by Jayla Jasso
Hauste stepped a bit closer to Marcano. “No doubt you are looking for your precious Corazón.”
“You can keep the gold nugget. I came for Jolie,” Marcano replied, his eyes never leaving Hauste’s face.
Hauste laughed. “Either you are a complete fool or you consider me to be one, Vencedor. Your mistake was falling for Jolie’s ‘poor little me’ act.”
“And your mistake,” Marcano shot back, “was leaving me alive.”
“A mistake I’ll be certain not to repeat.” Hauste drew a dagger and stepped up close to the Spaniard. “Go get the little whore,” he ordered one of his men over his shoulder. “I want her to watch while he dies.”
#
“Papa! Papa, Master Hauste caught El Vencedor!”
Nwoye opened his eyes and blinked at his small son. He started to scold him for going outside after dark, but the boy’s words began to sink in. He sat up in his cot, coming fully awake. “What? Are you sure, Achebe?”
“They got him tied up in stable. I saw him, Papa.” Achebe’s eyes were large as saucers.
Nwoye tossed back the blanket and began to dress quickly. He had to rouse the others.
#
Jolie struggled feebly as one of Hauste’s roughest, smelliest guards dragged her down the stairs, pain from her injured ribs stabbing through her torso. She could hear a commotion outside in the yard, but was not yet awake enough to comprehend what was happening.
When they exited the house, the guard shoved her toward a group of men outside and she spotted Marcano in their midst, hands tied behind his back. One of Hauste’s men held a musket to Marcano’s back while two others held his arms. He looked up and saw her, eyes filled with anguish. Jolie tore past the guards and flung her arms around his neck, sobbing. The burly henchman pulled her away by her waist as she screamed in protest, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Hauste’s vindictive laugh pierced the air. “Looks like your Spanish hero’s luck has finally run out, my dear.” He walked up to Marcano and grasped a handful of hair at the nape of his neck, jerking his head back. The blade of his knife flashed in the moonlight as he brandished it and pressed it against Marcano’s throat. “This time, we bury your Vencedor and make certain he doesn’t come back.”
Jolie’s heart pounded in fear and rage.
“Shall I slit the bastard’s throat so we can watch him bleed to death?” Hauste asked the guards, and they broke out in a chorus of laughter.
“Stop it!” Jolie screamed, pulling against the guard’s grip on her waist. “Leave him alone! Let us go! Lord Hauste, you evil tyrant—I know you’re trying to marry me to Theo so you can get my inheritance. I will give it to you if that’s what you want. Just let us go! Please, please let us go,” she sobbed, her throat raw.
Hauste lowered the knife and turned to face her, cocking his head to one side. “Now this I enjoy, seeing you beg. You have always been so damned rebellious. Plead and cry more pitifully, Jolie. Perhaps I will relent.”
Infuriated and desperate, she opened her mouth to scream at the top of her lungs. “Help! Someone, help! Nwoye! Okono! Kashe!” Each name pierced the night air with a loud shriek.
Hauste’s smile faded as he glanced around the yard.
Jolie realized most of his guards—if not all of them—stood gathered there with him. Who was watching the slave quarters? She screamed for Nwoye and the others again.
“Shut her up!” Hauste ordered.
The guard adjusted his grasp on her for a second, and Jolie slipped out of his arms. She took off running toward the orchard. Two guards went after her; one of them tackled her to the ground before she reached the line of trees, and she landed with a painful grunt in the damp grass, her bruised ribcage bearing the full impact of the fall.
#
Marcano had been waiting for his chance, and when he saw the guards run after Jolie, he used the distraction to force his elbow up—awkwardly, with his bound wrists—into the stomach of one of the guards holding him. When he doubled over, Marcano turned to jam the heel of his boot down the shin of the other guard with all his strength, then swung around and shoved his knee into the groin of the third guard, who also stumbled back in pain. His musket fired as he fell, but only nicked Marcano’s sleeve.
Marcano started to charge Hauste, but Jolie’s screams halted him. There was confusion and shouting, and he turned to see the guards hauling her to her feet, her nightgown torn and dirty. They dragged her back toward the front yard.
Hauste’s voice rang out in the humid night air. “Go ahead, Spaniard. Keep fighting. She will suffer more by watching your slow death.”
Marcano swallowed as two guards grasped his arms and drew their pistols, aiming them at his ears. Hauste’s henchmen brought Jolie closer, and he cursed himself foully under his breath for not taking her with him when he had the chance.
Just then something whistled through the air and struck one of the men who held Jolie. He crumpled forward to the ground, the shaft of a homemade spear protruding from his back. Hauste and the rest of his guards stared at it mutely. An arrow sang through the air and hit Jolie’s second guard in the temple. As he fell away from her, she stood frozen, afraid to move.
The guards holding Marcano aimed their pistols in the direction of the thick brush and trees around the perimeter of the yard. Hauste and the rest of his men stared at the dark shadows, trying to see the hidden assailants.
Hauste bellowed, “Who’s there? What’s the meaning of this?”
There was a blood-curdling war cry from the bank of trees as a bevy of arrows sprang forth, each one hitting its mark. More guards fell, and Hauste rushed to grab Jolie, then used her as a shield between himself and the deadly attackers in the trees. His few remaining men fired their pistols and rifles into the dark foliage, then quickly began to reload.
A small army of ebony-skinned, bare-chested men leapt forward out of the trees and underbrush, overwhelming the Englishmen in a matter of seconds. The muscular, work-hardened Africans wrestled the guards to the ground, punching and kicking viciously, fuelled by the bitter resentment of years of bondage and abuse. Soon all of the guards were either dead, unconscious, or helpless in the hands of the slaves, who went to work quickly tying their captives’ hands and feet with vines.
The slaves’ leader, a tall, ferocious-looking warrior with scars all over his torso, scooped up a guard’s knife from the ground and hurried to Marcano’s side, turning him to cut the rope that bound his wrists and free him.
Marcano looked up. Lord Hauste stood near his front porch steps, one arm circled around Jolie’s waist, pressing a knife to her throat. Marcano moved toward them with the large African following close behind.
Hauste bared his teeth. “Back off, Spaniard, or I’ll do it. Don’t think for a moment I won’t kill her. That fortune of hers is the only thing that has kept me from doing it already.”
Jolie stared at Marcano.
He inched slightly closer. “Let her go, Hauste. You are defeated.”
“Back off, I say! She’s mine!”
“We will spare your life and leave your plantation peacefully if you let her go now.” Marcano moved a step closer, and the African men gathered behind him, seeming ready to pounce at Marcano’s cue.
“Bastards!” Hauste screeched. “Bastards, every last one of you! Barbarians! I’ll kill you all!” He raised the knife high and turned the point down toward Jolie.
“No!” Marcano screamed, lunging forward.
A loud gunshot pierced the air and Hauste jerked, hit. The knife plummeted to the ground. The huge Englishman swayed, his eyes rolling back as blood poured out of a hole in his forehead, running down his face and neck. He staggered, struggled to remain standing, then sank heavily to his knees, pulling Jolie down with him. She scrambled away as Hauste’s body fell to the ground, convulsed once, and then lay still, eyes staring up at the almost-full moon.
Marcano reached Jolie in the blink of an eye and lifted the shaking girl to her feet. They tu
rned to see a woman Marcano assumed was the housekeeper, Vera, standing on the porch, an expensive-looking pistol held aloft in her outstretched hand, a faint plume of smoke drifting up from its barrel.
Jolie turned and clung to Marcano’s neck, sobbing.
The African leader stood near, hands on hips, glancing at Jolie in concern and then turning to see that his men still had the captured guards under control. He knelt over Hauste to check for a pulse.
Marcano held Jolie tightly while addressing the leader over her shoulder. “Friend, I would take the time to introduce myself but I think it best if we leave here as soon as possible. My brigantine is anchored in the bay beyond the orchard there.”
The African inclined his head toward Marcano. “No introduction necessary. We are at your command, Vencedor.”
“I’m not El Vencedor,” Marcano said.
The leader turned to the men waiting behind him. “El Vencedor wants to leave, now. Get the women and children.”
Two men took off running down the path toward the slave huts.
Still holding Jolie, Marcano turned to Vera, who stood frozen on the porch. “Señora, can you get her some clean clothes, quickly? Get whatever you both need from the house.”
She turned and disappeared inside.
Marcano turned his attention back to Jolie. She was trembling violently against him, her face buried into his shirt. “It’s over, querida. Be calm now.”
Jolie raised her head. “Is h-he d-dead? I need to see for myself.”
“Yes, querida. Look.” He turned her around gently, pointing at the Englishman’s corpse.
Jolie took in her guardian’s glassy eyes, gaping mouth, and bloodied face and neck, and her knees buckled. Marcano reached down and picked her up into his arms cradle-style, held her securely against his chest and pressed her head into the crook of his shoulder.
“It’s over, mi amor. Now you may lay the nightmares to rest.”
#
Jolie still clung to Marcano’s neck as he lowered her into a rowboat on the southern shore of Crab Island.
“Let go for a brief moment, querida mía,” he said softly, placing her into the arms of the slave they were calling Kashe. Kashe then lowered her into the small boat to sit with the other slaves.
Vera was already in the boat, holding two large bags of belongings she had gathered from the house. Jolie scooted closer to her, and they wrapped their arms around one another’s shoulders.
Marcano turned to address the slave leaders Nwoye and Okono, who stood at the edge of the water with the rest of the Africans, waiting.
“I will send back all my rowboats. They should be here in half an hour or less. I have three; there should be enough space for everyone to go at once. Remain out of sight and on your guard in case any of Hauste’s men try to escape.”
Nwoye nodded. “Yes, Vencedor.”
Marcano smiled, shaking his head. “I am not El Vencedor, my friend.”
Nwoye moved forward to grasp his forearm. “We owe you our lives, Vencedor. I will not forget who you are.”
Marcano chuckled in defeat, clasping the African’s arm firmly. “I am equally grateful to you and your skilled archers, amigo, for saving Jolie and myself tonight. We will meet on my brigantine soon.”
He moved back to the boat, and it skimmed away as the men pulled the oars with vigor. Marcano settled down in the floor and pulled Jolie into his lap. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his hard chest, closing her eyes in exhaustion. As the boat sliced through the waves, he stroked her back through her cotton nightgown and whispered near her ear.
“You are with me now, and I will never let you go. No man will ever touch you or hurt you again, mi amor. This nightmare has come to an end, and I do not want you to think on it. Think only of the future, and me, and the beautiful life that awaits us together.”
#
On board the Amatista Segunda, there was commotion and excitement when Marcano’s crew realized he had finally returned, bringing Jolie and a group of Africans with him.
Jolie was thrilled to see Guillarte there to greet her. “It is good to see you again, Señorita.” He grinned, surveying her tattered nightgown in the lamplight. “Although it looks as though we will have to go shopping again, Gabriel.”
“Yes.” Marcano didn’t look too pleased with the idea of Guillarte and his new crew standing around gawking at her state of undress. “Excuse me; I must get her up to my cabin, quickly.”
Just then a familiar young voice came through the group of men, and a boy shoved his way forward. “Señorita Jolie! Miss Jolie!”
She turned to see Joaquin rushing toward her, and caught him in her open arms. “Oh, Joaquin. I am so glad to see you, son.” His fierce embrace was uncomfortable for her injured ribs, but she didn’t care.
“Véte, Joaquin, escort her up to my cabin now,” Marcano ordered gruffly. He motioned Vera to go with them and turned to talk to Guillarte in Spanish while Joaquin led her away.
#
Marcano’s new cabin was similar to the one on the Amatista, but more sparsely furnished. It was arranged differently and the bunk seemed larger, but Jolie barely took notice of any other details in her exhaustion.
Joaquin lit a lantern, his expression greatly dismayed when he saw the bruise around her eye. He set about filling the tub so she could soak in a nice warm bath.
Vera unpacked her hastily filled sacks, laying out a rumpled set of clothes for Jolie as well as her brush and journal. That done, she scooped up something heavy wrapped in burlap, placed it in one of the empty sacks, and turned to go.
Jolie stopped her to give her a grateful hug. “What’s this, Nana?”
“A gift for the blue-eye Spaniard. I will give it to him myself. He done a lot for us, bringing us to his ship.”
Jolie latched the door after she left and bathed in the warm water, then donned one of Marcano’s nightshirts and combed out her wet hair.
Joaquin returned to dispose of the bathwater and say goodnight.
Jolie crawled into Marcano’s bunk, barely able to keep her eyes open. She dozed off to the gentle rocking of the brigantine.
#
Before giving the command to set sail, Marcano ensured that all the Africans were safely aboard and given blankets and bunks in the hold. Nwoye and many others insisted on helping the crew work rather than going to bed, so Marcano assigned his sailors to begin training them in the tasks of sailing the brigantine. He didn’t have a full crew yet anyhow, and if the Africans proved seaworthy, he wouldn’t have to hire more sailors in San Juan as he had originally planned.
Once the vessel was swiftly heading out to sea, Marcano left Guillarte in charge and climbed the stairs up to his cabin. The foyer outside his cabin was dark, but Marcano could see that Joaquin slept peacefully on his bunk in the corner. Vera was asleep in a chair next to him. He walked over to awaken her.
She raised her head and fixed dark eyes on him. “Blue-eye? Is that you?”
Marcano smiled. “Yes, Señora. Sorry to disturb you. There is a bed for you in the hold.”
She rose to her feet. “Yes, I go now. This is for you to open later.” She held a burlap bag out to him.
Marcano took the sack, noting its heaviness. “A gift?”
“My thanks for getting us out of that place, and taking good care of my girl in there. You maybe deserve her love. I never thought I say that about any man.”
“Thank you, Señora.” He bowed his head to her. “I will have Joaquin show you the way downstairs.” He roused Joaquin and gave him instructions, and the two of them left.
He entered his cabin and latched the door. At last he was alone with the young woman he had prayed every night for the past two months would still be alive when he managed to catch up with her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Marcano undressed quickly, his emotions almost overwhelming him now that he had a moment to himself: anger at finding Jolie’s brutally inflicted abuse, sorrow tha
t he couldn’t have reached her sooner, and relief that she was safe on his ship, asleep in his bunk. He had dreamed of this moment a million times since their separation, of cradling her body against his, of caressing her hair, of making love to her. With her injuries, he feared that part would have to wait, but just being near her would be more than enough blissful satisfaction for now.
Outside on the rear balcony, he tossed bucketfuls of water over his naked body and scrubbed himself clean with soap. Within minutes he reentered the cabin clutching a towel about his hips. He felt weary and a little battered; he’d sustained several small cuts and bruises during the night’s ordeal and rope burns around his wrists, but that was nothing compared to the agony of watching Hauste and his men threaten and terrify Jolie.
He stared down at the sleeping girl while towel-drying his hair. She stirred a bit and he tossed the towel aside, moving forward to slide under the covers beside her. The bed was warmed by her body heat, and he reached out to pull her very gently into the curve of his body, her back to his chest.
She jerked awake and looked over her shoulder. “Oh! Gabriel?”
“Yes, querida mía,” he soothed against her ear. “You are safe with me now.”
She smelled of flowers and arousing warmth. Against his will, his body responded to her nearness. He did not intend to make love to her tonight, merely to allow her to rest in his arms. He buried his face in her hair and tried to concentrate on his own exhaustion. It wasn’t easy with her backside snuggled against his groin.
She grasped the arm that encircled her waist. “Gabriel, am I dreaming? Tell me you are really here.”
Her fingers caressed along the prickly skin of his forearms. Marcano took a deep breath. “I am here. I will always be here.”
She sighed, then rolled over a bit so that she was lying on her back beside him. She slid an arm around his neck, her hip pressing against his erection. “If I’m dreaming, may I never awaken.” She raised her head to kiss his lips.
“Querida,” he protested softly against her mouth, trying to force his thoughts down a more sober path. “You are tired and sore. You need to rest.”