Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  The black-masked hangman pushed Maynerd from the platform. A grizzled old woman screamed as the rope snapped, and he fell.

  “God ’ave mercy!”

  Mathias seized the extremity of the situation and scrambled to his side.

  “See how an angel hath snapped the rope! You’ve been spared a minute more to cry for the mercy of Christ!”

  Captain Maynerd choked forth words of sorrow, and Mathias knelt, praying with him.

  Only God knew if Maynerd’s repentance was a genuine act of faith in the redemptive work of Christ, thought Baret.

  White-faced and shaking, Maynerd was again hauled up the ladder.

  Baret’s jaw tensed as he watched the man die who could swear to his father’s innocence. His gaze again swerved to fix upon Felix. His uncle’s expression was immobile as he looked on in silence, holding the Admiralty oar.

  According to custom the body would remain fixed until the tides washed over it for three days.

  “Take heed, you paltry reprobates,” stated the king’s gaunt-faced deputy marshal, newly arrived from England with Felix. The wind whipped his black judicial robe. “Hear well and gaze with trembling upon the just end of the wicked doer. Here the archpirate Captain Maynerd shall hang in sun and cold, wind and rain, as a deterrent to other buccaneers who partake in piracy on the Main! And let all seafarers who sail past Port Royal take note of his carcass. So shall His Majesty do to all who dare scorn the Admiralty laws.”

  The birdlike eye of the marshal briefly fixed upon Baret, who returned a measured look before turning his horse to ride from the wharf, its hooves echoing on the cobbles.

  Those in the taverns were aware of the death of Maynerd, and most believed the hanging to be unjust. He had been no more guilty than Morgan and the buccaneers commissioned by the governor-general to secretly attack the Main.

  A number of ditties were sung lustily within the noisy bawdy houses as Baret walked down the street toward the gaming house with its weathered sign barely readable: “Ye Black Knight.”

  The structure was built with pieces of abandoned ships, and he entered the common room with its dark overhead beams and low tables to be greeted by the unpleasant smell of frying fish and rum.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Some dirty lanterns glowed, hanging from hooks on blackened rope. Rough wooden tables were crowded with men gambling. Amid the raucous din a group of English pirates was bellowing:

  “King Charlie loves his piece of eight—

  He sighs for his bottle o’ rum—

  So Morgan sails the pretty Main

  To take it all from Spain!”

  Laughter and the sound of rum sloshing into mugs filled the tavern.

  Erik Farrow was not at the gaming table, and Captain Levasseur and his crew of French pirates were also absent—strangely, for Ye Black Knight gaming house was the hangout for many of the sea rovers.

  Hob came through a back door carrying a sandy bag of turtles to sell, and Baret suspected he had followed him here with news. Hob made his rounds of the tables and eventually came to Baret.

  “I bring news you’ll find worth your trouble, Cap’n Foxworth. Aye, a bit of a shocker ’tis.” He leaned toward Baret, eyes glinting. “Your goodly grandfather, the earl himself, has set his fine feet on Port Royal.”

  “In Port Royal?” questioned Baret with disbelief.

  “Now, ain’t that be curious, Cap’n? Aye, he’s at Foxemoore now. Word about town has it he’s come for the marriage between the lady and Felix. But I be wagerin’ a gold piece there be more on his mind—say a certain blackguard pirate with Buckington blood?” said Hob with a mischievous grin.

  “Curious indeed, Hob. A matter I should look into, don’t you agree?”

  Hob grinned. “You best be careful, me lordship, seein’ how I seen Sir Erik Farrow with him but ain’t seen hide nor hair of Felix since Maynerd dangled.”

  The arrival of the earl complicated matters considerably, but there was also now an opportunity to convince him that his father may yet be alive. The confrontation might be worth the risk. He thought he knew what his grandfather wanted.

  He pressed a piece of eight into Hob’s hand.

  “Aye, me lordship—I means Cap’n Foxworth—and will I be seein’ you among the Brotherhood when the good Morgan sails, or be you returnin’ to the noble life?”

  Baret considered, straightening Hob’s battered hat so that it tilted fashionably to one side.

  “You’ll be wantin’ a good man to look after you. To fix your supper aboard the sweet Regale. What say, Cap’n?” he wheedled with a twinkle in his eye. “Will you be lettin’ an old pirate feel the way of wind and sea for a last time?”

  “Now, Hob, would you be giving up your turtles to brew my coffee?”

  “I be thinkin’ so—for a price, that is.” He leaned toward him. “Say one share of all the booty taken on the next run with Morgan? Har! Word about town says he has a worthy Spanish port in mind.”

  “Of that I have little doubt.”

  “What say you, Cap’n?” he pleaded. “A sweet share for old Hob?”

  The captain of a ship always received five to six times the share of an ordinary crewman. A master’s mate received two shares, and other officers and carpenters in proportion, down to cabin boys, who received half a share.

  “So you wish the risk of hanging in old age, do you? His Majesty is not keen on the governor handing out commissions to Morgan.”

  “I’ll be risking it, seein’ as how this be me last chance to buy a new fishin’ boat with me loot.”

  Baret removed a dagger from inside his jacket. “Ever see this before?”

  Hob squinted, studying the ivory handle inlaid with silver. “A handsome thing, says I.”

  “Someone was careless. He hurled it at me in the balcony after Maynerd’s trial. Evidently he felt confident enough to believe he wouldn’t be losing it for long.”

  Hob rubbed his chin. “A fancy weapon—and it don’t look Spanish.”

  “You’re right.” Baret examined the ivory handle. “It’s as English as Gin Lane.”

  Hob looked at him with gravity. “Or as English as a fine lord’s chamber?”

  “Maybe. But which lord’s chamber?”

  “Aye, that be the question. Best walk with caution, seein’ as how titled gents pay well to do their odious work. You best keep an eye on Sir Erik Farrow.”

  Baret placed the dagger inside the sheath beneath his jacket. “Keep your ears open. I’m waiting for that message from your informer about Lucca—unless he decided the message should be a dagger instead.”

  Leaving Hob, Baret slipped away into the night and came to where he had secured his horse. He mounted and rode toward Foxemoore. With Felix in Port Royal, tonight would be the hour to speak to his grandfather in privacy.

  His ironclad grandfather would not be an easy man to convince of anything. And now there was the matter of Baret’s attack on the Santiago. Did he know about that?

  His thoughts returned to Felix. Had he been involved in the attempt on his life at the Bailey? If so, he would be alert to the assassin’s failure and perhaps concerned that Baret might report the incident to the king’s magistrate. But Felix did not know the ways of Port Royal—the buccaneers handled matters for themselves.

  Baret would not report the incident even if he wanted to do so. With Governor Modyford under pressure to deal harshly with the buccaneers, Baret might find himself called to answer for the Santiago.

  He told himself that when the appropriate time came to confront Felix, he would do so on his own. The time was not yet. He must first locate Lucca. Only Lucca knew if his father lived and where he was held along the Main.

  Thinking of Lucca reminded him again of the contact Hob had told him about at Chocolata Hole. Who was this man who insisted he knew where Lucca was?

  Then Baret mused, Does not Maynerd have a brother somewhere? He could not remember his name, but the boy had been sold into Jamai
ca as an indentured servant.

  His hand tightened on the reins. To which planter had he been sold?

  He was nearly certain now that Maynerd’s plan in coming to Port Royal had been to help his brother escape from slavery. Perhaps together they had formed plans to find Lucca and extract information from him on the reported treasure.

  Was Maynerd’s brother desperate enough to seek out “Captain Foxworth” and the Regale as his means of escape?

  Baret believed that he wouldn’t need to wait much longer for contact. He would let it be known among the Brotherhood that he intended to sail with Morgan. With the buccaneers anxious to sign articles, the upcoming gathering of all the privateers in Port Royal to hear Morgan lay out his plans would offer Maynerd’s brother the security of a crowd.

  Baret arrived at Foxemoore late. Tossing the reins to a boy to care for his horse in the stables, he emerged from the palm trees and walked across the stone carriageway toward the lower veranda that encircled the entire front of the Great House.

  The residence was dark except for a lantern burning brightly in a lower chamber near the front door where the porter slept. The door opened to his insistent knocking, and the slave he remembered as Bristol carried a lamp and peered out at him.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Baret. Miss Lavender be highly pleased that you’ve come. Heard Miss Geneva and Miss Beatrice saying you wouldn’t.”

  Baret stepped past him into the hallway and glanced up the wide stairway where wall sconces shed amber light. All was silent.

  “I understand my grandfather has arrived.”

  “His lordship arrived before dinner, but he chose to sup alone. Not at all what the family had expected.” He whispered, “Miss Sophie, she were offended.”

  Baret gave a wry smile. Both his grandfather and the elderly Harwick great-aunt were of too strong personality to appreciate each other. Since his grandfather held the highest title by birth, however, he retained final control of both sides of the family—and of Foxemoore.

  “Is he asleep?”

  “He rang some minutes ago for tea, and Jitana brung it up, but he said it weren’t East India tea. Said he’s taken ill on his arrival from Barbados.”

  Bristol was struggling to shut the heavy door as Baret started up the steps of the wide, darkened stairway two at a time.

  “Would you I ready a chamber, sir?” the servant called, nimbly climbing the stair after him.

  “Yes, Bristol, while I speak with my grandfather. Has Miss Lavender retired for the night?”

  “Miss Beatrice gave her something to sleep. Said she must be well for the wedding.”

  Baret was satisfied. He preferred not to see Lavender yet.

  After pointing out the earl’s chambers on the east wing, Bristol went to ready Baret’s room.

  What would his grandfather say when Baret told him his son was not dead? That Felix had lied?

  15

  THE EARL’S ULTIMATUM

  Baret stepped inside the dimly lit room and shut the carved oak door behind him. Instinctively his gaze went to the canopied bed, where he expected to see his grandfather confined, his body feeble with illness. The bed was empty.

  “I am not in the crypt yet,” came a tart but familiar voice.

  Baret turned toward a window with drapes drawn open. His grandfather was known for his love of the outdoors, and despite his illness the window was open with the tropic breeze winging its way in from the garden below.

  He hadn’t seen his indomitable grandfather in nearly four years and, having heard of his illness, was unsure what to expect. He felt a surge of affection, even sympathy, but perhaps far stronger was the determination to remain aloof, knowing that the earl had severed all ties when Baret left London against his wishes.

  A shadow detached itself from the darkness and stepped forward from the window. Whatever Baret felt as he looked at him was washed away like rain beating clean the court below. His grandfather might be ill, but he was not an object of sympathy. Baret confronted the same man he remembered so well as a boy when they rode together at the family hunting lodge outside London.

  Earl Nigel Buckington remained a handsome figure for his sixty years. His shoulders remained unbent beneath a sage green dressing gown, and his white hair was thick and drawn back from a lined but tanned face, making a striking contrast with the keen dark eyes. He stared at Baret from beneath strongly marked brows that were speckled with white.

  “I suppose Sir Cecil was misguided enough to tell you I’d welcome you with open arms? ‘Bring the best robe,’” his grandfather quoted, “and a Buckington ring—let us feast and celebrate your repentance.”

  Baret made no reply to his grandfather’s allusion to the homecoming of the Prodigal Son. He might have suggested that the father spoken of in the Lord’s parable was not a cantankerous earl but a God of grace, but that would hardly have gained the earl’s acceptance.

  Nor was he returning in repentance from a life of indulgence. If he was guilty of anything, it was in failing to live up to his grandfather’s expectations.

  “Cecil remained aboard the Regale,” said Baret casually, trying to keep the tense moment from erupting further by a display of his own emotions. “If he had known you were at Foxemoore, he would have wished to see you again.”

  The earl’s hard gaze took him in. “Royce would be proud if he were alive to see you now. You look more like a pirate than even he did. I am sure you’ll have a long career of reckless ventures, if you can avoid getting yourself hanged.”

  Baret retained his easy demeanor through his grandfather’s caustic remarks. “My father was not a pirate but a buccaneer, a fair difference. Though I admit my own reputation suggests otherwise.”

  “That you admit to any wrongdoing is a startling disclosure. You’ve not only troubled me, but your uncle. Felix is quite concerned with your reckless ventures here in the Caribbean.”

  “Is he indeed? An uncle’s warm affection for a wayward nephew, no doubt. You’ll forgive me, Grandfather, if I am not moved to sentiment. You err in listening to Felix. He has personal reasons for turning you against my father and now me.”

  The earl gave an airy wave of a hand sparkling with gems. “Felix hasn’t the wit to persuade me of anything I’m not already convinced of. Was it also a plot of Felix to turn the High Admiralty against Royce? I suppose he schemed to falsify charges?”

  “Evidence was withheld to give the impression my father fired first on the Prince Philip. Not so!” Baret insisted. “In taking the galleon, he did so in the name of England.”

  “And I suppose you also had a patriotic reason to board the Santiago? His Majesty’s wrath is not lightly appeased.”

  So he knows, thought Baret. Felix had wasted no time.

  He folded his arms and stated wryly, “Surely the king’s outrage will soon be placated. A goodly portion of the booty will be shipped back to the shepherding care of the English Crown. For every galleon the buccaneers seize in the Caribbean, both Charles and the Duke of York receive a commensurate share. After all, once in His Majesty’s coffers, it is no longer deemed the evil fruits of piracy, and they never rush ambassadors to Madrid to restore gold and silver ingots.”

  He risked his grandfather’s ire in speaking bluntly, for others beside pirates were engaged in smuggling. Dukes and earls—including his grandfather—were made rich through their secret ties in the Caribbean.

  “But then,” said Baret, “if a pirate does not captain a vessel, he is free of transgression, is he not? It is the well-manicured hands that matter, the satin and velvet doublets worn at Court! The unsullied hand which lifts the Spanish goblet to toast His Majesty’s health is a good deal safer when he sits in Parliament!”

  The earl raised a hand as though to strike him. “Are you accusing me of piracy?”

  “Would I be so bold, Grandfather!”

  “You’re audacious! I should have you tossed out in the rain without a Buckington shilling to your name.”

  Baret smiled. �
��I was under the impression you’d already disowned me.”

  “As of this moment you are!”

  “If I have any inheritance, I should like to know where it is, other than being left to my cousin Grayford.”

  “Ha! I think the fear of losing your inheritance is the one agent to shepherd your reckless head. Had I been wiser I would have used it with your father before he was cut down in a duel.” He sank wearily into the green velvet chair.

  “There was no duel, Grandfather—and I will prove it by finding the man who is said to have killed him.”

  “And get yourself slain as well? Leave the ugly past alone, Baret.”

  “The words of Felix. Does he not bid me to leave the past buried for fear I shall unearth the unpleasant truth? And if I had been able to speak with Captain Maynerd before he was hanged, he would have sworn to my father’s innocence. He may even have written a confession disowning him of blame. But if he did, it was destroyed.”

  “More of the intrigue of Felix! I suppose he burned the pirate’s confession to retain hope of gaining right to title and inheritance? Nonsense. Felix is also my blood son.”

  “It is not the blood of nobility which concerns me—it is treachery of the basest sort. And heaped upon my father.”

  The earl sighed. “Heaven knows I could wish Royce were blameless. Yet for you to speak so of your uncle is treachery of another sort.”

  “Felix envied him to the point of hatred. As a child I overheard them in debate. Felix was bitter that you favored my father to inherit the title.”

  “You persist in trying to turn me against him, but what proof do you offer me of his intrigue?”

  Proof of his uncle’s treachery was the difficulty. Baret had none that would yet convince his grandfather.

  He turned and walked to the open window, feeling the humid night air against his face. The wet courtyard below reflected the lantern light.

  “So I thought,” said the earl when the silence only grew. “You have no evidence. It is your dreams that are broken where your father is concerned.” Hopelessness was in his voice. The earl sighed. “I’ll hear no more. What ill your father did, he chose willingly. His love for vengeance against Spain lured him into a trap that took his life. Now Felix is the only son I have left.”