Mad Morgan (7 page)

Read Mad Morgan Online

Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: Mad Morgan
13.81Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Consuelo tried to follow the couple into the cabin, but Morgan closed the door in her face and latched it as an afterthought. The last thing he saw of the half-breed woman was her oval brown face and its look of surprise.
The interior of the great cabin was the width of the ship, with windows across the stern. A feather bed had been built into an alcove against the starboard wall. Chairs and a walnut table for dining dominated the center of the room. A rolltop desk and chair had been shoved near the window to make room for Consuelo's cot. The room smelled of leather and sea salt, tobacco and rum, rosewater and French powders.
“Señorita? Are you safe?” the servant called out.
Elena's emerald eyes studied her captor's face. It was a good face, a mixture of cunning and reckless enthusiasm—somewhere, a hidden hurt—but not the face of a man driven mad with a need for revenge. Vengeance might be a part of his character, but it did not rule him. And if not that, then what could she use? Where was his weakness? Perhaps the answer was the simple fact that they were alone in the cabin, out of sight of everyone, the two of them alone, and anything could happen.
“Well, am I?” she asked.
“What?” he replied, his eyes drawn to her lips—moist … pink as a first blush.
“Am I safe?”
“Not hardly,” he said, and took her in his arms. His kiss was bruising at first. His mouth was hungry for her. The second kiss was tender and deep. She did not fight him.
“Señor … Wait, I must attend my lady! Doña Elena, are you all right? Please!”
Elena Maria leaned back in his arms, felt the heat between them, knew where it would take them, considered giving her desire free rein, to cast off the bonds of propriety. It felt good to be hidden away. For a brief moment, all that she was and wished to be, paled before the moment, the very instant when passion vied with her own common sense. She was Elena Maria de Saucedo. She was her father's daughter, a
criollos
woman in a world forged by men, yet determined to survive. No, survival wasn't near enough. Don Alonso would find that out.
Morgan hadn't expected her to be so willing: black hair, green eyes, hot blood; his throat tight now, burning, she had drunk the strength out of him. He wanted her. But she was more than a lady, she was a
woman. He would be more than a pirate, something …
more
—the word escaped him—someone to aspire to be with. Once they had set sail and were under way, there would be no time for such matters, no clandestine visits to the great cabin, not one improper word or glance. His mates would be watching. And a sea voyage was no place for conflict among his crew. Things would be different in Jamaica. He could wait.
Morgan started toward the door, hesitated, turned to look at her. She was standing before the window, outlined in sunlight and the deep blue beyond. “I can save you.”
“Save me—from what?” she asked, and was tempted to chide him for his impertinence.
“You asked what I knew of Spanish nobility. Behind their wigs and gold brocade, the Dons are but thieves who rob the land and its people.” Morgan shook his head in disgust. “But they do it in the name of God and King. The nobles see themselves as the chosen few, given to rule and oppress the rest of us.” He drew close to her again, this time wary of the heat. His gray eyes were like twin stormclouds. Now it was Elena's turn to tremble. “The governor and his kind …
your
kind … hate me not for what I have done, but for who I am: a
free
man.”
C
aptain Gregorio Muñez, commanding in General Vega's absence, knew he would find Don Alonso atop the limestone parapet, alone with the sunwashed sea breeze and the governor's own dark thoughts. Don Alonso heard the rattle of pebbles on the stone steps as Muñez climbed the wall to the gun emplacement. The artillery crew, lounging beneath the makeshift shade of a piece of sailcloth held aloft by bayonets and a ramrod, attempted to look busy as the officer reached the ledge.
Don Alonso, his back to the gunners, shifted his stance and braced his elbows on the limestone wall. He appeared to ignore the officer. The port across the bay held his interest to the detriment of anything and anyone else. The nobleman's features were tightly drawn; he chewed unconsciously on his lower lip as he peered through his spyglass. From his vantage point on the seawall, Don Alonso had a clear view of Maracaibo. He need only elevate his spyglass above the tall fronds, vines, and the thicket of palm trees concealing the tapered western tip of Pigeon Island, for the piers and waterfront and conch-shell streets to fill the lens. The governor had kept this vigil every day since his encounter with Henry Morgan out in the bay.
Maracaibo was always on his mind. His frantic escape from the Inn of the Palms and his cowardly flight from the besieged town, abandoning Elena Maria in his haste, proved to be a bitter pill for such a
proud man to swallow. Every time Don Alonso focused the spyglass on the distant shore, a great sense of shame welled in his breast.
Captain Muñez, the untried officer General Vega had left in command of the fortress guarding the Maracaibo straits, would not soon forget the morning his unwanted guest ran his stolen skiff ashore on the wooded tip of the island, stumbled and crawled the half-mile to the landward walls, and staggered up to the practically unguarded front gate. Immediately upon entering the castle, Don Alonso was brought to young Muñez, to whom he delivered the news that Maracaibo had fallen to Morgan the pirate.
Not a day went by that Don Alonso didn't contemplate the port, scrutinize the waterfront with its collection of warehouses and cantinas, fume in silence at the sight of the freebooters swaggering through the streets while columns of townspeople and soldiers, impressed into service along with the slaves, loaded plunder aboard the ships. The
Glenmorran
and the
Jericho
were two ships whose names were synonymous with skullduggery. Morgan and the Black Cleric, a rogue and a butcher, both kin to the devil.
Don Alonso del Campo straightened and wiped the moisture from his face. Sweat blurred his vision. He dabbed at his eyelids then returned to the spyglass. He could just make out the alley where he had remained in hiding amid the rubbish and discarded crates and nets. Through a twist of fate, the governor had departed the Inn of the Palms through the rear door off the kitchen even as the pirates entered the courtyard and forced their way inside. Hearing the commotion and suspecting the worst, Don Alonso had briefly considered returning for his intended bride. It was an idea he promptly dismissed. He was of no use to Elena Maria or anyone else dead. The governor had kept to the alleys and waited until the wee hours of the morning before creeping out to steal the skiff. It took him well past daybreak to fight the tide and cross the bay to the castle on Pigeon Island. The palms of his hands were still blistered from the ropes and rudder.
Muñez cleared his throat and waited to be acknowledged. The young officer resented the governor's presence in the fort. Don Alonso, by virtue of his age and station, had a habit of countermanding the captain's orders whenever it suited him. As Muñez marshaled his troops for an assault on the town, Don Alonso exerted his authority and insisted the garrison remain intact. Don Alonso saw no reason to endanger the Spanish garrison. Let the buccaneers try to escape. Their prize-laden ships had too deep a draft, and the waters around
Watch Island were too shallow and cut with sandbars and coral reef for pirates to sail out of range of a Spanish cannonade.
No, Morgan and his men would have to keep to the channel and that would bring them within easy range of the Spanish guns. The fortress's seawalls bristled with enough twelve-pounders to blow the cutthroats out of the water. Morgan had to realize escape was futile. The pirate would have to surrender. The longer the brigands remained in Maracaibo, the more they risked an encounter with one or more of the Spanish warships that frequented the port. Muñez had assured him the frigate
San Bartolomeo
was due any day now.
“You sent for me, Governor?” Muñez asked, growing weary of being ignored. The captain stared out across the bay. Osprey, gulls, kites, and kingfishers glided on the thermal winds. Now and then one dropped like a bolt from a crossbow, stabbed the sun—kissed sea, and soared aloft with its wriggling prize. Hunters and the hunted, predator and prey, they soared and darted and dove, made their kill and retreated … like the very cutthroats who had sailed into Maracaibo past the fort's silent guns. Muñez's features reddened at the thought. He had his own cross of shame to bear.
Well, the guns would not be silent on Captain Morgan's return. The Tiger of the Caribbean had sailed into a trap. The garrison was on alert now, all two hundred men. Just let Morgan's freebooters try to escape. The captain brushed the limestone dust from his sleeve. His stomach growled. The officer ruefully reminded himself that he ought to have been enjoying a hearty breakfast and not running to the whims of a some dignitary.
“Our hour is at hand,” Don Alonso said. “For days I have watched those cutthroats loot the town. Well, their sloops are riding low in the water, the townsmen have been cleared from the docks. Yesterday they finished the repairs on the
Santa Rosa
and trimmed her sails. They mean to sail her back to Jamaica. I'll see her at the bottom of the harbor first.” He handed the spyglass to Muñez. “See for yourself.”
The officer obeyed, adjusting the eyepiece until the distant shore defined itself in the glass. He wanted to ask about Elena Maria and if the governor intended to see her at the bottom of the bay as well, but some questions were best left unasked. He studied the port, took note that preparations were indeed being made to get the ships under way. For some reason many of the brigands were congregating along the waterfront as if waiting for a final command from the one who had brought them this far.
No farther
, Muñez thought. He had to agree with the governor for
the first time since Don Alonso staggered out of the sea. The officer barked an order to one of the gunners, who leaped to his feet and scurried off to relay the message to the bugler. Within minutes a call to arms echoed throughout the compound. Soldiers in various stages of dress scurried from the barracks built along the base of the walls and up the ramps and limestone steps to take their places behind the massive stone ramparts.
A baleful sun climbed the fearful lemon sky, the temperature began to rise with the lengthening day. Buckets of water were brought up from the wells and left for the gun crews sweating in the steamy heat.
Killing men was always a thirsty business.
 
 
At dockside, the combined crews of the
Glenmorran,
the
Jericho,
and now the
Santa Rosa
waited for Henry Morgan. Sir William Jolly, Israel Goodenough, Voisin, and the others were accustomed to the ritual. Thomas LeBishop fumed and paced the pier and complained about the waste of a decent wind, though in truth he was reticent about running a gauntlet of hidden bars and channel guns.
As for the
Santa Rosa
's most unwilling passenger, Elena Maria de Saucedo seemed confused by the behavior of these brigands. Flanked by her guards, assigned to ensure the señorita's presence on the brigantine, Elena stood with hands clasped, frowning as she observed the freebooters aboard their ships and clustered along the waterfront.
She sensed another's eyes upon her and saw Thomas LeBishop watching her from where he stood near the gangplank. For a moment Elena thought the pirate intended to board the brigantine and carry her back to the
Jericho.
The Black Cleric's lips curled back and he held up his Bible. An unusual bookmark jutted from the leather binding. Elena recognized the ornately carved, obsidian hilt of the dagger she had wielded against him. His ravaged cheek bore a lurid scab of encrusted blood that ran the length of his face. LeBishop patted the Bible and then bowed deeply, a gesture more menacing then gracious, and then seemed to dismiss her from his thoughts as he hurried back along the waterfront, anxious to board his sloop. As far as the Black Cleric was concerned, as long as the señorita was worth money, retribution could wait.
For the past week and a half, Elena had expected Don Alonso to emerge from hiding and rescue her. That likelihood seemed to grow more distant with every passing moment. And yet she did not despair. Indeed, she was more determined then ever to turn this capture to
her own advantage. She had never met a man like Henry Morgan. The way he wielded power excited her. She had seen something in his eyes from the moment he had burst into her apartment and confronted her. There was a reckless energy lurking beneath his demeanor, a quality of purpose akin to the predatory beast that was his namesake. All this, and chaos in the twinkling of his eyes. One thing the woman knew for certain: Thank heavens her knife had missed him. The Tiger of the Caribbean was the only thing standing between her, and LeBishop's vengeance.
“Where is your Captain Morgan?” Elena asked of the young lad standing alongside her.
“Morgan's walk. It is his way.” To the lady's astonishment, her companion replied in a young woman's voice.
“But you are …”
“Nell Jolly,” said Nell, tilting back her cap to reveal her curly hair. “And I'm as much a woman as you, señorita. Maybe more.” Nell's tone made it clear she had no use for the Spanish noblewoman.
They were a pair as diverse in appearance as in personality: Nell in her short coat, linen shirt, broad belt breeches, and buckled shoes; Elena Maria in a long-waisted travel gown, the pale blue overskirt pulled back like the curtains of a proscenium stage to reveal a cream underskirt. And where Nell Jolly walked unattended, Elena had her shadow. Consuelo stood a few paces behind the
criollos
, in the shadow of the shrouds, her brown hands clasped before her and resting upon the small lace apron over her skirt.
Nell was armed with pistol and cutlass.
Elena had only her wiles.
“I do not understand. Where does he walk?” the Spanish woman asked.
“Not ‘where' so much but ‘how.' Curse him. Bless him, the glorious fool, but he'll do himself in one day, I swear. And I'll not weep for him, not shed one tear, on my oath.”
“Ah, I see.” Elena Maria said.
“You see nothing!” Nell snapped. She turned her back on the woman. “Be still or I will have you locked in your cabin until we put out to sea.” But for all her gruff talk, it was Nell's silence that betrayed her.
 
 
Morgan walked unarmed through the streets of Maracaibo. The town was his now, his until he sailed away, and afterward, his still, in the collective
memory of the populace, then in legend long after the bitter legacy of his visit had faded. With the surrender of the troops stationed in town, the settlement had fallen into line. At first the populace proved slow to cooperate. The inhabitants hoarded their wealth in hidden cupboards, woodpiles, and beneath floorboards. The Dons changed their minds after Morgan burned half a dozen homes and a plantation on the edge of town. Suddenly the streets were full of Spaniards hauling out their heirlooms and buried coffers of coins and jewelry.
Morgan's law was simple. He held his men on a tight rein, permitting no abuse or cruelty toward the townspeople as long as they obeyed his every edict. Defiance would be met with swift and brutal retaliation.
He prowled past shuttered windows, along narrow streets where he passed several groups of shopkeepers, landowners, venerable seamen, any of whom might have been able to overwhelm this solitary figure by sheer force of number. One group in particular, a trio of prosperous-looking merchants, appeared to be seriously considering the opportunity the pirate captain was presenting to them. All they had to do was rush him en masse. They had numbers on their side.
But Morgan seemed to read their thoughts. He faced them, climbing up onto a low wall, and opened his arms as if preparing himself for sacrifice.
He waited, presented a perfect target. All they had to do was come and take him.
“Do it,” he softly challenged.
One of the men, a heavyset townsman with a solid jaw and swarthy complexion, dropped a hand to his coat pocket. Was that a knife or a pistol?
“Come on,” Morgan purred. His willingness unnerved them. The townsman's companions suddenly lost their courage. Dire images of their own deaths, horrible fantasies of their families sold into slavery, were too much to bear. And when they failed to act, he turned his back on them. “I thought not,” he said. Once Henry Morgan had been a slave to men like these. Now he walked among them like a lord. Fear ruled them, fear he had placed in their hearts and minds.

Other books

Afton of Margate Castle by Angela Elwell Hunt
Death on the Rive Nord by Adrian Magson
The Secret of the Ginger Mice by Song of the Winns
The Whole Truth by Nancy Pickard
Fallen Angel (Hqn) by Bradley, Eden
Winter's Passage by Julie Kagawa
Chained Cargo by Lesley Owen