The Red Ripper (3 page)

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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: The Red Ripper
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“Black Shirt” did not take time to observe his handiwork. He softly whistled and called out, “Manuel … Josefina!” A muscular young native couple, their tattooed arms and faces the color of coconut shells, emerged from the underbrush, gathered up the dead men,
and carried them off among the jacaranda trees and wild orchids.
“My servants, Tainos Indians,” “Black Shirt” explained, cleaning his weapons in the dirt. The couple were lithe and strong. By the time the man in black sheathed his knives, all trace of the fight had been removed. “Juan Diego will probably assume his soldiers deserted after being unable to find you. It won't be the first time men have fled his wrath. Guadiz won't tarry long to look for them. He and his sister are due at the governor's palace by tomorrow night. Domingo Guadiz is their uncle.”
William had heard enough. He couldn't allow his brother's murderer to escape. The big man turned and started toward the mare; if he could just reach the animal and pull himself into the saddle, he'd ride back to avenge Samuel … .
The ground rose up and slapped him between the eyes.
Rough hands grabbed Wallace by the shoulders and helped him to stand. William struggled at first. “Black Shirt” steadied the wounded man and brought him over to the mare. With assistance, Wallace climbed into the saddle. The knife fighter grabbed the reins and led horse and rider up the path. A last ripple of gunfire carried to them from the shore. William glanced toward the trees obscuring the bay.
“We must go back,” he said, benumbed by his brother's murder. His voice sounded distant, unrecognizable. “Samuel. My brother …”
“I can do nothing,” the older man replied matter-of-factly. He gestured toward the path where it climbed the side of a steep hill, rising up several hundred feet from the shore, and indicated the colonial two-story house nestled in a grove of jacaranda trees, flowering shrubs, mangoes, and bananas. “Now we must hurry lest Señor
Guadiz come calling as he did last night at my hacienda. He was a most unwelcome guest. I do not enjoy the company of unpredictable men.”
William tried to pull the reins from the older man's grasp. “I won't leave my brother's body for the beasts.”
The man in black sighed and shook his head, then changed course and guided the mare into a nearby thicket, following a narrow, dimly visible game trail that ended in a shallow cave, a fissure in the volcanic rock left by the turbulent forces that shaped the coast in ages past. “We must wait out the soldiers.”
William grudgingly agreed, dismounting as he passed through a curtain of thickly knotted green vines. The cave was barely deep enough for the mare to turn around in. The walls were smooth and glassy-looking, the floor littered with leaves and brittle vines and the skeletal remains of small animals. The air was musty with spoor. The men were obviously intruders in some beast's lair.
. “Jaguar,” the older man remarked, as if reading Wallace's thoughts. “She's probably hunting back up in the mountains, lucky for us.”
William nodded. “I am in your debt, sir … whoever you are.”
“I am Captain Jacques Henri Flambeau.”
“Mad Jack? The Butcher of Barbados?” William's pulse began to race. Had he fallen into the clutches of another villain?
The man leading the mare gravely nodded and bowed. “And the Scourge of the Antilles,” he dourly boasted.
“I don't understand,” William said, staring in wide-eyed wonderment at the brigand whose brutal exploits were legendary along the Gulf Coast. The bloodthirsty rogue had not been heard of for years. Rumors of his death were common talk among the denizens of New Orleans. Acts of kindly intercession were hardly in keeping
with the cutthroat's character. “What are you doing?”
“Saving your life.”
“My name is William Wallace. I am no one you know,” William said, guardedly watching the smaller man. “Why save my life?”
Mad Jack shrugged, then quietly laughed as if amused by a private joke known to only himself. Suddenly he brought his fingers to his lips, grew quiet, and listened. William strained to hear. His head throbbed; he felt nauseous. Voices drifted on the breeze. Someone was looking for the soldiers who had failed to return.
A red wasp, wings droning with a faint burr, flirted with the cave's concealed entrance before gliding off to inspect a wild bouquet of jasmine. William saw Mad Jack drop his hands to his knife hilts. Then silence followed. Wallace could hear his own heart hammering. Each beat was a deafening thud inside his skull.
The mare shook her head and began to stir. Wallace caught the bridle and stroked her velvet pink nose, calming the animal. He lost count of the sluggish minutes.
My brother is dead. And I have fallen among thieves, murderers, and black'ards. What next?
Capt. Mad Jack Flambeau, tense as a cornered pit viper and just as dangerous, glanced in William's direction and winked. What next indeed. Fate and this wiry little killer held the answer.
 
Down by the water's edge, medallions of pale sunlight glimmered on the gray surface of the sea like dead men's eyes peering from the briny depths. The plunderers had finished their grisly business and moved on, leaving an empty beach crisscrossed with tracks. William could only surmise the dragoons had dragged the bodies of their victims back into the bay, leaving behind nothing
of value and no one to link Guadiz to the crime, except Wallace.
“My God. I talked him into this. It's my fault,” Wallace said aloud, in a voice thick with self-recrimination. His dream of Texas land grants, of empires and high adventure, had become a nightmare. The big man closed his eyes as the horizon reeled. His legs started to buckle. Mad Jack stepped forward to steady him.
“I don't understand. We weren't looking for trouble,” William told him.
“Life is trouble. Only death is not,” Flambeau replied.
“Who is this Juan Diego Guadiz?” William clutched the pirate by his ruffled black shirt. “Where does he live? No matter how long it takes, I'll find him.”
“Juan Diego is the nephew of the governor, Domingo Guadiz. Cool your vengeance, my young friend. The man is beyond your reach.” Mad Jack pried loose of William's grasp. “Even if you were to somehow get past his dragoons and lancers, Guadiz himself would slice you to ribbons. He is a celebrated swordsman, a marksman without peer, and has personally claimed the lives of seven men on the field of honor.”
“You could help me kill the bastard,” William told the pirate. “I have never seen such skill.”
Mad Jack's expression changed. “Me?” He shook his head no. “I have sanctuary here by the grace of the governor's favor. His friendship runs as deep as my purse. Killing his nephew would undoubtedly wear out my welcome.” Flambeau sighed. “I am too old to put to sea again. Nor do I long for the roll of a deck beneath my feet and the skull and bones fluttering overhead. Besides,” —the buccaneer lowered his voice, his gaze narrowed—“Diego killed your brother, not mine.”
“Indeed he did,” William growled.
“Vengeance is like a wine—it's better sipped slow and savored,” Mad Jack observed. “Wait then. Bide your
time. And if you must strike, choose the moment carefully when it will not result in your capture and execution.”
The old brigand spoke the truth. Wallace realized he was in no shape to search out Juan Diego Guadiz and avenge his brother's death. Not yet. But one day. Everything had changed with Samuel's death. William's future was a slate wiped clean and marked with a single word:
revenge
. And if he was unprepared for such a course, well then, who better to chart his way than a cutthroat like the Butcher of Barbados?
“Teach me,” William said.
“What?”
Wallace stretched out his right hand, pretending it was clasped around the staghorn grip of an imaginary knife. “One punishes … the other destroys.”
Capt. Mad Jack Flambeau paused a moment, then gravely nodded. He guided the rawboned young giant up from the beach, where his Tainos servants, Manuel and Josefina, waited to help William up once more astride the mare. Wallace offered no resistance. He was too weak, too dizzy, and full of grief. Manuel held the reins while Mad Jack forged ahead with quick sure steps, following a game trail through the palm trees and onto the road where it began to climb into the hills.
William struggled to remain alert. He tried to focus on the road but could not see their destination for the trees. “Where does this lead?”
Mad Jack replied, “To the rest of your life.”
“COME AND KILL ME.”
Mad Jack roared with laughter, intending to infuriate his younger, larger opponent. Knife blades flashed in the sunlight, glittering like steel fangs as the two men warily circled each other. “That's it. Here now. Do I strike here … or there? Watch out!” the buccaneer said, his right arm extended. He jabbed and William stumbled back. “Big and slow, like an ox. Easy to slaughter.” Both men were streaked with sweat and sand from their exertions. Flambeau kept up a stream of insults and chatter, hoping to goad his hulking twenty-year-old opponent into a foolish move. The ploy had always worked.
Until now.
“Now, now, that's a good lad. Come and kill me. If you can … .”
It was a game they played, like children, with knives sharpened to a razor's edge. A man must be honed like the blade he holds.
A year had passed, a year of watching the ever-changing sea and reliving the nightmare of his brother's murder, a year learning the wild ways from the Tainos natives, a year spent devouring the volumes of stolen books in the Frenchman's library, a year of the
game
.
The hackles rose on the back of William's neck, and
his cheeks flushed with anger. But this time he ignored the insults. For once he refused to be baited into a mistake that might cost him his life.
This time the game continued, for William had a good teacher. The Butcher of Barbados had forged and tempered the substance of Wallace's youth and inexperience and taught him to rely on more things than his great size and strength. Even a rawboned giant of a man could be quick and cunning. Even a heart sworn to vengeance could discover the value of patience.
So William waited, bided his time, feinted, darted back, and then lunged forward as he had done in the past, hoping to bull his way past the buccaneer's guard. The move tricked Mad Jack into a costly response. Mistaking this second feint for William's attack, Flambeau committed himself. He darted to one side and thrust forward, but William danced from harm's way with catlike grace, batted the short sword from the buccaneer's grip, stepped in past the Frenchman's guard, and placed the tip of his own knife under Flambeau's chin.
Mad Jack froze. Death was a pinprick away. And then it slowly dawned on the knife fighter that he had been bested.
Manuel and Josefina Tamayo good-naturedly applauded their master's downfall from where they watched on the porch of the whitewashed house on the hillside above the bay. The Tainos couple, though loyal to a fault, were not above taking pleasure at William's victory. The gentle rawboned youth had become a part of the family, someone for Manuel to instruct in the ways of the forest and for Josefina to mother.
“You're dead,” William drawled, staring down at the smaller man he held at his mercy.
“Hhrumph!” Mad Jack scowled and pretended to be disgruntled at the outcome. He eased himself from knife-point, rubbed his throat, glanced in the direction of his
servants, who continued to demonstrate their delight at the contest's outcome. Then he grinned. “You'll do.”
“You're damn right,” William replied.
The rawboned young man turned his back toward Mad Jack as if to walk away. Why be satisfied with one win, he thought, when he could have two? Mad Jack always exhorted him to be constantly vigilant. William decided it was time to test the teacher. In mid-stride he shouted, “Mad Jack!,” whirled, and lunged, hoping to place the point of his dagger against the freebooter's chest and cry, “Touché!” But in a blur of motion Mad Jack spun on his heels, parried the thrust as he danced past the big man. Something slapped William across the neck, leaving a welt on the flesh. Wallace froze, his knife blade sawing the empty air, his neck stinging from the blow he had received. He seemed momentarily stunned. And then Mad Jack spoke.
“In case you're wondering, I just slit your throat.” He looked at his knife, which was free of blood, and then tilted William's chin upward. “Damn, I used the flat of the blade. I must be getting soft,” he added with a chuckle.
Wallace tucked his knives away, the lesson brought home. He also filed Mad Jack's maneuver away in his memory—it just might come in handy one day.
“I might have taught you everything you know,” Flambeau said, grinning, “But not everything I know.”
“I'll remember,” William said. He waved toward the Tainos servants, then caught Mad Jack by the arm and led him over to a stone table set on a knoll above the mountain road. Manuel arrived bearing a tray with a brown glass bottle of rum and two pewter tankards.
“He beat you fair and square,” Manuel said, his nutbrown features split by a broad smile.
“And you loved every minute of it,” Mad Jack grumbled threateningly.
The Tainos servant wasn't afraid. “Yes, I did.” He ambled off, chuckling to himself and mimicking the contest, much to Josefina's consternation. She had chores to tend to and could no longer be bothered with the foolishness of men.
William poured the freebooter a drink. Clouds drifted above the tops of the trees and out across the bay, dotting the hillside and cerulean sea with patches of shadow. Mad Jack thirstily accepted the grog, drained his cup, and slammed it down on the tabletop. William instantly refilled the vessel. A breeze stirred and he glanced back toward the house with its wide, deep porch and inviting shade. Palm trees shuddered and fanned the clearing with their bright green fronds. Thinking back, William remembered his first impression of the place.
Sanctuary.
William had worked hard to heal his physical wounds and recover his strength. Flambeau's house on the hill had been William's retreat from the hard world that had claimed his brother's life and their dreams of adventure and wealth. He weathered the nightmares and prepared himself for the day when he would go forth to set things right.
“I want to accompany you to Veracruz tomorrow,” he said.
“See here; you weren't invited.”
“No one will question it if you bring me.”
“I'd question my own sanity,” Flambeau chuckled and gulped down the rum. He smacked his lips. “Better' n mother's milk to a man of the sea.” He wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve and held up his cup. “Anyway, you've been to Veracruz.”
William had the bottle ready. He paced himself and only took a sip from his own cup. This was the dark Jamaican rum, brewed from sugarcane cut at midnight, pressed by lantern light, and fermented by the dark of
the moon in kegs buried deep in island caves.
Mad Jack eased himself onto one of the stone benches near the table. He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the horizon. “These old lights of mine are growing dim.” Perspiration beaded his shaved skull. Sea and sky stretched on forever, farther than any man could see. But Mad Jack did not need fresh eyes to read the course William was charting for himself. “Do you take me for a fool? This is the governor's ten-year jubilee. I hear even President Bustamente will attend. No doubt the governor's family will be on hand. And that means Juan Diego Guadiz.”
“I never gave it a thought,” William said, pouring the weathered old sea rover another measure of rum.
“There's no way I'd bring you along. No man needs that kind of trouble. You are not going. And that's all there is to it.” Mad Jack cleared his throat and nodded as if to indicate his final position on the matter. Then he drank to his decision.
And William kept pouring.

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