Then Preacher planted his feet and braced himself as he began a fierce counterattack. Rowland had more experience using a cutlass, but Preacher matched him force for force and was slightly quicker. The advantage swung to him as Rowland backed up a couple of steps.
That retreat was short-lived, just as Preacher’s had been. Rowland parried one of Preacher’s strokes and suddenly slashed at the mountain man’s legs. Preacher started to drop his cutlass to block that attack but realized at the last second that it was a feint. The tip of the cutlass in Rowland’s hand darted upward at an angle that would bury the blade in Preacher’s throat.
Preacher jerked his head back and got his own cutlass in the way just enough to make Rowland’s blade slide a little to one side as more sparks flew. Preacher felt the keen edge nick his chin, as if he had cut himself shaving.
Rowland had drawn first blood.
Since Rowland’s cutlass was high, Preacher tried to go low. He slashed at the man’s belly, but Rowland jumped back in time to avoid the blade, which left a long rip in his shirt. Preacher saw a few drops of crimson appear on the shirt, and knew he had sliced into skin a little.
Rowland growled a curse and bored in again, hewing so swiftly with his cutlass that Preacher had to jerk his own blade back and forth as fast as he could to parry the attacks.
While he was concentrating on that, Rowland tried another trick, hooking a foot between Preacher’s ankles and jerking his right leg out from under him. Preacher went over backward, and Rowland pounced, springing forward and chopping downward with the cutlass in his hand.
Preacher rolled out of the way, but the blade came so close he felt as much as heard it whisper past his ear before it struck the deck with a thunk!
Rowland’s strength backfired on him then. The cutlass’s edge penetrated far enough into the wood to get stuck. As he tried to wrench it free, Preacher kicked him in the belly.
Rowland grunted and doubled over, bringing his chin in range of Preacher’s other foot, which he used to land a kick on Rowland’s jaw that sent the tattooed man flying backward. Rowland hung on to the cutlass, though, and the added impetus of the kick was enough to pull the blade free from where it had lodged in the deck.
Rowland landed hard on the planks and slid several feet. Preacher scrambled up and went after him. He had time for a split-second glance around the ship and saw that the fighting seemed to have ended except for the battle between him and Rowland. He wasn’t sure which side had emerged victorious, and before he could figure it out, Rowland, still lying on the deck, pushed up on an elbow, lunged at him, and tried to cut his legs out from under him.
Preacher leaped in the air and let the cutlass pass underneath his feet. As he came down, he swung his own cutlass. He wasn’t trying to spare Rowland’s life, but it happened to be the flat of the blade that smacked against the side of the tattooed man’s head. The blow seemed to stun him. The hand holding the cutlass sagged.
Preacher kicked him in the jaw again. That stretched Rowland out on the deck. When he tried to lift the cutlass, Preacher’s foot came down hard on the wrist of that hand. Rowland yelled in pain and rage as Preacher pinned the hand to the deck. The cry was cut short as Preacher rested the tip of his cutlass against Rowland’s Adam’s apple.
“I’m mighty tempted to give this pigsticker a push,” Preacher told him.
“Go ahead,” Rowland grated, then added a couple of colorful curses.
“But I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—I ain’t a murderer.” Preacher bent over and took the cutlass out of Rowland’s grip. He tossed it away, saw it slide across the deck and come to a stop at the feet of another man. Preacher was a little surprised to realize that man was Chimney Matthews.
The old-timer picked up Rowland’s cutlass. “You sure you don’t want to go ahead and kill the varmint?” Chimney asked. He had a swollen welt on his forehead where someone, probably Rowland, had walloped him. “I don’t reckon there’s a soul in the world that’d miss him.”
Preacher ignored that and looked around. He didn’t know the members of the Calypso’s crew well enough to be sure who was on his side and who wasn’t, but the fact that Chimney seemed to be satisfied with the way things had turned out indicated that the mutineers had won.
Numerous bodies sprawled on the deck. A group of men huddled together near the bow while others surrounded them, holding pistols and cutlasses. The handful of prisoners backed against the railing must have been the only ones remaining who had been loyal to Captain Sampson.
The captain himself sat on the steps leading down to his cabin while a man stood near him holding a cutlass. Sampson had his head in his hands and seemed utterly defeated. Preacher wasn’t completely convinced of that. He told the man guarding Sampson, “Keep a close eye on him.”
“I plan to,” the sailor replied grimly.
Chimney came up to Preacher and tugged on his sleeve. “Where’s the boy?” the old-timer asked.
“You mean Tyler?” Preacher nodded toward the raised deck. “Up there, the last time I saw him.”
Both of them hurried up to check on the young man. Tyler still lay where Preacher had left him, only half conscious. He muttered and raved, causing Chimney to peer down anxiously at him and say, “He’s in pretty bad shape, ain’t he?”
“Those wounds on his back have festered,” Preacher said. “They’re causin’ him to run a fever. They need to be cleaned out and doctored. Do you have a ship’s surgeon on board?”
“We did have, but he got drunk, fell overboard on our last voyage, and drowned. The cap’n ain’t got around to replacin’ him yet.”
“Tyler needs a real doctor.” Preacher rubbed his chin and frowned in thought. “Closest one is probably in Cuba. We ain’t far from there, are we?”
“We could get there in a few hours, I reckon,” Chimney said.
“Do you or one of these other fellas know how to navigate?”
Chimney snorted disgustedly. “Shoot, I was born knowin’ how to navigate. I can get us there, don’t you worry ’bout that. The question is”—he looked at Sampson and then at the other prisoners—“what do we do about these fellers? Every blamed one of ’em oughter walk the plank!”
Preacher looked at the small boat hanging from ropes and poles at the stern. “They’ll be pretty crowded in that, but I reckon that’s better than . . . What do you seagoin’ fellas call it? Windin’ up in Davy Jones’s Locker?”
Chimney laughed, then grew serious as he asked, “You really mean to let ’em go?”
“That’s right. We’ll give ’em a little food and water, enough for ’em to get by for a while.”
“They’ll head for Cuba, too, you know. Havana’s the closest port.”
Preacher thought about that for a moment. Then he went over to Sampson and said, “Get up.”
Without raising his head, Sampson replied obscenely what Preacher could do.
Preacher put the tip of the cutlass under Sampson’s chin and used it to tip his head back. “I ain’t gonna kill you in cold blood right now, but I’ll give you this warnin’. If I ever see you again, as soon as I lay eyes on you, I will kill you. I don’t intend to say a blasted thing or ask you what you’re doin’. I’m just gonna kill you. Same goes for Rowland, so you tell him that once he comes to.”
“Ye best go ahead an’ take that cutlass and lop my head off right now, mister,” Sampson said. “Because I will see you again, and when I do, I’ll be the one doin’ the killin’.”
“I’ve been threatened by a lot of folks, and I’m still here,” Preacher pointed out. He turned to Chimney. “You and your friends see to gettin’ the prisoners in that boat.” He thought for a moment. “Don’t give ’em any oars. The current’ll take ’em ashore sooner or later, but it’ll be a while.”
“Aye, that’s a good idea,” Chimney agreed, bobbing his head. “I’ll see to it, Cap’n.”
“Hold on there!” Preacher said as he stared at the old-timer. “What’d you just call m
e?”
“Cap’n,” Chimney repeated. “You’re the one who defeated Sampson and Rowland both. None o’ this would’ve happened without you and Tyler helpin’ me and these other fellers find enough courage to fight back. If anybody’s got a right to call hisself the cap’n of the Calypso, it’s you, Preacher.”
That idea struck Preacher as ridiculous. He didn’t know a thing in the world about how to be the captain of a sailing ship. But a lot of being in command of anything was just common sense, he supposed, and as long as he had fellas who did know what they were doing to help him out, there was a good chance they could get where they wanted to go.
“All right,” he said, “but you’re first mate. I want Sampson, Rowland, and the rest of the varmints who sided with them off this ship as quick as possible.”
Chimney gave him a whiskery grin and a rough salute. “Aye, aye, sir!”
The steersman must have deserted his post to join in the battle, because the tiller was unattended and the sloop was going wherever the wind and waves took it. With the cutlass in one hand, Preacher strode over to the tiller to loop his other arm over it and steady it.
As he felt the Calypso respond to his touch, he sleeved some blood away from the cut on his chin, shook his head in amazement, and said, “Cap’n Preacher. If that don’t beat all.”
CHAPTER 36
It didn’t take long to drop the small boat into the sea and then prod the prisoners to jump into the water after it. Abner Rowland was still unconscious when a couple of men dragged him to the rail and pushed him over, but he came to when he hit the water, flailing and thrashing and gulping until he got control of himself and realized what was going on. Sampson, who had already dragged himself into the small boat, called to him and got his attention. Rowland swam over to the craft, where Sampson and the others pulled him in.
As Chimney leaned on the railing and watched what was going on below, he said to Preacher, “You know, there are sharks in these waters. That’s why those fellers scrambled into the boat as fast as they did.”
“You didn’t tell me about the sharks before those men went overboard,” Preacher said.
“Who am I to deny a poor shark the chance for a good meal?” Chimney asked with a grin. “Anyway, they’re all in the boat now, and none of ’em got et.”
One of the men left on the sloop rounded up a bundle of supplies that included some bread and salt pork and several earthenware jugs of fresh water. He tied it to a rope and lowered it to the men in the small boat.
Once that was done, Preacher told Chimney to get the Calypso started toward Cuba. He wanted to reach the island nation as quickly as possible so Tyler could receive some actual medical attention. He had several men carry Tyler into the cabin and place him on the bunk as gently as possible. Preacher used a rag soaked with rum to clean the young man’s wounds, but the job needed a more expert hand to do it properly.
He needed to start thinking about his own plans, too, he reminded himself. He hadn’t forgotten about Edmund Cornelius and Lucy Tarleton. And he had a score to settle with Simone LeCarde, too. Beautiful she might be, but she had condemned Preacher to either an early death on the ship or a short, miserable life as a slave on the sugar plantation, and he wasn’t going to forget that.
Chimney issued orders for how the sails were to be set and chose one of the men to take over handling the tiller. Then he and Preacher conferred on their destination.
“Havana’s the biggest port, but there’s another town up the coast called Verdugo where we’ve put in sometimes in the past,” Chimney explained. “We’ve got friends there, and there’s a sawbones, too. An English feller who came to the islands for his health.”
“From what I hear, it ain’t all that healthy in this part of the world. Lots of fever in the tropics.”
Chimney scratched at his beard. “Yeah, but this feller had neck problems. As in, the law was gonna stretch it for him if they caught him. Since Cuba’s under Spanish rule, he finds it a mite more hospitable.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” Preacher said, “as long as he can take care of Tyler.”
“I reckon he can do that. You want me to set course for Verdugo?”
Preacher nodded. “Yep. Just get us there as soon as you can.”
With the wind filling its sails, the Calypso seemed to skim over the water. By midafternoon, a low dark line appeared on the southern horizon. As the ship drew closer, the line grew larger and took on a green hue from vegetation. They were approaching land at last.
Chimney stood on the raised deck with Preacher. Using the spyglass he had taken away from Jabez Sampson, Chimney studied the distant island. After a few minutes, he handed the telescope to Preacher and said, “Aye, that’s Verdugo, all right. You can see it there at the base of a ridge that looks like a hog’s back.”
Preacher peered through the glass, moving it slightly until he spotted the cluster of buildings next to a small cove with a sandy beach. Topped with trees waving gently in the breeze off the water, the ridge Chimney had mentioned rose behind the settlement. Verdugo was far from being a city, but it appeared to be a good-sized town.
Preacher saw the bell tower of the local mission, as well as two tall, stone towers, one at the end of each spit of land enclosing the cove. “What are those towers?” he asked Chimney. “Anything we have to worry about?”
“Naw. The Spaniards built them fortifications back in the days when they was fightin’ with the English all the time, not to mention pirates like Blackbeard and Flint and privateers like Cap’n Shark who roamed the Caribbean. ’Tis more peaceful in these waters now, so there ain’t no Spanish garrison in Verdugo, and we didn’t ever raid the town, so folks there are friendly toward us. When we show up, we spend money, instead of stealin’ it, so they’re always glad to see us.”
The Calypso sped on toward its destination. The sloop sailed between the two towers. Chimney had assured Preacher there was nothing to worry about, but he eyed the fortifications warily anyway. He could see cannon poking their snouts over the walls at the top of the towers, but no one seemed to be moving around. As Chimney had said, the forts weren’t manned anymore. They were impressive sights to behold, anyway, even if they had fallen into disuse.
People ashore spotted the ship approaching and went down to the docks to welcome it. A crowd of a couple of dozen figures waited there. Even though the Calypso had a much smaller crew than usual, the sailors did a good job of bringing the sloop alongside one of the piers, using the vessel’s momentum after the sails were struck to guide it into place. Several men jumped to the dock with ropes and made the sloop fast.
Preacher had found his buckskin shirt and trousers and high-topped moccasins in Sampson’s cabin and donned them. He felt more like himself as he waited to go ashore. Tyler had continued drifting in and out of consciousness without ever really becoming coherent. Preacher wanted to get him some actual medical attention as soon as possible.
Beckoning for Chimney to follow him, Preacher jumped easily from the sloop to the dock. He had a couple of pistols tucked behind his belt, but he’d left the cutlass aboard and he had long since unlocked the manacle from his left wrist. He said to the old-timer, “You probably speak these folks’ lingo a lot better than I do, so make sure they know we don’t mean anybody any harm.”
“They know that. Here comes the jefe now. He’s the boss around here.”
A rotund, well-dressed figure with an impressive, sweeping mustache strode along the dock toward them. As he came to a stop, he asked mostly in English, “Where is Capitan Sampson?”
“Not cap’n anymore,” Chimney replied. “This here is Cap’n Preacher. He’s in command of the Calypso now. Cap’n, meet Señor Alphonso.”
The man bowed slightly and said, “Alphonso Gonzalez y Bustamente Rodriguez, alcalde de Verdugo.” He chattered some more in Spanish. Preacher knew a lot of the words but the speech was too rapid for him to comprehend the order in which they were arranged.
“He say
s it’s an honor to meet you, Cap’n,” Chimney translated, “and says that however the good people of Verdugo can serve their norteamericano visitors, they’ll be plumb happy to do so.”
“Tell him what we really need right now is a doctor for Tyler,” Preacher said.
Chimney conveyed the request and got another spate of Spanish in return. Then Gonzalez motioned several men forward and they went aboard the Calypso by using the gangplank that had been put in place while the conversation was going on. Another man ran off into the town and came back a few minutes later with a wide board that he took onto the ship. He and the others used it as a stretcher to carry Tyler onto the dock. They started off with him, trailed by Preacher, Chimney, and Gonzalez.
“They’re taking him to Dr. Flynn’s house,” Chimney explained. “He’s the feller I told you about.”
“The one who was gonna wind up on the gallows if he stayed in England.”
“Yeah, but a lot of fellers have been hanged who weren’t such bad sorts if you just got to know ’em.”
The doctor turned out to be a wiry, middle-aged man who had graying hair and a narrow mustache. He came out of an adobe house with a wildly profuse flower garden in front of it. After speaking with Gonzalez and Chimney, he motioned for the men carrying Tyler to take him on inside.
While they were doing that, he extended his hand to Preacher and said, “I’m Roger Flynn.” He still had a bit of an English accent, but life in the tropics had softened it. “What happened to the young gentleman?”
“He was flogged,” Preacher replied bluntly. “And now he’s runnin’ a fever, seems out of his head most of the time.”
Flynn nodded. “The wounds are probably infected. I’ll clean them out and give him something that should help him.”
Chimney gestured toward Preacher and said, “The cap’n got a whippin’, too, before he was the cap’n.”
“Really? Would you allow me to take a look?”
“I’m fine—”
“It won’t take but a minute.”
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