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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: Mad Morgan
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“Then you had best hurry,” Elena Maria replied. She looked past her betrothed as Sir Richard Purselley appeared outside in the hall. He nervously cleared his throat and entered the room, holding his tricorn hat in his hand.
“Good, you are here, Sir Richard,” said the woman. “What I have learned from my nurse is for the both of you.”
T
he chairs within the councilroom had been cleared from the main floor and removed to the side walls to afford space for those dignitaries and their ladies who chose to dance to the strains of the Military Consort; the repertoire included a number of pavannes and ballads that tested the artistry of the musicians. Thankfully, the guests were of a forgiving nature, their charity plied with copious quantities of Madeira and several fine bottles of port.
Sir Richard Purselley had invited every plantation owner, merchant, and town official from Kingston to the ball. A goodly number, despite their reticence to socialize with the Spaniards, had already made the trek up the road to the governor's estate. However distasteful it might be to kowtow to the likes of Don Alonso del Campo, the local dignitaries were loath to insult Sir Richard, who could be counted on to hold a grudge the next time he sat in judgment over some dispute involving those same islanders.
Captain Hastiler gingerly made his way through the crowd, skirting several couples who had taken to the center of the hall and were stepping off the intricate patterns of a dance to a lover's canticle. Servants milled about in the dining room, each with his or her own appointed task. Joseph, Purselley's manservant, personally oversaw the appearance of the banquet table. He had directed the servants under his charge to arrange a formidable feast: platters of curried goat served with dasheen, a yamlike root boiled and mashed with fiery little
peppers guaranteed to send the unwary gasping for ale or wine. The guests would be free to gorge themselves on mounds of sweet banana fritters, bowls of rice and peas, along with the gossip of the day—what of this truce between the two great powers? would it last? and what would life be like without the benefits of having access to the wealth of stolen goods provided by Morgan and his buccaneers?
Captain Hastiler found one of the servants in the outer foyer, inquired as to the whereabouts of Purselley and was told the governor had stepped outside and could be found at his favorite spot, the terrace overlooking the bay. Hastiler proceeded out into the fading light and approached the English governor, only too aware the man did not wish to be disturbed. But Hastiler had a right to know what was going on. Events had been set in motion that were beyond his ken.
Sir Richard Purselley watched the horizon deepen in hue to burnished gold while blushing clouds billowed above the rim of the earth, turned crimson as the sun set beyond the Hellshire hills and the Santa Cruz Mountains and the Cockpit Country where the way was harsh and spiny plants erupted from the broken land. He considered the shadows as they crept through the streets of Kingston, seeped across the bay, blanketed the Spanish frigate and the English bark, painting the waters indigo, until at last the edge of night engulfed Port Royal. But among those ragged streets, the taverns and gambling halls unshuttered their windows and hurled back the night with an onslaught of lantern light and song.
Hastiler nervously cleared his throat as if to announce himself.
Sir Richard frowned, dragged from his reverie by the officer's presence. “Yes, Captain?” he said with a glance to the side. “Did you sample the curried goat? I daresay Joseph takes a hand in the preparation.”
“No, sir,” the captain said, “though you set a fine table. But that is not why I have come.”
“Ah, then, pray tell what is your reason for this intrusion?” Sir Richard folded his hands behind his back. He was handsome in his magenta-colored coat and ruffled shirt, tight cream-colored pants and hose and buckled shoes. A small ceremonial dagger in a jeweled sheath dangled from the red sash circling his waist.
“It concerns your guests,” Hastiler said. “Word has reached me that the
San Bartolomeo
has already taken on fresh water and sacks of fruit. And Don Alonso del Campo and the señorita are nowhere to be found. They are not within the hall or anywhere on the estate. Earlier today one of the servants remembers seeing them depart in the company
of musketeers. Evidently, no one really knows where they have gone.”
“Indeed,” said Purselley, peculiarly composed. “Well, I feel certain they will turn up.” Sir Richard returned his attention to the sunset and the bay. If the governor was concerned that his guests of honor were absent from the ball, he certainly did not show it. “Relax, Captain. All is well.”
Hastiler stared at Purselley in bewildered silence. The officer had been fighting the Spaniards too long to change. He trusted the Spaniards as long as he could see them. And that was the problem. Where was Don Alonso and what was he up to?
 
 
For the better part of that same afternoon Henry Morgan had watched the sea as it rolled onto the shore, changing the shape of the land, forming and reforming the strand. Men went to the sea in wooden ships, iron men willing to brave the elements, to toss high great swaths of sail and catch the wind.
“Plough the waves, plunder and harry, follow the trade winds, be brave, be quick and shrewd, and riches can be yours. But remember, Henry”
—his father's ghost stood next to him at the window; a diaphanous memory Morgan saw or imagined he saw, heard or imagined he heard—
“at the end of the day, the sea always wins.”
He had been young then, and hadn't understood. But now he knew. The sea was a harsh mistress, both cruel and kind, deceptive, then deadly. He had seen his fair share of good men vanish beneath the blue-green waves, seen white squalls engulf ships and drag them under in a matter of seconds, with all hands struggling and screaming and crying out for salvation to an unforgiving God.
“Yes, Papa,” he muttered, a sense of loss washing over him. The past was growing dim now, Edward Morgan's ghostly visits were rare, arriving unannounced but never unwelcome, to haunt his son. Henry glanced toward the front door and imagined the detail of marines sent to guard him, Sergeant McCready, and the others, with plenty of fine claret, enough for each man to drink his fill. Soon now, it would be time. But he wanted no confrontation with Royal Marines when he departed. The few drops of juice extracted from the forbidden fruits of the machineel trees that grew near the shore at the base of the Hellshires would render the men unconscious and leave them sleeping till dawn.
He craned his head around the sill and studied the frigate anchored off the Kingston cay. He never thought he would see the day when a Spanish warship would sail unchallenged into the bay. Where were the gunners manning the fortifications protecting Port Royal? Truce or no truce, a few warning shots should have been in order, just to keep the Spaniards honest. The presence of the
San Bartolomeo
gave him cause to worry. He suspected Don Alonso had been aboard the vessel. All the more reason for Henry Morgan to take leave of Sir Richard's hospitality.
But what of Doña Elena? Would she be able to escape? If he closed his eyes he could still feel her warmth. All that grace and breeding underscored by a fiery passion. Now, there was a woman worth fighting for. But she deserved more than just a common freebooter. Henry Morgan had wealth. It was time he had privilege. And the power that came with it.
“I shall be more,” he said, his attention returning to the peninsula and Port Royal, in all its squalid glory. “I shall be more.”
He turned from the window and finished dressing, his movements slow and measured, like a knight donning armor or a matador his suit of light: first the baldric and cutlass, then a brace of pistols, large-bore weapons capable of stopping a charging bull; next, a rust-colored coat with gold stitching around the edges, a long cravat about the throat; the yellow silk bandana about his head to hold his unruly mane in check completed his attire—proper dress for defying English governors and stealing both the ship and the bride of a Spanish Don.
Morgan stalked across the room, hoping he wouldn't have to lower himself out of an upstairs window. Throughout his confinement, McCready had proved lax about bolting the front door from the outside. It was worth a try. He placed a hand upon the rough panel, gently pressed, and was rewarded with what seemed a deafening squeak. He hesitated, expecting shouts of alarm, then continued to shove. The door swung ajar and Henry Morgan emerged into the dying light to be greeted by half a dozen of the island's finest soldiers: McCready and his men lay in various attitudes of disarray about a campfire. They had barely begun their evening meal before succumbing to the drugged wine. Uncorked bottles of claret lay where they'd been dropped, flies buzzed about the congealed juices seeping from a wooden platter of meat pies. The marines looked like rag dolls left over from a child's play.
Morgan checked the soldiers; they were alive. However, they'd probably regret it come morning. The aftereffects of their drugged
sleep would be raging headaches for one and all. Morgan knelt by the sergeant, rearranged him into a more comfortable position, and then patted his shoulder.
“G'night, mother,” said Morgan.
 
 
The
Santa Rosa
rode easy in the harbor, just as Henry Morgan had left it but a few days ago. Moonlight played upon the shrouds where the knotted cords glistened with sea spray. Someone, probably Pierre Voisin, had hung a lantern near the bow to signal all was ready and the ship and its spartan crew awaited their captain.
But Henry Morgan remained ashore, a solitary figure standing aloof from the gathering of his peers who waited to see him off. The minutes crawled past until even his friends began to wonder among themselves what had brought this mood upon him. Was he having his own misgivings about the course he had chosen? There was not a one of the Brethren who would risk life and limb before the English courts.
Only one suspected the true reason for his reluctance to depart. And she was the only one who dared approach him. The waterfront was deserted this night; for the most part, the spirit of revelry was quartered in the center of Port Royal, where the taverns, brothels, and gaming houses were clustered together like harlots in a hurricane. Morgan heard the footsteps behind him and swung about with a look of expectation on his face that faded when he recognized Nell Jolly. In that moment her heart broke. But she hid it well.
“Leave me,” Morgan grumbled, and dug his hands into his coat and glared at the shore road as if blaming it for all his troubles.
“No,” Nell said.
“Do not vex me, Toto.”
“It's my lot in life,” she said. “Pierre and Israel are aboard the boat with several of the lads. How long will you keep them waiting?”
“As long as I choose.”
“And you will risk alerting the Spaniards aboard the
San Bartolomeo?
You will never have a better opportunity. See you how the governor's house is ablaze with lights? Sir Richard holds a great ball and all of Kingston's bluebloods are in attendance—all this to honor Don Alonso del Campo and his would-be bride.”
“What's this?” Morgan asked, staring off across the bay toward the estate on the hillside, curious as to the activity surrounding the governor's house. So Sir Richard was entertaining the Dons. One heavily
armed frigate and Sir Richard was prepared to grovel before Don Alonso.
“She isn't coming.”
Morgan turned to protest, then stared angrily at the young woman. “What you are talking about?” He scowled and moved away from her. Nell followed.
“She will be here,” he said.
“No she won't,” Nell told him.
“How can you tell? Do you read the future now?”
“No,” she said. “Only the present.” Nell stared down at her coat and breeches and the weapons she carried. She had done a good job of concealing her womanhood but it didn't change who she was. “Beneath this baldric and coat I am as much a woman as Doña Elena Maria. I can see into her heart.”
“And what have you learned?”
“That which you already know. She loves you not.”
Morgan stiffened as if struck. He fixed his cold gray eyes upon her until Nell was forced to look away. She reached out to place a hand upon his arm but he brushed her aside and started down the pier toward the johnnyboat that would take him out to the brig.
A small crowd had gathered at the middle of the pier. Word had spread of Morgan's impending departure. His actions did not sit well with the Brethren. Morgan was leaving and they wondered why, and when would he return.
Sir William Jolly wore a grave expression as he greeted his friend. But if the physician had his doubts about Morgan's decision to present himself before the English courts, the old sea wolf kept such counsel to himself. He could not fail but notice how, even now, Morgan continued to search the waterfront as if he was expecting someone in particular.
Calico Jack and Anne Bonney were there. And more of the Brethren, swaggering rogues with names as colorful as their reputations: Dutch Hannah Lee and Cockade Tom Penmerry and Six Toes Yaquereño—the Portugee Devil. Morgan knew them all. They were thieves like him, rebellious and hard-living and full of spirit.
“See here, Henry, we've just learned what you're about. It seems a poor time to leave, with the Dons among us,” Calico Jack complained.

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