parted the water. If he caught the wind aback, it would be possible to move her aft. He knew the perfect cove to slip into and the British could patrol the island for days and never find him.
“Put her in irons.” The crew stared at him in disbelief. Jordan knew the dangers but had no choice. He climbed down to the tiller and took over. “We’re putting her in irons.”
The waves crashed against the rocks, swirling into coves and out again, creating large whirlpools and twisting currents. As her stern came about, the wind plastered the sails back. Two riggings popped and the sails tore free.
He straightened the helm and slowly, as the wind pressed against the sails, Le Vengeur began to gather sternway and silently moved backward into the cove. The men were silent as she skimmed past large, protruding cliffs and jagged rock reefs. Water boils sprayed over the main deck. The wind howled a warning through the cove.
“Shorten all sails. Swing the lead,” Jordan ordered.
“We’re at six fathoms, Cap’n.”
“Drop anchor.”
Loul climbed the bridge after Jordan. His skin had become so pale he nearly matched the color of Jordan’s. “Unbelievable to get in here.”
“Get her pumped out and set up repair crews. I want her seaworthy in twelve hours. Reinforce the quarterdeck. Keep readings on the tide. I want a report on our supplies. I’ll be with Aurèlie.”