Mad Morgan (27 page)

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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: Mad Morgan
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And then, at last, a gaff-rigged sail loomed out of the dark. It was a fishing boat—despite ten days at sea, a craft still worthy, still ready to fight the elements, to rage against the night like the man who had defied all odds and piloted her to the shore.
The bow scraped sand and Henry Morgan leaped over the side and splashed through the surf to reach the strand. He was naked save for a pair of threadbare breeches and his hair was bound with a leather
string and his burnished flesh looked as if forged in a crucible of wind and sun. But his stride was steady, if a bit stiff for having spent ten days at sea, and his limbs were corded with muscle and he looked for all the world like some ocean deity as he approached the woman framed by firelight. He stood before her, his gray eyes locked with hers. His neck and side were scarred, his features seamed from squinting into the sun, but he seemed remarkably steady and Nell could not help but marvel. And then he spoke.
“I heard you,” he said.
And Morgan swept her into his arms and carried her up the beach and through the tender grass, beneath the palms whose leaves, heavy for lack of wind, trembled as he passed, and up the steps and into the house where love would dwell forever more.
H
enry Morgan woke to a new day and thought the sunlight on the wall had never seemed so bright and the breeze drifting in through the windows had a sweetness that had to rival the first gust of wind to stir the branches in Eden. He had dreamt of the crossing, of being alone upon the expanse of sea, a solitary man caught between the sea and the sky. The stars in their courses pointed the way, and when the heavens grew overcast, he listened in his heart and heard Nell's voice and he steered by the longing in his soul and the truth burning in his heart.
A man can be a blind fool for only so long. She had come to him as he lay wounded, come to him in his dreams, then at sea, come to him in the wind and the waves, whispered his name in the early hours before dawn when the waves were tinged with phosphorous and lightning shimmered on the far horizon.
Morgan grinned and reached across to stroke the naked back of the woman beside him and found the bed empty. He sat upright, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on a pair of black taffeta breeches and a linen shirt, and padded barefoot across the room, checked the interior of the house and frowned, wondering what had happened to her.
“Nell?” he said, breaking the stillness. But she was obviously gone. Oh, God, what would Sir William Jolly think once he learned what
had happened with his daughter? It was going to be impossible to keep this from the physician.
Morgan had no choice but to confront his friend before he learned what had happened from someone else. And what had happened? Just about everything. Morgan grinned. Nell was a tigress. He walked to a basin and filled it with springwater from a nearby pitcher and washed his face, slicking back his mane of hair then drying himself on the hem of his loose-fitting shirt.
He frowned. Something was amiss. His senses had never failed him. He walked to the wall and chose a brace of pistols which he quickly checked and found loaded and primed. He tucked them in his waistband and then walked to the front door.
The silence, that was it. No birds chattering among themselves. Nothing. The palm grove sounded devoid of life. And yet he knew he was no longer alone. Steeling himself, he tugged on the latch, opened the door and stepped onto the porch. And stopped dead in his tracks, face-to-face with what appeared to be nearly the entire population of Port Royal, his own crew standing to the fore. A cheer erupted from the gathering that filled the clearing, and echoed down the slope to the sea. He recognized them all, Sir William Jolly, Rafiki Kogi, Israel Goodenough, Pierre Voisin, and more, even Calico Jack and Anne Bonney and surprisingly enough, the Black Cleric, wearing a glum expression as he stood at the rear of the crowd surrounded by his crew and the men loyal to him.
Nell Jolly came forward, a grin on her face. She had stolen from his bedside and raced to town to bring word to the council that Morgan was returned. At first no one believed her, but when she threatened to duel any man who called her a liar, the Brethren became convinced she spoke the truth. Word soon spread like wildfire through the settlement, emptying the shops and taverns and the waterfront as men, women, and children had to see for themselves if
el Tigre del Caribe
had indeed returned.
“They wanted to see you,” Nell said, waving a hand in the direction of the crowd.
“What do they want?”
“To follow where you lead,” Nell replied. “Speak to them.”
Morgan coughed and cleared his throat while waiting for the noise to subside. He locked eyes with the Black Cleric. LeBishop remained defiant, cautious in appearance as if he expected to have to fight his way out of the clearing. “I see my friends here,” Morgan said. “If I e'er had an issue with you, know I harbor no ill will.”
“Tell us,
mon capitaine,
have you got religion?”
“Better than that, Pierre,” Morgan said. He vanished inside the house and returned before the crowd became too restless. He held a pouch in his right hand and raised it aloft then emptied its contents on the earth. Gold doubloons rained forth upon the hard sand. A murmur of appreciation swept through the gathering. “The Dons are preparing their gold fleet. I have seen sea chests filled to the bursting point with gold and pieces of eight and jeweled scarabs, rubies, and emeralds. I have seen rare woods and the finest silks, crowns and rings and necklaces fit for a queen. Their warehouses in Panama City are filled to the bursting point. I intend to relieve them of their burden. There's plunder aplenty for each of us.”
Morgan paused to allow his remarks to sink in.
“Don Alonso betrayed his flag of truce and left owing a debt that can only be paid in bone and blood. Who will go with me to avenge our brothers and sisters? We sail for gold and vengeance!”
Another great cry erupted from their throats. His enthusiasm was infectious. And the glitter on the wooden flooring had the desired effect. Calico Jack and Anne Bonney, Dutch Hannah Lee and the bulk of the crowd pressed forward, firing their pistols into the air.
“We're with you, Captain Morgan.”
“Three cheers for
el Tigre del Caribe.”
“Panama City cannot be taken!” said a lone voice attempting to bring sanity to the crowd by shouting above the din. It was Thomas LeBishop, looking grave, his eyes full of suspicions. “Some things cannot be done. Better to accept what must be, than to attempt a feat that can only lead to destruction. Happy is the man who finds wisdom and the man who gets understanding.” As he spoke, his right hand rested on the hilt of his cutlass. The Black Cleric was prepared for the worst, but it was up to Morgan to make the first move.
“I escaped from a Spanish prison, eluded the troops Don Alonso sent to capture me, crossed the Isthmus of Panama and sailed that fishing boat yonder across the Spanish Main,” Morgan casually replied. He opened his shirt and tilted his head to reveal the rope burns that scarred his neck. “I have been hanged five times,” he added with a grin. “And here I stand.” His expression turned serious, his voice colder than the ages. “Panama City will be mine.” But he wasn't talking about a Sunday stroll in the park. “However, I am wise enough to know I shall need all the Brethren,
every
man jack of you. So I say this for all to hear, I charge no man among you.” He shifted his stance so he could look directly at the Black Cleric, a brooding figure
against a backdrop of golden palms. “Any grievance between us is ended.”
“I say there is no quarrel a handful of rubies and pearls won't settle,” Calico Jack called out. “What say you, William Jolly? You are the physician here.”
“Gold heals all wounds,” Sir William replied, and the gathering cheered once more.
The energy in the crowd was a volatile mix of bravado and greed, fueled by a desire to avenge the attack on Port Royal. These sea rovers were not the kind to forget Don Alonso's visit, and more especially his departure.
“Then we are for Panama,” Morgan told them. “Send word throughout the island. Any man with the will to join us is welcome.”
With the accolades of the populace ringing in his ears, Henry Morgan reentered his house and quickly finished dressing. Nell followed him inside, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
“I am going with you.” Although she stated a fact, the physician's daughter steeled herself for an argument.
“Of course,” Morgan replied. “It is your right. We are all free here. And you shoot better than me.”
“Don't try to talk me out of it,” she added; then, “Oh”—realizing he had not tried to change her mind. “Well then …” she fumed. Nell had been prepared to argue her cause. Now, suddenly, it was unnecessary. Too bad. It would have been a stirring speech.
Morgan finished dressing, donning a russet-colored coat and burgundy waistcoat. His shoulder-length brown hair framed his craggy features. His beard was flecked with silver. Then, without warning, he pulled Nell to him and kissed her long and hard until her legs went weak.
“Sir Richard will never allow any of us to break the treaty with Spain,” Nell said, managing to pull away, to catch her breath.
“He won't be able to stop us.”
“Purselley has threatened to jail any and all of us should we take up our old ways.”
“Enough,” said Morgan. He turned toward Kingston and fixed his gaze on the hill overlooking the bay. “I think it's time the governor and I came to an understanding.”
 
 
“More sausages, Captain?” Sir Richard asked, seated across from the officer in the warm glow of another morning in paradise. Joseph and
the other house servants had brought a table out to the terrace overlooking the harbor. The governor enjoyed taking the first meal of the day in the soothing sunlight, bathed by the gentle breezes sweeping up the hillside from the bay.
From this vantage point Purselley could watch Kingston come to life, the empty streets dotted with the social intercourse of the early hours. A Maroon farmer made his rounds, going door to door, hauling a cart loaded with clay jugs of fresh goat's milk. A woman with a pushcart called a list of her wares, salted fish and ackee, herbs and poultices to cure the grippe or mend a broken heart. Fishermen made their way to shore, readied their nets then clambered into their single-masted boats, turned their sails to the wind and headed out to open waters to harvest the bounty of the aquamarine sea.
Purselley's gaze pointedly avoided the fire-gutted waterfront of Port Royal. Don Alonso's exit had left him in a bad light. The bloody Spaniard should have taken the damn pirate and been done with it. Firing on Port Royal had been an act of contempt. Purselley frowned, his mood darkening. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, focused on the officer seated across from him.
It galled the aristocrat that he should have to cultivate a close personal bond with the captain. But Sir Richard needed friends and, what with the sentiment on the island turning against him, especially friends with guns. “I insist, Captain Hastiler. A man in your position is bound to have a hearty appetite. Joseph, serve the captain here.”
“Don't mind if I do,” said Hastiler. “You set a fine table, Governor.” It was far better than what the officer was accustomed to down in his quarters. Too bad he could not say the same for the company he was keeping. There was a time when this gesture of familiarity from the governor would have been welcomed. But that was before the abduction of Henry Morgan and the visit by that insolent Spaniard, Don Alonso, who had had the temerity to fire on Port Royal as he snuck out of the bay. The denizens of Port Royal might be bastards, but by God they were proper English bastards and kinsmen all the same.
Joseph, responding to the governor's command, stepped forward, bearing a silver platter of sausages sizzling in their own juices from a side table, and presented it to the officer. Hastiler used a pair of silver spoons to transfer a couple of links onto his plate and helped himself to a second serving of fried plantain while the opportunity presented itself.
A streamer-tailed hummingbird hovered near the table. Hastiler
tossed the bird a piece of bread crust but the tiny little creature flitted away and lost itself among the vines and frangipani. The hummingbird preferred the company of its own kind. Hastiler considered the lesson nature was teaching him. Cleverer men than he had been invited to sit at the governor's table. The captain wasn't fooled, he understood Purselley's reasons. Despite the attack on Port Royal that had all but crippled the buccaneers, Sir Richard had refused to give chase in his English brig. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Don Alonso had repaid Purselley's generosity by dishonoring his flag of truce. Even the plantation owners and well-to-do merchants of Kingston found the Spaniard's behavior detestable and an affront to the Crown. They were reminded just how vulnerable was their position.
Sir Richard knew he was treading on dangerous waters, dissatisfaction from Port Royal and Kingston were like an undertow threatening to drag him under. He needed all the support he could muster. His first priority was to placate the local troops. Hastiler and his marines offered the first line of defense should any insurrection arise against authority. Purselley was beginning to doubt the loyalty of the merchants and landowners. They had grown accustomed to a constant supply of Spanish goods, courtesy of the privateers and freebooters populating the port across the bay.
Purselley was attempting small talk and helping himself to the soursop, coconut, sliced mango, and pawpaw melons which Joseph had arranged as a centerpiece, when he glanced up and saw a ghost walking toward him from the drive.
“Morgan,” he whispered in horror, his features suddenly pale. How? Where?
Hastiler half turned, rose from his chair, knocked over a teacup and spilled the contents on his scarlet coat. Morgan ambled on through the morning sunlight. He looked thinner, Purselley noted, taking heart, but he moved with the grace of a stalking tiger. The closer Morgan came to the table, the less confident Sir Richard became. A breeze stirred and ruffled Morgan's unbound hair. His deep-set gray eyes were hard and unyielding in his sun-burnished features. He bowed, never taking his eyes off either man. In the distance one could hear the cries of the gulls; close at hand, the hovering bees alighted on the fruit and stole nectar from the few wild blossoms that bordered the drive.

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