Mad Morgan (6 page)

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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: Mad Morgan
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“I know the difference even if you do not,” Morgan said. He approached the two women, gently removed the pistols from their hands. “You will have no need of these as long as you are under my protection. I would suggest you find more suitable attire.” Morgan swung about and returned to the drawing room. He heard a rustle of cloth and sensed movement. But the apartment had another guest by this time; Thomas LeBishop stepped forward and intercepted Elena as she charged with drawn dagger, a slender, razor-sharp blade with a jeweled hilt. She altered her course and slashed the Black Cleric across the cheek, opening a gash from cheekbone to jawline. Blood flowed down LeBishop's face and spattered his shirt. The wound had to be painful, yet he did not react with even so much as a wince. The man merely caught her wrist and twisted the weapon from her grasp. He licked the blood from the blade, then, catching her by the neck, drew her soft flesh toward the point of the blade.
“There'll be no ransom for a corpse, LeBishop,” Morgan said.
LeBishop heard. His eyes undressed the woman in his grasp. “Look at you,” he told her. “She's a brave one,” he said to Morgan. “Rigged for battle. But not for long. I'll trim her shrouds.” He touched the knife to her throat then released his hold and tucked the dagger in his belt. “One day I shall return it to you,” he said, the promise fraught with meaning. He frowned, his eyes narrowing, two slits filled with menace.
Elena stepped back and gathered the folds of her dressing gown about her. Her gaze shifted between the two men, assessing both of the buccaneers. She forced back the fear rising in her throat; it came with the daunting realization that she was at the precarious mercy of the Black Cleric and Morgan the pirate—
el Tigre del Caribe!
She
would need more than pistols and daggers to stay alive. This situation, however intolerable, clearly required other, more effective weapons.
Morgan ran his hand along the strings of the Celtic harp. Elena, startled at the sound, moved forward to protect the instrument. The notes reverberated in the room.
“Please, sir, I accept your protection.” Her features softened. She searched his gray eyes, connected with something storm-tossed, impetuous, as dangerous as his namesake, and, disturbingly, as exciting. A tall, lanky cutthroat appeared in the apartment doorway and called Morgan over. The pirate excused himself and crossed the room to Israel Goodenough, who leaned forward and softly relayed his report.
Elena waited, pretending to ignore the way the Black Cleric stared at her. He wasn't fooled by her indifference. The commotion in the inn had for the most part subsided, but Elena could not overhear what was being said. She did not have long to wait, however. Morgan returned to her side.
“It seems the governor is nowhere to be found,” Henry announced. “Hardly gallant of the gentleman. I must say I am disappointed. Were you my lady, I would carve a path to your side.”
“But I am not your lady,” Elena pointedly observed.
“No. And I am certainly no gentleman,” said Morgan. He bowed and took his leave, whispering for Israel to remain in the room until LeBishop left. The stench of powdersmoke lingered in the hall as Morgan made his way to Genreal Vega's apartment. The dead man at the end of the corridor continued to bleed into the woven rug.
The freebooters outside the door stood aside and allowed Morgan to enter and confront el commandante. The officer struggled to maintain his dignity under the circumstances, despite being naked from the waist up and clad only in his undergarments. Watery-brown rolls of fat curled over his waistband. His round, fleshy features glistened with sweat. Voices carried from the general's bedroom, where the Spanish sentry, Pablo Morales, exchanged heated accusations with a buxom young woman who refused to hear him. Suddenly Morales slapped her across the face. She sank to the floor weeping.
Voisin shook his head in despair. He excused himself, left Morgan's side, and ambled into the bedroom. He slapped Morales across the skull with butt of a pistol. The man dropped like a sack of yams. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, the Frenchman offered his hand to the woman. His voice lowered, he all but purred in a mixture of French and Spanish as he closed the door and led the woman to bed.
Morgan grinned and turned his attention to General Vega. “Señor, you will dress and take us to the barracks where you will order your soldiers to surrender their arms. In the morning you will inform the elders of the town not to resist us.” The grin left his face; Morgan's gray eyes turned cold as dead winter ice. “Any man who lifts a hand against us, I will hang him and his wife and his neighbors and burn their houses, and their children I will carry off and sell to the slavers so that all their miserable days they shall curse their father for valuing his trifles more than their lives.” Morgan lowered his voice. “And that will be a kindness compared to what the Black Cleric will do.”
Vega gulped—summoning his failing courage, gathering what was left of his dignity—and stiffened his spine and folded his arms across his bare chest. If his people suffered, so be it. “Never! Do you understand? This port is under my protection. Never will I assist you in any way!
Morgan nodded. The pirates to either side of the general grabbed his arms. Morgan drew a pistol from his belt, cocked the weapon, and stuffed the cold gray barrel down the front of the general's long underwear. Vega's eyes grew wide as saucers as the large-bore iron muzzle jabbed into his scrotum.
“Never?” Morgan asked, his finger curled around the trigger.
“Señor, por favor,”
Vega said changing his tune. His features went slack. “What was I thinking, my friends? Welcome to Maracaibo!”
T
hree days after the capture of Maracaibo, a skiff flying a white flag of truce from its single mast left the protection of the fortress on Pigeon Island and skimmed across the bay toward the port. The occupants of the skiff—three soldiers, a boatswain, and Don Alonso del Campo—hardly spoke during the crossing. The boatswain was busy with line and rudder; Don Alonso was lost in his own sour thoughts; and the soldiers rode in glum silence with no wish to share their opinions of the governor who they were forced to accompany on this damnable excursion beyond the safety of the castle walls.
The boatswain brought the skiff smartly about and trimmed the sail, allowing them to drift with the tide approximately a hundred yards from the waterfront. Knowing full well they were under the scrutiny of the cutthroats in the town, the Spaniards waited for the buccaneers to respond in kind.
They didn't have to wait long. Henry Morgan, with Sir William Jolly and half a dozen buccaneers, scrambled aboard a johnnyboat and rowed away from the pier. His crew put their backs into the work, plunged their oars into the tranquil surface of the bay. In the distance, a school of striped mullet broke their watery bonds and shot upward, gleamed silver in the sun, then landed with a slap and a splash, returning to the aquamarine sea. Morgan reveled at the sight, finding kinship with any animal yearning to be free.
“Keep your eyes wide and your powder dry,” he cautioned.
“Pull, you beauties. If the work be too hard for you, perhaps you should have stayed back in Jamaica. I am sure Sir Richard Purselley could find you some suitable duties, swabbing out the governor's chamber pots or tending to milady's combs and ribbons!” Sir William exhorted. “Pull on them oars. Sure, and you've had enough practice pulling on 'em when the women weren't about.”
“Come and give us a tug, you old bilge rat,” one of the buccaneers retorted. “After the
puta
I bedded last night, you look pretty good.” Rafiki Kogi was a strong, rangy African, an escaped slave who years earlier had found emancipation among the Brethren. Naked to the waist, he displayed ebony flesh that glistened with sweat.
“There now, Mister Kogi, she was no doubt comely enough for the likes of you,” Morgan said with a chuckle. He was burned almost as dark as the African. The captain of this rough crew was simply dressed now, in butternut-brown breeches and a blousy shirt open to the wide leather belt circling his waist. He was armed with a pistol and a wicked-looking dagger whose curved blade resembled a steel claw, a weapon befitting the man called
el Tigre.
“Comely …
Mtu huyu ana wazimu
—I swear she had a face like a barnacle!”
Morgan and the others dissolved into laughter at Kogi's expense. The African glared at them, finding not a trace of sympathy for his plight. Then he grinned broadly and shook his head in mock dismay.
“Ku-tosha!
Enough!” Kogi raised a hand to the heavens. “I am among jackals,” he added with a sigh, hoping the spirits of his distant people might come and rescue him. Not that he would have left. He cupped a handful of water and splashed his face and shaved skull. Droplets rolled down the ridges of scar tissue that furrowed his back like freshly tilled fields. He wore the marks proudly now, as did many of the Brethren, including Henry Morgan, who had vowed:
Never
again.
Never.
At last the two boats pulled abreast of one another. The soldiers glared warily at the pirates as if in the presence of savage beasts. The buccaneers drew in their oars and kept their weapons within easy reach.
“I am Don Alonso del Campo, governor of Panama, champion of the Church, and defender of the faithful in the Americas and personal emissary of his most Christian majesty, King Carlos of Spain.”
“I'm Morgan.”
“Ah …
el Tigre del Caribe.
I thought you would be larger. And have fangs and claws. You don't seem so menacing.”
“You're the one who got chased out of Maracaibo,” Morgan remarked offhandedly.
“An act of piracy for which you will hang,” Don Alonso said.
“Pirate? Hardly, sir. I carry letters of marque. My actions are sanctioned by King James under the statutes of war.”
“But we are at peace. You fool, the treaty was signed and presented months ago. Your own English governor, Sir Richard Purselley, probably has word of the treaty. You are committing an act of war, a deed for which you will no doubt be punished by your own magistrate. Now, you will depart Maricaibo and return all provisions and goods stolen from the Spanish citizens, or find both Spain and England turned against you.”
Sir William blanched at the news. But Morgan only laughed. “What? Shall I trust the silken tongue of a courtier, and a Spaniard at that! No … I will keep your port until I am through with it.”
Don Alonso scowled. The uniform he had borrowed from the captain of the garrison on Pigeon Island was ill-fitting and had begun to chafe his neck. Sweat soaked into the heavy material. Now, to add to his discomfort, Morgan was proving far more difficult than the governor had hoped.
“Do what you will, then, but know—the longer you remain in port, the better I shall like it. I am not here by chance. There are two frigates due any day now. You may have entered unnoticed, but do not think you will be so lucky again. The guns of Pigeon Island will send you to the bottom, night or day.” Don Alonso gestured toward the fortress across the bay. “Surrender now and I will spare your life and the lives of your men.”
“And make us your guests in Panama. I have sampled Spanish hospitality,” Morgan replied.
“Then you have sealed your fate. The gunners lining those high walls will have no mercy.” He waved toward the fort. The fortress blossomed flame and smoke as the heavy cannons roared along the length of its walls. The passage between the two islands erupted in a forest of geysers, spewing water and foam into the air. The thunder of the guns reverberated throughout the bay. It was an impressive sight and had the desired effect on the men in the boat. Only Morgan feigned indifference. He stroked his chin as he contemplated the fortress.
“What was built by men can be torn down,” he said.
“Then the blood of your crew will be on your hands. But if you have any honor you will send out the señorita Elena Maria de Saucedo and permit me to escort her back to the safety and comfort of the castle.”
“She is there,” Morgan said. He glanced over his shoulder as Israel Goodenough and Pierre Voisin arrived at the dockside, escorting the governor's bride-to-be. Behind them shuffled an undulating column of the town's populace, impressed into service, carrying plunder to the boats. “You can come and get her”—the governor immediately ordered the boatswain to put into port—“in Jamaica. And bring fifty thousand gold doubloons. I shall await your pleasure in Port Royal.”
Don Alonso's expression fell. He gasped and sputtered, looked from the woman on the pier to the pirate. “You would ransom the señorita? How dare you!”
“It's a fair price. A woman like that can turn a boy into a man and make an old man feel like
un amante
again.” A murmur of agreement swept through the ranks of the buccaneers.
For a moment Morgan thought the governor was going to forget his flag of truce and order his men to fire on the johnnyboat.
Indeed, Don Alonso considered just such an action before coming to his senses. Exchanging a volley at close range would be suicidal and serve no purpose. Morgan the pirate had thrown down the gauntlet. So be it. Don Alonso snapped an order to the boatswain and took his seat beneath the boom. He dare not look in Elena Maria's direction for fear of meeting her gaze and being shamed by her expression. “We will meet again,” he said.
Don Alonso continued to glare at Morgan as the boatswain lowered the gaff-rigged sail and brought the skiff about. The buccaneers returned to their oars. The warm air fairly crackled with the tension as Morgan and the governor sought to stare one another down in a subtle contest of will that only distance resolved.
A weighty silence followed the johnnyboat on its return to the pier. Eventually the boat glanced off the wooden brace and the men climbed out and disappeared toward the waterfront cantinas. Sir William lingered at the edge of the pier, slow to join the others waiting on the dock.
“Go ahead, sawbones. Have your say. What's gnawing on your insides?”
“I am troubled by what the governor said. Do you think he was telling the truth, about the treaty?” Sir William muttered.
“Since when have you known a Spaniard to tell the truth?” Morgan replied. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “See here, William Jolly, don't turn into an old woman on me.”
Sir William shrugged and tried to appear consoled. But he had his misgivings. Morgan had never steered them wrong. For many a year they had enjoyed remarkable success. Perhaps he was being overly concerned; then again, the careless man wound up on the gibbet.
Israel and Voisin were waiting on the waterfront. Elena Maria stood between them, washed in golden light, black tresses trailing in the sweet, salt breeze.
“What did he want, Captain?” asked Goodenough, a hint of worry in his melancholy features. He was never comfortable on land, but preferred the roll of a deck beneath his feet and the crack of whipcord and canvas in the wind.
“Our surrender.”
“He says we're trapped,” Sir William added.
“Mon dieu,
so we are at his mercy … ?” The Frenchman stood aside as Morgan took Elena by the arm, relieving the man of his charge. The little thief continued his harangue. “ … While we sleep in his bed and drink his wine and gorge ourselves on his Christian cheese? Ha! You tell me who is trapped?”
“We are,” said Morgan.
 
 
Morgan offered his arm but Elena ignored the gesture. The pirate captain clasped his hands behind the small of his back and walked alongside his captive. It was difficult not to look at her. No doubt she was accustomed to attention. Women like her always were. Each soft curve and budding swell was swathed in lace or amber-and-cream taffeta. She smelled of rosewater and lilac. Her every movement seemed fluid and sensual.
They ambled past a column of Vega's soldiers, unarmed and each man shouldering sacks of wheat, bales of tobacco, barrels of salt pork, and sugarloaves. Vega's men were a glum lot, humiliated by their fate, betrayed by their commander who had ordered them to surrender. They worked in silence; now and then a man would pause to look at the distant fortress guarding the mouth of the bay. There was some satisfaction in knowing the pirates would have to run through a hail of blistering cannon fire before reaching the open sea. And Morgan's ships would no longer have the element of surprise to protect them.
Morgan felt he could read their thoughts—that his own days were
numbered, and so the soldiers and townsmen saw no reason to resist the buccaneer's demands. Morgan was as much a captive as they were. It was only a matter of time. And they might be right.
“Where are you taking me?” Elena asked, redirecting his attention back to her.
“To my brig. You'll be safe there. My men obey my word, but I travel in hard company. And you have made an enemy of the Black Cleric.”
“The
Santa Rosa
belongs to me,” she corrected.
“Yours … mine—what do words matter as long as it takes us safely to Port Royal?”
She paused and looked out across the bay. Seeing Don Alonso in the skiff stirred her emotions, and they weren't of romance; he had made good his escape and abandoned her to thieves and cutthroats.
“Don't worry. He'll pay your ransom. I have seen his kind before. Men like him would rather pay than fight.”
“You are a common brigand.” Elena said, turning on him, bitterness in her voice. But she saw the desire in his eyes. Of course he wanted her. After all, he was a man. “What do you know of Spanish nobility?”
Morgan seemed lost in thought as they continued in stony silence down along the dock to the
Santa Rosa
. Morgan gestured for her to continue up the gangplank where Consuelo awaited her mistress on the main deck. But Elena Maria refused to move. She wanted her answer.
“What do I know of Spanish nobility? I could show you the marks on my back, the track of the cat that cuts to the bone …” Morgan spoke as he walked, and the woman fell in step with him, as if the force of his presence was like an undertow, sweeping her along despite her efforts to resist. “I could describe years of servitude and captivity—except the nights and days are a blur now. It is as if I had died then, only to be born again one night in the harbor off Santiago de Cuba.”
Morgan and the señorita might as well have been a lady and her suitor on a Sunday stroll in the plaza. In this case, however, the place of rendezvous was beneath the skull and crossbones; the man at her side was hardly a gentleman suitor, but one of the most notorious buccaneers to plague the Spanish Main. Morgan led her beneath the shadows of the masts, down the shadowed steps, and into the captain's cabin at the stern of the ship. These would remain her quarters during the crossing to Jamaica.

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