Mad Morgan (2 page)
Authors: Kerry Newcomb
He slumped back amid his brethren. In the darkness back toward the stern, poor delirious Hiram James cried out for his sister. The hallucinations
shifted: he called out for men to join him at the topgallants, he shouted for his comrades to cut away the sailcloth. “Watch yourselves, lads, they're using chain.” His breathing grew more labored then rattled deep in his throat and ceased altogether.
shifted: he called out for men to join him at the topgallants, he shouted for his comrades to cut away the sailcloth. “Watch yourselves, lads, they're using chain.” His breathing grew more labored then rattled deep in his throat and ceased altogether.
“It's all over,” someone called out.
“Good for him,” Pierre Voisin disconsolately replied. “Should we grieve?
Je ne sais pas
. Why? At least he's free. Hell can be no worse.” In the silence that followed the Frenchman's benediction, the buccaneers gloomily pondered the fate that awaited them all. In sharp contrast to their mood, the revel above continued unabated. The guards were celebrating as if there were no tomorrow. A scar-faced Spanish sergeant knelt upon the grate overhead, his bulk blocking out the pale moonlight appearing through the tattered clouds. Manuel Salas dragged his pewter tankard across the iron screen, taking care to spill some of the rum. Why not? There was plenty. He enjoyed taunting the prisoners. Animals like these were a constant threat to Spain's colonies in the New World. They deserved to suffer.
Je ne sais pas
. Why? At least he's free. Hell can be no worse.” In the silence that followed the Frenchman's benediction, the buccaneers gloomily pondered the fate that awaited them all. In sharp contrast to their mood, the revel above continued unabated. The guards were celebrating as if there were no tomorrow. A scar-faced Spanish sergeant knelt upon the grate overhead, his bulk blocking out the pale moonlight appearing through the tattered clouds. Manuel Salas dragged his pewter tankard across the iron screen, taking care to spill some of the rum. Why not? There was plenty. He enjoyed taunting the prisoners. Animals like these were a constant threat to Spain's colonies in the New World. They deserved to suffer.
“What say you, thieves, murderers, you sons of bitches? The rum is sweet as mother's milk. Are you thirsty, my pretties?” One of the whores joined the sergeant and began to pull on his coat. She was a round, heavyset mulatto, wide-eyed and unsteady on her feet. Salas whispered in her ear. The mulatto nodded and laughed, raised her skirt and presented herself to the prisoners. “Feast your eyes,” roared Salas. “For you'll never again enjoy a woman's favor.” The sergeant grabbed her ample derriere, turned her about and buried his scarred face beneath the woman's rumpled skirts. The mulatto squealed in delight and rose up on her toes. A few moments later the guard freed himself from her coffee-colored thighs and struggled to his feet. The curses rising from below amused him. He emptied the contents of the tankard onto the upturned faces. “Here you soulless scum, you
boucaniers.
Drink. Drink.” Beneath the grate, several of the freebooters surged forward, struggling to place themselves beneath the trickle of rum. William Jolly bullied his way through the men, with Israel Goodenough and the Frenchman, Voisin, at his side. Sir William put an end to the altercation before it spread throughout the gundeck.
boucaniers.
Drink. Drink.” Beneath the grate, several of the freebooters surged forward, struggling to place themselves beneath the trickle of rum. William Jolly bullied his way through the men, with Israel Goodenough and the Frenchman, Voisin, at his side. Sir William put an end to the altercation before it spread throughout the gundeck.
“What is this? Shall we give this jackal the satisfaction of watching us kill one another for a few drops of grog?!”
The prisoners surrounding Jolly grudgingly retreated, chains rattling as they shuffled back to their places. Salas hurled the tankard against the iron grate, cursed the physician in the darkness below and, grabbing the whore in his rough embrace, dragged her out of sight.
Jolly and the others could hear him laughing above the din of his companions. Elsewhere on the deck a pistol shot rang out, followed by another. In celebration ⦠?
Jolly and the others could hear him laughing above the din of his companions. Elsewhere on the deck a pistol shot rang out, followed by another. In celebration ⦠?
A few moments later the whore began to scream. The prisoners assumed she was being brutally taken by her paramour. Indeed, there wasn't a guard who seemed to be anything less than mean and dangerous. Suddenly Sergeant Salas landed facedown and covered the grate with his body.
“Has this bastard no shame?” said Israel Goodenough. “Will he go a'romping in bushy park right above us?” Droplets of moisture spattered into the hold.
“More rum,” Israel muttered, catching a few droplets on his fingertips. Then he sniffed his fingers and stepped back from the spreading stain. “Blood?” The mulatto continued to scream as she ran across the deck and vaulted over the side of the ship. A mouthful of salt water stilled her cries.
William Jolly dipped his fingers in the moisture and nodded in confirmation. Now one and all recognized the unmistakable clatter of steel on steel. Bootheels drummed across the deck. A door slammed back on its hinges. A musket discharged. The commotion on deck intensified as the guards scrambled about. Someone cried out,
“Quien viené?!”
There were growls and groans, a cry of pain and a litany of curses, all in Spanish. Someone cried out in agony, his voice trailed off. The other prostitutes attempted to raise the alarm but the women were obviously frightened and desperate to be off the prison ship. This far out in the bay there was no one to hear them scream. Even a pistol shot failed to rouse the garrison ashore.
“Quien viené?!”
There were growls and groans, a cry of pain and a litany of curses, all in Spanish. Someone cried out in agony, his voice trailed off. The other prostitutes attempted to raise the alarm but the women were obviously frightened and desperate to be off the prison ship. This far out in the bay there was no one to hear them scream. Even a pistol shot failed to rouse the garrison ashore.
“Sacre bleu.
What is happening?” Voisin muttered, echoing the concern of every man. He blessed himself.
What is happening?” Voisin muttered, echoing the concern of every man. He blessed himself.
Jolly shrugged. “Sounds like hell's come to the dance.” He shook his head, stroked his broad rough chin, and moved to the steps leading up to the quarterdeck. The melee raged on. Another guard collapsed, moaning and writhing on the deck until he gagged and died. His companions lost heart and followed the prostitutes over the side of the boat. Their voices grew distant as they splashed and pawed the water, exhorting one another to swim for shore.
Then silence. The seconds crept past. They heard the pad of bare feet upon the quarterdeck as someone made their way past the grate. Upturned eyes followed the sound as it passed overhead then leveled toward the door at the head of the steps leading up from the gundeck.
The iron bolt on the outside of the door shrieked like a banshee as it slid back. Next, the iron hinges offered protest as the door swung open and crashed against the deck. A wiry-looking figure outlined in silvery light appeared on the top step, then started down into the foul chamber. The slave moved with catlike grace; as if stalking prey, watchful ⦠dangerous and ready to lash out. William Jolly squinted and rubbed his eyes. The stranger on the top steps brandished a wicked-looking cane-cutter in one hand, a ring of iron keys in the other. He was clad in torn breeches, damp and clinging to his powerful thighs from the long swim from shore. His torso was burned dark, his belly lean and corded with muscle. The collective gaze of the prisoners focused on the ring of iron keys dangling from the stranger's fingers.
The iron bolt on the outside of the door shrieked like a banshee as it slid back. Next, the iron hinges offered protest as the door swung open and crashed against the deck. A wiry-looking figure outlined in silvery light appeared on the top step, then started down into the foul chamber. The slave moved with catlike grace; as if stalking prey, watchful ⦠dangerous and ready to lash out. William Jolly squinted and rubbed his eyes. The stranger on the top steps brandished a wicked-looking cane-cutter in one hand, a ring of iron keys in the other. He was clad in torn breeches, damp and clinging to his powerful thighs from the long swim from shore. His torso was burned dark, his belly lean and corded with muscle. The collective gaze of the prisoners focused on the ring of iron keys dangling from the stranger's fingers.
“I intend to steal this ship,” said the man on the steps. He looked to be no more than twenty, young and untried but resolute; he spoke softly, but with conviction, saying exactly what he meant. His gray eyes, tempered like the raw steel of the cruel blade in his fist, cast a spell over this collection of sea rogues. “I shall need a crew.”
“Where are the guards?” Israel called out, voicing a question on everyone's mind.
“Some took their chances in the bay. The others ⦔ The man on the steps raised his cane-cutter, its hooked blade spattered crimson.
“Who's with you?” another of the freebooters asked suspiciously. “You expect us to believe a jackanapes like yourself captured the
Dolorosa
on your lonesome?”
Dolorosa
on your lonesome?”
“Believe what you see,” the stranger on the steps replied. Without further explanation, he tossed the keys into the hold. William Jolly made a perfect catch and with trembling hands began to fumble at the padlocks chaining the men to the deck underfoot. At last the ankle clamps fell away and he kicked free of the shackles and passed the keys to the outstretched hands of his companions. Jolly advanced on their benefactor, his great bulk looming over the younger man. This escaped slave was a sight, standing there half-naked, bleeding from several nasty-looking cuts, his shaggy shoulder-length brown hair framing his careworn featuresâfor it was in the hard-edged lines of his face that slavery had marked him the most.
But the young man had single-handedly vanquished the Spaniards, taken the prison ship for his prize, and freed Jolly and his shipmates, one and all. The physician felt the breath of fate tickle his ear. Sir William was standing at the crossroads of all that had gone before,
aware that his next decision determined the rest of his life, for better or ill. One thing he suspected: there would be no lack of adventure with this young man.
aware that his next decision determined the rest of his life, for better or ill. One thing he suspected: there would be no lack of adventure with this young man.
“By heaven, I'll serve with you. Never let it be said William Jolly forgets a good deed done his way.”
“Aye, we're with you,” Israel Goodenough exclaimed, rubbing his chafed limbs. He was grateful for a second chance. The newly freed buccaneers surged toward the steps. Jolly halted them with a wave of his hand.
“Lads, here be your captain. What say you?”
“Mais oui.
I will follow the devil himself if he leads to freedom!” shouted Voisin. And the rough lot joined in with one accord, accepting the physician's decision to give their young benefactor a chance. He had proved a match for the Spaniards, whether he could fly the Black Flag and survive this unruly lot, only time would tell.
I will follow the devil himself if he leads to freedom!” shouted Voisin. And the rough lot joined in with one accord, accepting the physician's decision to give their young benefactor a chance. He had proved a match for the Spaniards, whether he could fly the Black Flag and survive this unruly lot, only time would tell.
The stranger nodded and led the way up into the night air. William Jolly fell into step alongside the younger man. “Tell me, uh, Cap'n, what do you know of sailing a leaky bucket like this?”
“Not a damn thing,” the escaped slave retorted. “That's why I need you.” A wicked grin split his features. Once on deck, Jolly noted the dead Spaniards sprawled about the ship. Even a jaded old sea dog like himself was impressed. It was as if some terrible force of nature had swept down upon the guards and slayed them where they stood.
“Just who are you?” Sir William quietly asked, a note of unease in his tone. Their benefactor showed no regret for his actions, though he knelt and wiped his blade clean on the baggy coatsleeve of one of his victims.
“Henry Morgan.”
Jolly shrugged. The name meant nothing. “You come from plantations ashore?” asked the physician, lighting a lantern. He held up the lamp and quietly appraised his new captain by the lamp's sallow glow.
Morgan nodded. “I was taken from my village in Wales and brought here, a long ⦠long time ago.” Music and laughter and the sounds of revelry drifted across the black bay. The port was draped in lantern light and the Spanish populace danced in the streets.
“Listen to them,” Jolly said. “No one can hold a candle to a Spaniard for celebrating. And when it comes to religion, them's the saintliest sons of bitches I know, that is, when they aren't starving our poor families to death or hanging our kinsmen. Do you be a Godfearin' man, Henry Morgan?”
And for the first time Morgan smiled. But his humor was carved in ice and his storm-gray eyes narrowed and flashed.
“I shall follow only two commandments,” said Morgan. “âGet mad.'” His fierce gaze flared like a lit fuse. “âGet even.'”
Jolly shivered in the warm, humid sea breeze ruffling the square-rigged sails overhead.
Morgan experienced a flash of memory, his thoughts reached back seven years to Swansea, a settlement on the coast of Wales, a quiet little port engulfed in flames and at the mercy of Spanish raiders. In his mind's eye he watched Welsh men and boys shackled and led away to be chained in the hold of a Spanish raider and carried off to the Caribbean. The rest was a blur of servitude and grueling toil. But Henry Morgan was free now, free to seek his fortune, to roam the Spanish Main. He'd leave Santiago de Cuba far richer than he came, with a ship and a crew. And an unquenchable thirst for retribution.
“What are they celebrating?” Israel asked in a deep voice. He approached from amidships, the tall man folding his arms across his bony chest as he paused to stare off toward shore.
Morgan's ominous reply cut quick as a cutlass, unsheathed from some secret place where the hurt ran deep. “It is the last night of peace.”
W
e are Brethren of Blood,
we are sons of the sea.
We are children of havoc
and born to be free.
e are Brethren of Blood,
we are sons of the sea.
We are children of havoc
and born to be free.
Young Morgan was captured and carried away
To far Hispaniola, to slave night and day.
Though he bent to the lash, his heart would not break,
And Morgan swore vengeance, dark vengeance to take.
To far Hispaniola, to slave night and day.
Though he bent to the lash, his heart would not break,
And Morgan swore vengeance, dark vengeance to take.
T
he “schooner” is swifter but outgunned by the “bark.” It is a desperate struggle, a tense game of cat and mouse as these two adversariesâwooden ships with whittled hulls, wooden pegs for masts, and scraps of a mother's apron for sailsâmaneuver and counter one another upon the dark waters of the rain barrel. The ten-year-old captain of the schooner watches intently. Even in Swansea on the coast of Wales, it pays to be cautious. Henry Morgan glances up at his father who nods approvingly at his son's tactics.
he “schooner” is swifter but outgunned by the “bark.” It is a desperate struggle, a tense game of cat and mouse as these two adversariesâwooden ships with whittled hulls, wooden pegs for masts, and scraps of a mother's apron for sailsâmaneuver and counter one another upon the dark waters of the rain barrel. The ten-year-old captain of the schooner watches intently. Even in Swansea on the coast of Wales, it pays to be cautious. Henry Morgan glances up at his father who nods approvingly at his son's tactics.
“Well and good, my boy, you did not fall for my feint. I've twenty guns to your twelve and will pound you down to the waterline if you charge on in and trade broadsides.” Edward Morgan is no stranger to such duels. Henry's father has never concealed his past from his son, how he had sailed as a privateer under letters of masque permitting him to harass the coasts of France and Spain. To his wife's dismay, Edward has filled his son's head with stories of adventure and peril on the high seas. Priscilla Morgan may disapprove of the stories, but she has been only too happy to spend Edward's prize money on the inn that is their livelihood. And so from time to time, on warm summer afternoons while Priscilla tends the tables in the Sprig and Sparrow, serving platters of her famous mutton roast and flagons of ale to the hungry patrons, Edward and his son often retire to the rain barrel out behind the inn for another lesson in seamanship.
“Next time, Henry, keep the Spanish flag aloft until the last minute.
Then show your true colors. And bare your fangs. We were always outgunned. Outmanned, too. Trickery is your most important ally. Now, then, ease about. Beware of my twelve-pounders. There's two a'port and two starboard. The rest be eight-pounders. If you drift into my sights I'll blow you out of the water. Remember what I've told you.” Edward glances toward the back door, checking for his quick-tempered wife. “At close quarters you could have used your grenades.” He reaches into the pouch dangling from a wide, canvas shoulder strap and removes a castiron sphere, large as his fist and filled with gunpowder, sealed with an iron plug through which runs a black powder fuse. “Ten or twenty of these will clear a deck and even the odds. Grenades, then a volley from your marksmen in the rigging while you lower the boarding planks, then charge across with pikes and cutlass and ax.”
Then show your true colors. And bare your fangs. We were always outgunned. Outmanned, too. Trickery is your most important ally. Now, then, ease about. Beware of my twelve-pounders. There's two a'port and two starboard. The rest be eight-pounders. If you drift into my sights I'll blow you out of the water. Remember what I've told you.” Edward glances toward the back door, checking for his quick-tempered wife. “At close quarters you could have used your grenades.” He reaches into the pouch dangling from a wide, canvas shoulder strap and removes a castiron sphere, large as his fist and filled with gunpowder, sealed with an iron plug through which runs a black powder fuse. “Ten or twenty of these will clear a deck and even the odds. Grenades, then a volley from your marksmen in the rigging while you lower the boarding planks, then charge across with pikes and cutlass and ax.”
“Yes sir,” Morgan replies, gray eyes flashing, cheeks flushed with excitement. “Too late now for hand-to-hand. So it's hard to starboard. I'll use my speed and circle youâsee how I tack sharply, here I am. My schooner's rigged with square-sail and fore and aft. I can still use the wind, you cannot keep up with me. Watch when I cross the T and fire a broadside into your stern. My four-pounders will test your merit, Papa.”
“Where do you aim?”
“Chain-shot to cut your sails, solid-shot below the waterline. You'll have to send men to work the pumps and it'll slow you even further.”
Edward gently mimics the wind and blows on the makeshift sails of the hand-carved boats. “See you trim your sail. Smartly now. Slow down. Give yourself time for a second volley before you clear the stern. Remember, I will be turning also. But you can beat me on the tack. Still, you'll take some damage. The Spaniards will have gunports at the stern. They'll open fire. You'll take damage and nothing to be done for it. Mind your crew, wood splinters are worse than iron. They'll cut a man to ribbons.”
“Lord, we thank you for that which we are about to receive,” Morgan solemnly intones as if he is standing amidships, defiant in the face of the enemy guns, his courage setting an example for his men.
Edward claps his son on the shoulder. “Well said, lad. Well said.” Then his expression turns grave. “Now you've fought your desperate battle and had your victory, but you've paid a price. You'll have lost men. And your ship will take punishment. Now I'll teach you the most important lesson I ever learned while chasing Spanish gold.” Edward reaches over and collects his son's “schooner” and crushes it in his hand, silencing Henry's protest with a wave of his hand. “I've taught you to fight when need be, but scouring the seas for a rich prize is more often than not a path to
debtor's jail. Pay no heed to the tales of iron men and wooden ships dueling upon the deep blue sea.” He places the wreckage of the toy ship on the edge of the rain barrel. “The fox runs and hides by day and strikes at night where the hens are kept. The tiger stalks the herd then strikes where least expected. Dying in battle is a fool's game. Let others play it out. Think first, then fight. But no more than is necessary. If gold is your prey, then hunt where it is kept.” Edward Morgan lifts his eyes to the gray horizon and the rolling tides down below the cliffs at the edge of the village. “Portobello, Panama, Santiago, Cartagena, Vera Cruz, Maracaibo.” He turns and looks at Henry. “Do you understand, lad?”
debtor's jail. Pay no heed to the tales of iron men and wooden ships dueling upon the deep blue sea.” He places the wreckage of the toy ship on the edge of the rain barrel. “The fox runs and hides by day and strikes at night where the hens are kept. The tiger stalks the herd then strikes where least expected. Dying in battle is a fool's game. Let others play it out. Think first, then fight. But no more than is necessary. If gold is your prey, then hunt where it is kept.” Edward Morgan lifts his eyes to the gray horizon and the rolling tides down below the cliffs at the edge of the village. “Portobello, Panama, Santiago, Cartagena, Vera Cruz, Maracaibo.” He turns and looks at Henry. “Do you understand, lad?”
Â
Â
“Kill me if you can,” Morgan said softly, standing by the starboard rail on the deck of the
Glenmorran
as the two-masted sloop glided on the night wings of the wind into Maracaibo Bay. The entrance was narrow here and most ships must chance running aground in the shallows. Not so the
Glenmorran
with its shallow draft and sleek hull. Nor the
Jericho,
fifty yards behind, with its mercurial-natured captain, Thomas LeBishop. With soot-smeared sails by pale moonlight, the pirate ships were all but invisible against the cloudswept stars and distant shore.
Glenmorran
as the two-masted sloop glided on the night wings of the wind into Maracaibo Bay. The entrance was narrow here and most ships must chance running aground in the shallows. Not so the
Glenmorran
with its shallow draft and sleek hull. Nor the
Jericho,
fifty yards behind, with its mercurial-natured captain, Thomas LeBishop. With soot-smeared sails by pale moonlight, the pirate ships were all but invisible against the cloudswept stars and distant shore.
Two islands guarded the entrance to the bay and Morgan kept his eyes on both of them, checking one then the other. Watch Isle, to the east, was ringed with treacherous sandbars. Pigeon Island to the west was the larger of the two, a teardrop-shaped knoll rising out of the sea and crowned with a castle whose seaward ramparts bristled with enough cannon to batter the fourteen-gun
Glenmorran
and its sister,
Jericho,
to kindling.
Glenmorran
and its sister,
Jericho,
to kindling.
It was during the waning days of August, it was in the year 1670, a time when the turquoise waters of the Spanish Main ran red with blood from Portobello to Port Royal. No treasure ship was safe, no convoy or guarded port was free from attack.
Morgan's crew watched their captain with pride as he stood between a pair of eight-pounders and their gun crews, his arms outstretched as if daring the Spanish gunners asleep within the walls of the castle to awaken and try their luck. One Spaniard or another had been trying to apprehend and kill Henry Morgan for the past nine years. Since his escape from Santiago de Cuba, Henry Morgan had made good his promise. Spanish ports and shipping had known precious little peace. There was no escaping
el Tigre del Caribe.
The Tiger of the Caribbean was cunning and quick, and though Morgan's
fearlessness inspired his crew, his reckless deeds struck fear in the hearts of the Dons throughout the Americas.
el Tigre del Caribe.
The Tiger of the Caribbean was cunning and quick, and though Morgan's
fearlessness inspired his crew, his reckless deeds struck fear in the hearts of the Dons throughout the Americas.
“What say you, Captain Morgan?” one of his men rasped.
Morgan grinned and invited the sleeping Spaniards to try again. “Here I am,” he said, presenting himself to those towering black walls. Every fort throughout the Spanish Main had a cage for
el Tigre,
a cage and a short walk to the gallows. But the Dons must catch him first.
el Tigre,
a cage and a short walk to the gallows. But the Dons must catch him first.
“You make a pretty target for a Spanish cannonade,” said Nell Jolly. The eighteen-year-old daughter of Sir William Jolly made no attempt to hide the fact that she fancied the dashing pirate captain. Her tone of voice grew warm as a summer breeze whenever she spoke his name. If only Henry Morgan would take the time to notice. Wasn't he a grand sight? It was easy to recall the first time she had ever seen him, the day young Morgan, uncaged and free, swaggered onto the docks of Port Royal, her father following close behind him. Sir William lost no time that day in regaling the populace as to how the brash young man had rescued them from Spanish captivity and accepted their pledge of loyalty on the very decks of the prison ship, slick with the blood of their jailors.
At the time, Henry Morgan had barely noticed this nine-year-old girl with wide, wise sky-blue eyes and a head filled with notions of adventure. Even then, Nell had hungered for a life different from that of the women she knew in port. The fleshpots of the wickedest place on earth had a way of using up a fairer sex, squandering a woman's best years in a brief span of time. No. Nell Jolly wanted more then a life swilled down with bay rum and endless bacchanal.
Still, whatever their faults, at least Port Royal's unsavory lot were free of pretense. Nell found many of its denizens to be more trustworthy than Kingston's landed gentry across the harbor. After her mother's untimely demise, the Brethren of the Coast had assumed her education. Nell Jolly learned to count in the gambling dens. Buccaneers instructed her in seamanship, taught her to climb the rigging like a monkey and to shoot like the very devil.
Nell quietly appraised the captain at the rail.
Patience,
she cautioned herself.
One day you will tire of excess, of blind adventure and endless quests for wealth. One day, Henry Morgan, you will want something more from your life, something of value and meaning. And I will be there.
Patience,
she cautioned herself.
One day you will tire of excess, of blind adventure and endless quests for wealth. One day, Henry Morgan, you will want something more from your life, something of value and meaning. And I will be there.
The Tiger of the Caribbean was wild as his namesake, but one day he would recognize Nell Jolly for what she wasâfaithful, loving, and courageousâand in that moment she would tame him. As for now,
no bonnier bull's-eye would Spanish gunners have this night than Henry Morgan. His earlier years of servitude had left the buccaneer with a taste for finer things. Long ago, he had exchanged his tattered attire for the colorful trappings of a gentleman.
El Tigre del Caribe
cut a dashing figure in his butternut-brown breeches and linen shirt, his knee-high boots of Spanish leather. He favored a gaudy scarlet waistcoat of silk brocade worn beneath a long burgundy frock coat and a black felt tricorn hat embroidered with gold stitching. His thick brown hair was gathered back and tied with a leather string. The broad black belt circling his waist held a brace of pistols and a throwing dagger sheathed against the small of his back.
no bonnier bull's-eye would Spanish gunners have this night than Henry Morgan. His earlier years of servitude had left the buccaneer with a taste for finer things. Long ago, he had exchanged his tattered attire for the colorful trappings of a gentleman.
El Tigre del Caribe
cut a dashing figure in his butternut-brown breeches and linen shirt, his knee-high boots of Spanish leather. He favored a gaudy scarlet waistcoat of silk brocade worn beneath a long burgundy frock coat and a black felt tricorn hat embroidered with gold stitching. His thick brown hair was gathered back and tied with a leather string. The broad black belt circling his waist held a brace of pistols and a throwing dagger sheathed against the small of his back.
“Here, you might need this.” Nell Jolly addressed him with casual informality and handed him a cutlass and gold-stitched baldrick, which he draped over his right shoulder. The weapon's yard-long blade was tempered steel, the brass hilt and wrapped leather grip a perfect fit for Morgan's hand.
El Tigre
prowled his ship with feline grace, his senses keenly aware of his surroundings, the roll of the ship and the temper of the tides as the bow broke the surface of the silent sea. No patch of fluttering canvas, no creak of mast bearing the weight of the wind escaped his slate-gray eyes.
prowled his ship with feline grace, his senses keenly aware of his surroundings, the roll of the ship and the temper of the tides as the bow broke the surface of the silent sea. No patch of fluttering canvas, no creak of mast bearing the weight of the wind escaped his slate-gray eyes.
Now that the game was afoot, and disaster a stone's throw from the deck of the
Glenmorran,
his wiry frame all but crackled with energy. He was never more alive than at such moments of peril. Plucking the whiskers of fate ⦠the hazard of risking everything ⦠this was his life's blood.
Glenmorran,
his wiry frame all but crackled with energy. He was never more alive than at such moments of peril. Plucking the whiskers of fate ⦠the hazard of risking everything ⦠this was his life's blood.
As Pigeon Isle slipped beyond the stern and melted into the night, Morgan turned to his crew. They sensed he was about to speak and began to draw close.
“Gather 'round, lads. I've a question for you.”
“Ask it, Cap'n,” someone called out.
“Who are you?”
“We are free men.”
“What are you?” Morgan continued.
“We are masters of our own fate,” the men replied in a rough chorus.
“Aye. Masters of our own fate, beholden to no king or country, and bound only to the whims of our wild hearts and the loyalty to our friends and comrades-at-arms.” Morgan's gaze swept over them. He took care to make a connection with each of his crew. “We are Brethren of the Coast, gold and cold steel is our lineage ⦠and our
crest, the Jolly Roger fluttering from the mainmast. This be our destiny, to triumph or die. I say this now for every man to hear, and mark my words. Screw your heart to your backbone, lads, for I am taking you into harm's way!”
crest, the Jolly Roger fluttering from the mainmast. This be our destiny, to triumph or die. I say this now for every man to hear, and mark my words. Screw your heart to your backbone, lads, for I am taking you into harm's way!”
Nell felt a rush of excitement as the crew of the
Glenmorran
nodded and voiced their approval. They were prepared to follow their captain to hell and back. Hard men and bold, these buccaneers who trusted “Morgan's cunning” and “Morgan's luck.”
Glenmorran
nodded and voiced their approval. They were prepared to follow their captain to hell and back. Hard men and bold, these buccaneers who trusted “Morgan's cunning” and “Morgan's luck.”
“Look there.” The buccaneer gestured toward their destination. The crew scrambled to the shrouds, climbed into the rigging and lined the rail in an effort to see for themselves. Across the night-shrouded inlet loomed the coast of Venezuela and the twinkling lights of the prize Morgan had come for, Maracaibo. Although the prosperous port lacked the reputation of an impregnable city like Panama, with its legendary storehouses of silver and gold, rare woods, jewels, and silks from the Orient. Still, Maracaibo had its own unique treasures.
“Where are the palaces?” Nell complained. “I doubt we'll see much prize money.”
“Listen to you, Toto,” Morgan chuckled. The physician's daughter bristled. How could she command respect among these rogues if they should overhear her referred to as a “coconut tart”? Morgan relished the effect the name had on the young woman. She was like a little sister to him. Teasing Nell Jolly was one of life's simple pleasures. “What do you know of prize money?”
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