“We’d best get down to the ships,” Pitt advised, standing and brushing the sand off his knees. But Juliet was already running ahead, her long legs scything through the long grasses, her hair streaming out in dark ribbons behind.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was almost too easy. The lead ship in the convoy—the almirante—ran up a series of flags signaling for the fleet to slow, then for two of the warships to pull within hailing distance. After receiving their orders, the pair peeled away and, undoubtedly stinging from the first surprise attack on the fleet, came to investigate the two smoldering ships adrift along the banks. The Spaniards knew these deceptively tranquil ribbons of azure and cerulean well, marking the area Baja Más—shallow waters—on their charts. They had lost enough vessels to know it was not outside the realm of possibility that a privateer could have become trapped by his own arrogance and not been able to escape the superior firepower of the galleon. Both ships looked badly crippled, and when they drew closer, they could see Spanish officers, their helmets winking in the sunlight, waving them on from the deck of the tall aftercastle.
On board the Avenger, Dante could almost pinpoint the moment when the capitán of the first galleon realized the wounded vessel belonged to the Pirata Lobo. The gun ports swung open prematurely on all decks. Sailors and soldiers alike crowded the rails, and clambered into the yards, some even leaping in the air and cheering at the thought of the ten thousand doubloons in reward that would now be theirs to share.
Dante ordered sails unfurled in the tops, only as many as were needed to swing the Avenger gently away and make it appear as though they were attempting to limp to sanctuary behind the two islands. When he was through the channel—impressed that he could not see a single gun beneath its camouflage—and clear on the other side, he ordered the rigging lashed tight and the tattered sails replaced with taut new sheets. He tacked hard and swift to starboard, taking the Avenger in a tight circle that would bring her back around in position to meet the warships when they emerged from the channel. Isabeau had relinquished command of the Dove to Pitt and he already had the ship in position on the leeward side of Frenchman’s Cay; together with Simon Dante, they would sandwich the galleons in a deadly cross fire.
Juliet, meanwhile, was set to bring the Iron Rose out from behind the island, sealing off any possible retreat by aiming her guns down the throat of the channel. Since ships did not move at the flip of a penny, the entire process took the better part of two hours, but by the time the galleons noticed the Rose bearing down on them, the first warship was already in the channel and the second one, encouraged by the waving, shouting crew on board the Santo Domingo—most of whom removed their helmets and lowered the backsides of their breeches as the galleon passed—was committed to follow.
The men on the shore batteries waited until both warships were caught between the islands. The pitch-and sand-coated tarps were removed, the fuses lit, and the first rounds of chain shot were blasting through the air before the Spaniards even realized they were trapped. Grape and sangrenel cut the men out of the tops, while the chain shot tore the rigging and ripped holes through the sails and decking. Not one in five guns on the galleons responded. Crews on the lower decks, shielded behind the bulkheads, managed to fire sporadically, but because the ships were built so high out of the water, every single shot flew well over the heads of the men onshore, kicking up explosive founts of sand, stone, and palm fronds hundreds of yards behind.
Conversely, once the galleons’ sails and rigging were obliterated, the guns onshore were adjusted and trained point-blank on the hulls. The resulting damage from the thirty-two-pound culverins and eighty-pound mortars was terrible. With nowhere to turn and no effective means of fighting back, the Spaniards were forced to run the length of the deadly gauntlet only to emerge at the other end and find themselves facing the guns of the majestically resurrected Avenger and the Dove.
Dante’s gunners fired but one broadside before the first galleon ran up half a dozen white flags. One desperate officer who crawled up out of the smoking shambles of the high quarterdeck stripped off his shirt and waved it frantically over his head to gain the privateer’s attention before another round tore them to shreds. The second galleon ran into Pitt’s guns and suffered the same fate, surrendering to the cheers and hoots of the men leaping out from behind the shore batteries.
The Iron Rose, gliding past the western end of the channel, saw that her guns were not needed but fired a single round into the trees by way of a salute. Juliet ordered the ship to come about, keeping one wary eye on the rest of the flota, another on the lookouts who had a better vantage from their height and would signal if any other ships broke away from the pack. From a purely avaricious standpoint, she hoped they did. Her men were eager and willing, her cannon were fully primed and hungry for action.
For a time she blockaded the mouth of the channel, assuming there were likely scores of steel-helmeted Spaniards making imprints of spyglasses around their eye sockets. They had seen the entire ambush unfold. They would know by the pillars of smoke rising behind the islands that their sister ships were lost. They would also have identified the Avenger and probably the Iron Rose; what they had no way of knowing was how many other privateers lurked out of sight behind the islands hoping to lure them into a trap.
“What do you suppose they’re going to do?” Varian asked quietly.
Juliet shook her head. “They may be predictable, but they are not cowards. They won’t be quick to run. See there, the almirante is already slowing, signaling the other guards to form a strong line.”
“Lovely sight, ain’t it?” Crisp remarked, standing on her other side. “How many do ye count?”
“Eight guards, twenty-three merchantmen,” Juliet said absently. “They’ll be trying to decide now if it is better to pile on speed and get the treasure ships to safer water above the banks, or delay and wait until the rest of the fleet closes the gap.”
She trained the glass farther south, but there were only four or five stragglers on the horizon hastening to catch up to the first group. There was no doubt more would be coming. It just depended on how many ships had departed Havana in the first wave, how far they had become strung out, how quickly the slowest ship moved within the convoy.
“If they choose to run, it will be fine odds for our friends farther north.”
“Aye, they’ll’ve heard our thunder an’ they’ll know the storm is on the way.” Nathan winked at Varian as he said this, then chuckled. “Mayhap, if the galleons are all swallowed into the shoals an’ vanish without a trace, the Spaniards will start thinkin’ there be mysterious powers at work in these waters.”
It was a good jest and won a smile from Varian, who truth be told, would not be struck to his soul with disappointment if the fleet decided to cut their losses and move on. Eight warships and twenty-three merchantmen—Juliet had said it so calmly, as if facing their combined firepower would be like strolling down Mayfair on a sunny afternoon.
The thought left him wondering, not for the first time over the past weeks, what his mother’s reaction would be if he were to stroll anywhere in London, indeed in all of England, with Juliet Dante on his arm. For a certainty the stanch-lipped matriarch would drop into a swoon that would require an entire nest of scorched feathers to restore her senses. He could also envision the expressions on the faces of his friends and acquaintances when he recounted how he met his ravishing pirate wench, how he had stood by her side on the deck of a tall ship and watched those silvery eyes dare the entire Spanish treasure fleet to come feel the heat of her guns.
Unfortunately he could only see one of those silvery eyes himself, for the other was still fastened to the spyglass. Something in her expression had changed. Her jaw was rigid, her lips were pressed into a thin white line, and despite the warmth of her tan, the blood was draining from her face, leaving her skin a sickly yellow. She was no longer looking at the almirante, challenging it to sally forth. Her unblinking stare was fixed on
a pair of ships near the rear of the pack.
She reached out, grabbing empty air before she was able to snatch hold of Crisp’s arm.
“What is it, lass? What do ye see? Is it more company coming, then?”
She couldn’t answer. She could not even lower her glass to look at him, and Nathan snapped his own brass and leather glass open, holding it to his eye again.
Varian scanned the distant line of ships but saw nothing with the naked eye that would explain Juliet’s frozen expression. The galleons had definitely huddled closer together, though there were still a few stragglers riding well off the starboard flank.
Crisp swore and lowered the glass, squinting out at the water a moment before he raised the glass and leaned forward over the rail as if it would bring him that much closer.
He gasped, sucked the air into his lungs a moment, then released it on an explosive curse.
“Jesus wept,” he hissed. “It’s Cap’n Gabriel’s ship. It’s the Valour. And she’s sailing under a Spanish flag.”
Gabriel stuck the end of his tongue into the socket at the back of his mouth and toyed with the empty space. It was the only part of him that was able to move. The ropes around his wrists and ankles pretty well assured he could not get up and walk around, nor even wipe at the blood that had crusted over his eye. And if he raised his head, the bastards would know he was conscious again and the beating would resume.
It had taken the efforts of two warships and four pataches to finally drive him ashore off Havana, and while he would gladly have fought to the death, as would all of his men, it would have been an arrogant waste of good lives. Jonas and the Tribute were away and clear—he surely would have heard the Spaniards’ boasting if they were not—and if Gabriel knew anything at all about his brother, it was that he was as persistent as a mongrel. He would not allow his little brother to be shackled in chains and bound to oars in a slave galley. Moreover, when Jonas told their father what had happened … damnation, but he could almost feel sorry for these Spanish bastards.
All but one.
Gabriel had recognized him at once from Juliet’s description. The narrow, hawklike face, the dead black eyes, the missing earlobes. He surmised the bastard must have been important, or had a great deal of influence, or had simply shown he was vicious enough to deserve the privilege of “questioning” the prisoners, for he had not only been among the first to come on board the captured Valour, he had subsequently assumed command.
Capitán Cristóbal Nufio Espinosa y Recalde.
The name, like the pain from the myriad of bruises his henchman had battered onto Gabriel’s body, throbbed through his head like a religious chant. That and kill the bastard, crush the bastard, choke the bastard.
Just give me one chance at the bastard. One small opening.
It was apparent they had decided the Valour was not too badly damaged to be of some use to them back in Spain. Gabriel could hear sawing and hammering, and part of him was pleased his ship was being repaired. Another part hoped they were good carpenters, for it quickly became obvious their sailors did not know how to handle so much power and response from the helm. They were accustomed to sails that were square-rigged, set in configurations that were fixed. The Spaniards had little or no knowledge of how to adjust the sheets fore and aft to catch the best draft of wind and that was why, after one near collision with another galleon, the Valour had been relegated to a position outside the orderly vee.
Gabriel was being held belowdecks in what had been his quartermaster’s small cabin. The door had been smashed off its hinges and there was only a chair nailed to the centre of the floor. There was always at least one guard posted in the outer passageway, but more often two, as if they still considered him, trussed and battered, a dangerous threat.
You bastards have no idea.
When Recalde came to visit he brought a lamp, but otherwise it was gray and murky, the only source of light an eight-by-eight-inch porthole with the hatch partly closed. The air was thick with particles of floating dust, and because they had kept him bound hand and foot to the chair for two days without relief, the smell of his own blood and urine was a constant incentive to stay alive, to wait for that one unguarded moment.
He could only imagine what he must look like. The first day they had stripped him down to his linens, searching for any weapons he might have hidden in his clothes, and never bothered to dress him again. Two days and several interrogations later, skin that was not splattered with blood was bruised a dark blue. He had a cut over his eye they took particular pleasure in reopening on the first punch of each session. There was another on his cheek, and he knew his lips were a swollen mass of splits and scabs. He hadn’t been able to feel his feet or hands or even wiggle his fingers since the day before; the ropes were bound tight to ensure there was no possibility of him working them loose, and for all he knew, his fingers had turned black and fallen off. He had very little hearing in his left ear but couldn’t tell if it was a result of the beatings or because it was just full of congealed blood. The right side was still functioning. Enough for him to hear the cannonading early that morning. Enough to hear the more recent volleys that had brought Recalde striding into the cabin and soiling his own gloves by dealing Gabriel a blow to the jaw that genuinely knocked him out for a few minutes.
He opened his good eye a crack, wondering if the Spaniard was still there. Recalde was quiet as a python and had fooled Gabriel before.
The thought was barely finished when his hair was grabbed and his head jerked upright. The grunt that escaped his lips was not feigned, for each time the bastard pulled him up by the hair, it felt as though his entire scalp was about to rip off.
“I see you have come back to us, Señor Dante,” Recalde said in clear English. “Ah ah.” He held up a warning finger. “If you spit at me again, I shall instruct Jorge to cut out your tongue.”
Gabriel rolled his eyeball in Jorge’s direction. A massive, ugly brute, he would have made Lucifer look like a delicate princeling. His fists were the size of sledgehammers, his shoulders resembled a series of powder barrels strapped together, the muscles bulging in hard, round shapes. Most of the damage on Gabriel’s body had been accomplished by bored slaps and lightweight punches and Dante had no burning desire to see what the leviathan could do with a blade.
Recalde released the clutch of hair, pleased to see the comprehension in the wolf cub’s eyes. “A wise decision.”
Gabriel started to let his head sink forward again, but stopped when he saw Recalde’s gloved fist move as if to snatch back the fistful of hair.
“I am not a man who believes in coincidences.” Recalde leaned down so that his breath bathed Gabriel’s face with the smell of garlic. “It was no coincidence we caught you and your brother scouting Havana. It was no coincidence our ships have been under recent attack off the coast of Hispaniola. Nor was it a coincidence—albeit both ambushes were brilliantly executed—that our fleet has come under attack twice today.”
He straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “It is no wonder your family has a reputation for audacity. Had this infernal ship sailed faster, however, I would have been able to stop this latest travesty before two more of our fine vessels were lured to their doom.”
“You should have put me at the helm,” Gabriel croaked. “I would gladly have sped you directly into the heart of the fray.”
Jorge took an ominous step forward, but Recalde held up a hand. “No. No, the offer is a generous one, and I accept. You may indeed go topside, Señor Dante. In fact, your crew is there already, waiting for you to join them, to lead them as we go forth to meet the infamous Pirata Lobo. Jorge, untie the gentleman. Careful of his hands, they are so swollen the skin might burst if the blade slips the smallest degree.”
Gabriel did not feel the knife parting the ropes. Moreover, his hands and feet fell like leaden weights the moment they were free, and he was fairly certain he would not be able to stand on his own.
Recalde signaled
to a pair of guards who were waiting out in the passageway. All bustle and efficiency, they hastened into the cabin, taking Gabriel up under each arm and dragging him out between them. They hauled him up the ladderway, his feet slapping the steps like wooden blocks, and when they reached the deck, they paused a moment to allow Capitán Recalde to climb ahead of them to the quarterdeck.
By then, Gabriel’s horror was such that his battered eye cracked open of its own accord. His gasp of outraged disbelief came out sounding more like a cry and drew equally helpless cries of rage from his crewmen when they saw the broken condition of their gallant captain.
Each member of the Valour’s crew was stripped to the waist, bound hand and foot to the shrouds, to the rails, forming a shield of human flesh around the upper deck.
Gabriel was taken up to the quarterdeck, where his arms and legs were similarly bound, spread-eagled, to the ratlines in plain view of anyone with a spyglass. He started shouting profanities before the ropes were applied, as did his men, and when the din became more annoying than amusing, Recalde nodded to several of his soldiers, who started savagely lashing the naked backs, shoulders, bellies of the bound men. They whipped and lashed until they were drenched with sweat, spattered with blood, and the din had been reduced to whimpered curses.
“Now then.” Recalde stood on the quarterdeck behind Gabriel. “I am sure your family would like to see that you are alive and … reasonably unharmed for the moment. Shall we go and pay them that visit now? I am particularly anxious to renew my acquaintance with your sister,” he murmured, reaching up to touch a mutilated ear. “As I recall, I made a promise to her at our last meeting and I know my entire crew is looking forward to honoring it. Jorge first, I think. The poor fellow’s prick is so big, even the whores are terrified of him, but I think la Rosa de Hierro would be eager to accommodate him if she thought it might save your life. What do you think, Señor Dante? Does she value your life enough to sacrifice her own?”
The Iron Rose Page 32