Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  She knew he would not likely do so. She also knew there would be plenty in his cabin aboard ship from which to compensate for the dowry he had unjustly taken from her—which would suit Mr. Pitt just fine.

  “I must risk Levasseur’s ship tonight. Can you find us a longboat?”

  He groaned, holding his head. “Aye, m’gal. But to be sure, you take a greater risk than coming upon Sir Jasper. And I’m in no good health to aid you none. Nor are we likely to come across Captain Foxworth again.”

  “What choice have I? Think of Ty! And Jamie! Do you think Mr. Pitt will show a morsel of mercy to them? Nay! The infamous dog will have his bribe, and it seems I’ve no choice but to see him satisfied.”

  4

  PIRATES AND CUDGELS

  It was nearing midnight, and the wharf was nearly deserted, for most of the pirates were in the bawdy houses and gambling dens or roaming the streets of Port Royal, where the noise of revelry saturated the night.

  Emerald hid behind a stack of barrels on the dock, shivering despite the tropical warmth. She heard the lulling of the water against the pilings and the rhythmic creak of the wooden quay beneath her feet.

  In the distance men were talking, and the sound of boot steps stumbled across the wharf A woman’s cackling laughter echoed, then the voices filtered away in the rising wind, and silence hugged her.

  In haste Emerald donned calico drawers and cotton shirt, vestments that a common crewman aboard a pirate vessel would wear, grimacing as she slipped into them.

  Ugh, she thought. Ah, cruel, leering hand of circumstance! As if to taunt her prayers to become a lady of noble cause, the image of her young cousin Lavender, dressed in ivory-colored silk, strolled across her mind.

  Emerald felt the ugly cloth of the drawers, the roughness of the shirt. Tsk! Her eyes narrowed. What would it be like to be nobility? To have men of title and lands bowing over your hand?

  And yet, she thought, it took more than dressing in silk and possessing a title to make a Christian woman of excellent spirit. God looked upon her heart, and it too must be clothed with fairness.

  She frowned as she contemplated her actions, driven by desperation. Was she wise in secretly seeking Cousin Levasseur’s ship?

  But what if Jamie and Ty were branded? What if they were hanged!

  She shut her eyes tightly, her small hand forming a fist. “Please, omnipotent God of my Uncle Mathias, do aid me in saving Jamie from such a dark fate.”

  A tiny flame pulsated within her soul, seeming to ask, Is He the mighty God of your uncle only? Is He not your God also, even your heavenly Father through His Son?

  She hesitated, musing. Then as the urgency of the moment pressed in upon her, she swiftly concealed her hair beneath a blue pirate scarf and tied it behind her head. She placed her slippers inside her cotton frock and folded the awkward bundle.

  A moment later, leaving hidden the rolled-up clothing, she crawled out from behind a dray of wooden barrels on the loading barge and, seeing that she was alone, stood to her bare feet, cautiously glancing about for rats and detestable crawling things.

  A quiver raced up her back. What if she stepped on a cockroach and felt it squish against the sole of her foot? I’ll scream. She placed cold fingers over her mouth and walked gingerly toward the quay steps, leading down to the water and Zeddie’s waiting cockboat.

  Her heart thudded, but she thankfully felt nothing but the rough, damp wood pressing against her feet. Zeddie had been careful not to light the boat lantern, and she called for him in a whisper, pausing on the landing steps and squinting ahead for a glimpse of him.

  “Watch your step, m’gal. It’s slippery with moss.”

  As she came down the steps she saw that he sat with the oars ready, his bruised head bound with a cloth, his prized French periwig sitting on his knees, reminding Emerald of a dozing lapdog.

  Her conscience smote her. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?” She stepped into the boat, feeling guilty that she had involved him in the night’s fiasco with Sir Jasper.

  “As fit as the governor’s milkmaid, I’m thinking. Sure now, no need to worry. That rascally-mouth cousin of yours ain’t likely to seek an honest night’s sleep in his cabin, but you must take no chances.”

  “Your head causes you no undue suffering?”

  He sniffed with disdain, dismissing the notion that the injury troubled him. “His lordship’s man might’ve been a plaguey kitten for all the damage he did me. I’ve taken worse in ol’ Charlie’s army,” he boasted of the king. “Anyhows, I’ve daubed the cut with Hob’s turtle rum.” His good eye twinkled in the moonlight. “Nary an Indies vermin could live in that vile brew.”

  Emerald settled herself on a low seat in the cockboat, glancing over her shoulder toward the wharf to make certain they were not being followed. No one was in sight.

  The oars dipped and sliced through the water as they slid smoothly out past anchored sloops and schooners with tattered sails and tacking toward Captain Rafael Levasseur’s vessel some quarter mile out in the smooth waters of the bay.

  As Zeddie rowed, Emerald gazed at the sleeping ship casting its tall silhouette against the lighter horizon, where the moon appeared a shining orb enthroned in the velvet sky. The trade wind pressed against her face, filling her nostrils with the aromatic scent of spicy nutmeg. The moonlight sent shimmers weaving across the water like schools of bright fish skimming in a dance.

  A short time later the vessel loomed large and forbidding before her eyes. It was clean and swift, and, though she knew little of such things, it appeared to have twenty guns and sat strong in the water, a sure sign that it had recently been careened and freed of barnacles, seaweed, and worms, which in the warm Caribbean waters gnawed and devoured the underbellies of ships.

  As they came alongside, Zeddie stilled the oars, and Emerald caught the mild groaning of the hull and the anchor chain taut in the water. All else was silent.

  He brought the boat to the foot of the ship’s ladder and quietly seized a rope to steady them.

  Emerald blinked up past the side of the ship to where the tall masts reflected the moonlight. In a moment of dread she half expected to be met by a swarthy crewman leaning over the rail with a long-barreled dueling pistol.

  But nothing moved. Naught stirred in the late night but the warm breeze moving through the tacking. She watched the long-legged Zeddie steady himself on the ladder and climb up awkwardly, and for a moment she feared a dizzy spell had seized him, but soon he disappeared over the side.

  She waited. Her anxiety grew when he did not reappear. Oh, no …

  But then he came to the rail and signaled for her to proceed.

  She cautiously set her bare foot onto the rough rung of the ladder and began the steep climb up the ship’s side, congratulating herself that the indifference with which she’d been treated by the family while growing up gave her benefits that Cousin Lavender did not have—Emerald could board a ship without fear of heights and could swim the Caribbean like a fish bred in its waters.

  She forced herself to a spirit of calmness as she inched her way up, taking in slow breaths to quiet her heart. In another minute she slipped over the side as silently as the wings of a moth.

  On deck Emerald crouched in the shadows, pressing against a bulkhead so as not to be seen, holding her breath, listening for the sound of footsteps, and feeling the wooden deck beneath her sweating palms.

  Don’t fear. Even if I’m caught, what can they do to me? Is not Captain Levasseur my cousin? He would rant and rave at my being here, but he would not harm me, nor would he allow any of his nasty crewmen to touch me.

  What Mr. Pitt had said to her in their meeting on the wagon road was unfortunately true—Captain Rafael Levasseur had asked her father to marry her. Father, of course, had refused, and for that she was grateful.

  She breathed easier. After all, she could say she had simply come to see a member of her mother’s family from Tortuga. Or she could say she had come as a periagua, off
ering to sell Levasseur fruits and vegetables.

  But the words of Great-uncle Mathias, taken from Scripture, warned against the sin of lying. The conflict waging within only added to her tension. Was she like Jacob in the Old Testament, using her wiles to secure her future rather than trusting God to guide her steps? One thing was always certain, God did not bless actions that contradicted His Word.

  Oh, rather to be like the biblical Esther—to do what was right and to trust the outcome to His faithful providence. “The Lord has His way in the whirlwind and the storm.”

  She shivered in the moonlight. Was it a scepter of grace that awaited her appearance in his cabin or a pirate’s cutlass?

  As planned, she waited until Zeddie signaled again that the way was clear, and then he took up the position of watchman.

  The urgency goading her into action silenced her fears. She crossed the deck as softly as though her feet were kittens’ paws and went up the steps to the quarterdeck.

  With eyes shining like round pools, she approached the Great Cabin to find a lantern glowing in the window.

  Confusion rushed in, and her fingers closed tightly around the empty satchel she carried. Was it possible that he had not left the ship? But no, Zeddie had followed him to the gaming house—the Spanish Galleon—and had watched him go inside.

  Escape, before it’s too late, her emotions clamored.

  She tensed, whirling toward the steps from where she had come. The dreaded sound of boot steps and low voices!

  There was no chance of retracing her path now. And what of Zeddie? Had he gone undetected?

  Wildly she looked around her for a place to hide. Dare she slip through the cabin door? No. If someone were inside …

  The voices and footsteps approached. Soon she would be overtaken. She darted behind a barrel, drawing her knees into her chest and clasping her arms about them.

  She heard two men come up the companionway and pause near the Great Cabin. Her breath stopped. Then she glimpsed a man holding a deck lantern, a dignified man with the look of a scholar. He stood facing another, whom she could not see except for his black boot with its glinting silver buckle. Emerald stiffened against the cabin wall.

  They conversed quietly in a foreign language, and their words were lost on her. They walked on.

  She waited until the sound of their steps vanished. Whatever schemes certain crew members might have aboard Levasseur’s ship were of no concern to her. She had her own quest, and she must succeed now—or fail.

  When she again heard nothing but the water lapping against the hull, her courage revived, and she crawled from behind the barrel.

  Still on her knees, Emerald took hold of the knob on the heavy oak door and opened it just a crack. Silence beckoned. When certain the Great Cabin was empty, she entered, shutting the door softly.

  In the glow of the oil lantern she was confronted by heavy dark beams and shadows. There was a large captain’s desk of what looked to be fine mahogany, its contents neatly in order—a rather strange sight, considering her fiery and reckless young cousin.

  Her eyes swiftly raked the bed in the corner. Again, it was neatly made and to her surprise, covered not with looted Spanish tapestry or French cloth of gold but with what she recognized as fine Holland tapestry.

  Holland? Had Levasseur also pirated a Dutch merchant ship from Curaçao? Yet it was not like the buccaneers to harry men of their own faith, and they had no cause to be at odds with Dutch merchants. It was Spain that both the French and the English scorned.

  The pieces of furniture were also of exceptional quality, as though their owner relished a taste for nobility. She frowned and paused to take a closer look at where she was.

  The lighting did not do justice to the texture and color of the furnishings or the carpet. Nevertheless she knew from her father’s privateering ventures in the East Indies and Europe that these goods were of high value. Her eyes feasted on items of beaten gold, of silver mined by slaves and Protestant prisoners in Peru, of pearls from the island of Margarita, where Spain misused Carib slaves to cultivate oyster beds.

  Then she began her quiet search for a certain silver box she was well acquainted with from the past. She quietly opened bureau drawers and rummaged through fine Holland shirts and others made of expensive cambric with ruffles. She lifted one that felt smooth to the touch and sniffed the pleasant scent of spice. She frowned again. Her cousin had changed for the better. No more heavy French perfume for his sleek black locks?

  A teakwood trunk stood open, and she stooped, looking through vests and doublets embroidered with silver, Cavalier suits of black and sage green velvet, taffetas, as well as underdrawers of linen.

  Again she paused uneasily, considering. She stood and went to the large desk, but the top drawer was locked. It was too narrow, in any case, to hold the box she sought.

  It was then she noticed something that commanded her attention. On the desk lay a half-finished sketch, which suggested a mind that found release in creativity. Again she was learning personal things about Captain Levasseur that she had not suspected. Did she know him at all?

  The sketch was of a woman—well done and suggesting nobility.

  I didn’t know he had anything so fine within his unrepentant heart, she thought grudgingly. His ways are usually left to swords!

  She left the sketch and opened the bottom drawer, dropping to her knees to search. At last! A treasure box of filigreed silver.

  But it was not as she remembered. She had been a child when she last saw the box in her mother’s possession—before Levasseur had stolen it—but the box she remembered had been engraved with the fleur-de-lis of France.

  She studied the coat of arms but did not recognize it. It was not English, certainly not Spanish. From Holland? Where had Levasseur gotten it?

  “Stolen, without doubt,” she murmured to herself indignantly and opened the latch. Perhaps it might still hold the heirlooms she searched for.

  She stood then, turned up the wick on the oil lamp, and emptied the contents on the desk. To her disappointment the silver box contained no rich bounty—only a simple silver chain with one large pearl that looked to be of another generation. She picked up a miniature portraying a young woman of winning loveliness, with fair hair and intelligent eyes that looked to be blue. Connected to the silver frame was a small cross, an unusual one woven of golden hair.

  Emotionally stirred, she studied the portrait and the cross, wondering. She did not know how, but she knew without being told that whoever owned these items before Levasseur stole them had a deep affection for the woman. The Christian faith was also held in reverence, for who would trouble to weave a cross from her hair—and who would keep it as a treasure?

  She was still holding the miniature when her eyes strayed across the cabin to a teakwood dresser. Startled, she stared at the undeniable portrait of her cousin Lavender!

  So! Levasseur was also infatuated with her. She nearly laughed. As if the family would allow anything between a pirate and an heiress to title and wealth!

  How had Levasseur even gotten hold of the portrait? she wondered. Certainly Lavender hadn’t given it to him. She was a bluestocking, a league above them both in status. It wasn’t likely that Lavender would give a framed portrait of herself to a known pirate that London hoped to hang at Execution Dock!

  Emerald’s mind stumbled over her own conclusions. Then how…

  She caught her breath as reality rushed in. She whirled and looked about at the cabin that was so foreign to the nature of Rafael Levasseur. The clothing, the furniture, the neatness, the sketch on the desk, the silver box with hints that it came from Holland…

  Vapors! This was not her cousin’s ship!

  With a smothered gasp, Emerald rushed for the door. How could Zeddie have been so wrong?

  Footsteps sounded from without. She halted. Trapped. The door opened. Stricken, silencing her alarm, she stepped back, confronted by the buccaneer that she had met at sunset on Fisher’s Row, the smooth a
nd arrogant man that Sir Jasper had addressed as Captain Baret Foxworth.

  He stopped short upon seeing her standing in his cabin, but whether he recognized her as she was now dressed was not clear. He stood blocking the doorway.

  His eyes took in the faded calico drawers and cotton shirt, the blue scarf tied about her head, then came to rest on the object clutched in her hand. His expression hardened. Temper glinted in the darkness of his narrowing gaze.

  Emerald looked at what she held so tightly, and when she saw what it was, her heart sank to her bare feet. In her haste to escape, she had held onto the silver chain and pearl—the heirloom of endearment, undoubtedly worth more in memory to him than a bounty of silver ingots stashed in the hold of a Spanish treasure ship.

  She glanced helplessly at his rummaged desk and silver box. “I … uh … I didn’t mean to take this. I was looking for…”

  Her voice trailed off as her eyes rushed to his and she could see her doom approaching. He thought her a wench without morals who had crept aboard his ship to steal whatever she might find. And what could she do but deny his verdict? And her abominable clothing only reinforced his conclusions.

  Under his level gaze glinting with cool anger and something like malicious amusement, she blushed to her hairline, believing she was reaping the just chastisement of God for taking matters into her own hands.

  In an exaggerated move of weariness at finding her in his cabin, he removed his maroon cloak and dropped it onto the nearby chair. Wearing a white shirt with full sleeves, dark trousers, and calf-length boots, he leaned in the doorway, unhurried, arms folded.

  He studied Emerald, gesturing toward her with casual indifference, his hand flashing with gems. “And who is this wench, looking like a cross between a mouse and a cabin boy, who has dared board the Regale to rummage through my cabin?”

  Shall I faint? she wondered, dazed. It would be so easy—and a sweet relief. Or she might scream or burst into a shield of tears.

  The directness of his glance was extremely disconcerting.