“Your girlfriend is very pretty, Miguel,” said Brent.
There was an awkward pause. The couple clearly hesitated to say anything about Aileen’s father, and his family was equally hesitant to ask.
“Miguel!”
He turned. Aileen was jogging towards him, waving. A short way behind came another couple, a pair who did not seem to fit this neighborhood at all. He recognized her mother immediately, but his eyes barely registered her pale face or long black hair, drawn instead to the man who could only be Aileen’s father.
“It can’t be…” he heard his mom whisper as Aileen reached them.
“Hey. Is that your dad?” he asked, gaping at the approaching couple.
His girlfriend’s face grew grim and her voice lost all pleasure.
“Mr. and Mrs. Martinez, I’d like to introduce my father.”
“It’s not possible,” he muttered.
The man who now reached a friendly hand towards his dad had thick grey hair and wore a long black oilskin duster. A familiar eyepatch covered one eye, hiding a vivid scar.
“Hello, Eduardo. My daughter has told me much about you. My name is Balor Foley.”
“What are you doing here?” his mother hissed.
“It’s good to see you again too, Maeve.”
Then the world shifted.
Chapter 23
The Pirate
1656, West Indies
“I
t’s not the biggest island, but France ignores it and the Spanish are struggling to keep Tortuga. The bay is deep enough for my sloops and too shallow for any man-o-war, especially with those reefs they’ll have to negotiate. Yes, this is where I shall rule the Freebooter Republic.”
Captain Jacquotte Delahaye rested her arms on the deck railing of her sloop, studying the bright blue bay, white sandy beach, and rocky, tree-lined hills beyond. A warm breeze blew and her long, flame-red hair billowed behind her. Back From The Dead Red, as everyone from Port Royal to Tortuga called her, had tucked her white satin shirt into plain cotton breeches, which she had stuffed into her black leather boots. A red scarf was tied around her neck, matched by a scarlet sash that served as a belt. Her clothes were cut for a man, but somehow looked right on her, even though she carried a large flintlock pistol on one hip and a cutlass on the other.
“What about the English?” asked Alexandre la Bouche, her quartermaster. He was the only bearded man on her ship and the only one who did not don a wig. She knew he was quite proud of his black velvet hat with its red trim and peacock feather. He’d already donned his blue jacket and held her crimson waistcoat draped over his arm. He’d rebraided his thick, unruly reddish-brown beard with new ribbons that he’d claimed as his share of booty from the Dutch frigate they’d raided three days earlier.
“The English and the Spanish will kill each other nicely over Tortuga, and whoever wins that battle will be too weak to challenge us for years.” She took the proffered damask waistcoat and slipped it on. It would not do to step onto that virgin white sand and be improperly dressed. As she buttoned it, she said, “By the time the winner recovers, we will be too firmly entrenched here. We have two boats full of captives who, I’m quite sure, will be eager to buy their freedom in constructing our fort. With all the cannons we’ve captured, we will be able to hold off all our enemies.”
“Captain, your hat,” offered James Davis, her boatswain. He was a slender man who could strut in his finely knitted jacket and silk stockings as well as any nobleman and was as deadly as any viper with his rapier. He was a slender man who could strut in his finely knitted jacket and silk stockings as well as any nobleman yet was deadly as any viper with his rapier. A diamond cross hanging on the gold chain around his neck was his most prized possession.
She took the cavalier hat, fixing it atop her hair. Made of black beaver, it sported a broad ostrich feather she’d dyed crimson. Once on, she climbed aboard the rowboat, joined by Alexandre, James, and two sailors, who rowed them to the island. Another boat with several heavily armed sailors quickly followed. They’d seen no sign of any human, even though wildlife and fish were plentiful, but she would take no chance.
As soon as they were close enough, she leaped over the gunwale, ignoring the warm ocean water sloshing into her boots, and trudged through the surf to be the first pirate to step onto the island. Alexandre and James quickly followed, as did a man in the other boat, who unfurled her banner as soon as he joined them on the beach, ramming the stave into the sand.
Her flag was scarlet with a large black bat or bird emblazoned on it. No one really knew for sure what it was except for her, and she told no one. What mattered was it stood out from skulls, crossbones, and crossed swords, and men rallied to her banner like they did for few others, whether pirate, privateer, or even the British Navy.
Cheers from the dozen closest boats echoed off the hills behind her as the flag rose and she allowed herself a broad smile. Her true enemies would eventually find her, but they would be hard-pressed to breach the defenses she would erect. Finally, she could rest for a time, once the captives had finished building her fort. The sailors would help, of course, but only when they were in port.
“That British officer will come for you eventually, Red,” her quartermaster muttered from beside her. La Bouche had been with her from the beginning, even before her resurrection that had earned her nickname. He was the only man she allowed to address her as anything but Captain.
“Howell Johnson is only a lieutenant. He has simply been lucky.”
“It was his sword that slew both Philip Ras and Bartholomeus de Jager last year.”
She swung her head towards Alexandre. His eyes held only concern, and he would never again propose marriage, although they always held hope she would one day change her mind. She could never marry, or so she had told him, but she would never tell him why.
Instead, she said sharply, “Unless he survives to become a commodore, he means nothing. Come, we have work to do. I do not intend to sleep aboard my ship any longer than necessary.”
♦ ♦ ♦
1651, Tortuga
Coils of fog snaked lazily through Tortuga’s rickety wooden structures as if they were ropes holding the buildings together. Raucous laughter and warm torchlight spilled from tavern entryways only to be swallowed immediately by the thick darkness outside. Squeals from second floor windows where prostitutes entertained sailors added to the clamor, as did shouts of drunken brawls or the occasional clatter of swords when a fight grew deadly.
A slender, hooded form flitted from shadow to shadow, slipping through pools of light like an assassin’s dagger. Twice, unshaven thugs approached the form with cudgels held menacingly, only to stagger back, then turn and run when the hooded figure waved a hand.
Finally, the form halted at the side of a building at the far edge of town. A narrow stairway climbed haphazardly, providing access to the third floor apartments. Even as slight as the figure was, there was no way to scale those stairs without every step creaking. After some hesitation, the shadowy figure crept upwards, but stealth was lost with the first step.
The door at the top landing burst open and a pair of roughly garbed, unkempt men in nightshirts rushed out. Raising their daggers, they charged down the stairs howling. A cutlass flashed from beneath the dark figure’s cloak, deftly knocking the knives out of both hands with one swipe, then twirling to stab the thigh of one thug as he tumbled past. The second man tried to draw a second dirk but found the cutlass tip at his throat instead.
“Go to The Black Dolphin,” hissed a raspy, muffled voice. “Find la Bouche. Tell him I have returned, and to round up the old crew.”
The man’s eyes grew wide and his face pale, as if he’d seen a ghost.
“You can’t be…” he whispered, then glanced at the hand that held the cutlass pointed at his neck. “They said you died in prison years ago…”
The only response he received was a prick of the cutlass. A dark bead of blood dribbled down his Adam’s a
pple, then the dark figure’s sword arm relaxed. The man backed down the stairs until he bumped into his companion, who had staggered to his feet, grasping his wounded leg. One thug grabbed the other, and the pair raced into town. The slight form watched them disappear, then strode to the landing and through the open door.
The hallway was dank and reeked of tallow, sweat, and old rum. Several heads popped back into rooms as the figure entered, their doors slamming, cutting off almost all light. One door at the far end, however, had not opened. The slight form marched the length of the hallway, cutlass still drawn, the wooden planks creaking with every step. A faint line of flickering candlelight crept through the cracks.
The figure rapped three times on the door lightly but firmly. There was no answer. The hood was pulled back, revealing a slender Chinese woman with closely cropped black hair. Most of her features were lost in the darkness. She leaned forward until her lips nearly touched the door.
“Do not make this difficult,” she whispered through a crack. “I have come to help your brother.”
After a few seconds, the rustle of someone rising from a flimsy cot could be heard, then the door inched open and a ragged woman’s face with tired eyes appeared. Greasy dark red hair with streaks of grey fell past on either side.
“Do you mean that? Do you truly mean to help?”
“I do. Will you let me in freely?”
The door swung wide. A single cot in an old wood frame was the only piece of furniture in the small room. A tallow candle stood in a pile of melted wax, its wick emitting more smoke than flame. A pair of crates held bits of food, needles and thread, and small articles of clothing. A worn blanket lay on the floor next to the cot, from which a man’s groan sounded. He rolled over, looking up at the Chinese woman, his eyes fearful and clearly not fully comprehending what was happening. As the newcomer stepped in, the redhead closed the door.
There was no preamble. “I have had others say they will aid me and my brother, only to take what little we have. I can sew relatively well, but my brother is slow in the mind.” She waved towards the crates. “Those needles are all I own now. Please, do not force me to become a woman for the sailors. It is the only shred of honor I have left.”
The Chinese woman reached out, taking the redhead’s chin in her hand and lifting it gently, examining it. Despite the ragged lines and tired eyes, she was still pretty. Her beauty must have been devastating when she was young.
“You are not Modeste Leblanc, at least not until ten years ago.”
The redhead pulled back, her tired eyes now frightened. “What are you saying?”
“I know your story. Your French mother perished giving birth to your brother, damaging his mind. Your Haitian father was a good man, murdered ruthlessly when you were twelve. You sought revenge and mastered the sword until your father’s killers lay dead at your feet. At 20, you captured your first ship, the first female captain among the Brethren of the Coast. For four years, the name of Jacquotte Delahaye was as feared as William Rous or Cornelius Jol until you were captured by the Spanish.”
“Jacquotte Delahaye died in prison,” the redhead whispered. “Everyone knows that.”
The Chinese woman pursed her lips, then finally sheathed her cutlass.
“I know you faked your death and returned here as Modeste Leblanc, a simple seamstress. I also know most of your share of plunder went to the care of your brother. You are unusually compassionate for one who lives among the Brethern, which is why I have sought you out and simply not killed you.”
Jacquotte’s face turned white and she backed protectively in front of her brother.
“Why have you come? You are not like the others who seek to steal from a poor woman, but you aren’t here to help my brother, either.”
The Chinese woman smiled. “You are a very smart woman, Jacquotte. I am here for more than I said. I am here for you.”
The small woman removed her cloak, revealing an exquisite suit of red silk with gold dragons embroidered along each sleeve and black trim. Jacquotte’s eyes widened.
“There is not a man alive on Tortuga who wears anything so fine!” she whispered. “Who are you?”
Instead of answering, the Chinese woman closed her eyes, standing rock still. Almost immediately, her body flickered unnaturally, then began to elongate, her skin tone altering, her short black hair lengthening and glowing as if lit by fire. Even her clothes changed. Within seconds, she was of an equal height to Jacquotte, her hair thick and a rich red, her lightly tanned skin flawless, and the beauty of her face likely unrivaled by any noblewoman in the West Indies. The clothes she wore were as rich as before, but had transformed into a white satin shirt, crimson waistcoat, and knee-high black leather boots.
Jacquotte started to scream, but the other woman slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Hush! I am not ready to show myself yet.”
As soon as she dropped her hand, Jacquotte hastily genuflected, making the sign of the cross over her chest.
“Mother Mary! What are you?” she whispered, her face now grey with terror. Her brother whimpered from his cot.
“I am Jacquotte Delahaye, returned from the grave, or will be when I step out this door.” She reached inside her waistcoat and pulled out a leather bag as large as two fists, gently setting it on the floor so that there was no sound.”
“Look inside. All is yours if you will freely give up your life here and allow me to become you in truth.”
Hesitantly, the real Jacquotte bent down and teased open the string that held the bag shut. A glimmer of gold reflected the weak candlelight and her eyes popped wide. Her head shot up.
“What trick is this? Are you some sort of fairy?”
The false Jacquotte spat on the floor. “Fairies are unfaithful creatures, liars of the worst kind. They would give you this gold and you would find it turned back to pebbles the next morning. My gold is true. You can buy passage to England or France for you and your brother and still have more than enough for a fine home and the best doctors when you arrive. That bag is special. I can show you how to hide it so none know it is there.”
Fear had been replaced by hope in the real Jacquotte’s eyes, and already years seemed to have fallen from her face.
“Why? Why do you do this? Why not kill me?”
“Why did you not seek revenge on the Spanish? Why did you not return to piracy? You could have abandoned your brother. My father too was murdered, and my brothers lost. I want to think I could be as noble as you, had I been able to save them. You have given up all you could have been and could have owned. It has been a very long time since I have known anyone with a heart like yours. You give me hope, Modeste, or whoever you choose to now become. Take this gold, and I will send a man with proper attire and dye for your hair. He will take you to a ship where I have already guaranteed you safe passage to Dominica.”
The real Jacquotte stared at her doppelganger for a long time. Emotions crossed her face until, finally, tears rolled freely down her cheeks.
“I do not know what you are, if you are no fairy, but I will do as you say.” A faint smile brightened her face, recalling her former beauty. “Maybe I can even buy myself a handsome husband.”
“Aye, do that, woman, but choose a man who is gentle, for your brother’s sake if not for yours.” The false Jacquotte reached down for her cloak. As she donned it, her features disappeared into shadow beneath the hood.
“Farewell, Modeste. Tie the string with any sailor’s knot and only your eyes will see the bag. Any man with a red scarf around his neck is loyal to me. One will come on the morrow.” Then the new Jacquotte Delahaye turned and left the tiny room.
♦ ♦ ♦
An hour later, a hooded figure darkened the entrance to The Black Dolphin, casting a shadow back onto the street. The yells and laughter slowly diminished as more and more heads turned until the silence echoed in the tavern.
With nearly every eye on the doorway, the figure dramatically through back her hood and a
llowed her cloak to slip off her shoulders. A collective gasp hissed.
Before anyone could respond, the flame-haired beauty drew her cutlass, holding it above her head.
“My name is Jacquotte Delahaye. I am back from the dead.”
Several men leaped to their feet, sending their drinks flying. A couple of whores screamed. Others shouted, “Red! Red!”
“Hold!” boomed one man. A brawny man with a wild reddish-brown beard and black velvet hat pushed his way through.
“Alexandre la Bouche!” Jacquotte shouted, her voice as robust as any man.
The big man paused. “How can it be? The Spanish said you perished years ago. The prison commandant said he watched your body thrown into the ocean.”
Jacquotte threw her head back and laughed heartily.
“The grave could not hold me. The Spanish could not keep me. The British cannot defeat me. Are ye with me once more, my old friend? Are ye ready to plunder the Dutch and the French?”
La Bouche marched to the entrance, all eyes watching as he peered closely into her face for several moments, then straightened.
“By Jove, it is you!” He turned to face the rest of the tavern. “Raise your pints, boys!” he roared. “This is no ghost before ye! Red is back from the dead!”
Cheers erupted as la Bouche laid his sword at her feet and others rushed to do the same. A chant of “Back From The Dead Red!” thundered into the street, drawing more and more pirates and buccaneers from the taverns. Jacquotte strode towards the wharfs, her quartermaster la Bouche at her right shoulder as he had always been.
Chapter 24
The Pirate
1666, Freebooter Republic, an island of the French West Indies
“D
amnation!” shouted Back From The Dead Red from the top of her tower. “What does la Bouche think he’s doing?”
“Does he seriously think he can broadside The Victory?” James Davis cried. Her once-handsome boatswain now limped with a peg leg and wrapped a crimson scarf about his head to hide his missing ear. “Johnson’s cannons will shred him before he can board! Do you want me to order him back, Captain?”
Blood of the Dragon Page 26
