Her suspicions grew. “I thought she came from Cartagena.”
“She do, but the captain-general she were supposed to marry be from Porto Bello.”
“Oh.” Taken completely off guard, she said nothing for a moment. Then she inquired cautiously, “You mean her plans have changed?”
“She don’t love the Spaniard, she says. Says she’s in love with a better rogue.”
Emerald lapsed into further meditative silence. So. The senorita was in love with someone else …
“How be your ankle? Better? ‘Twas the turtle rum. Best brew for curin’ ills that be in the Indies.”
When he left, Emerald sat staring at her supper. She took a bite of the chicken and imagined the moon as ripe as a sweet melon.
She had no idea when Baret arrived back on the Regale, but she realized sometime during the night that the ship was moving. They were sailing toward Margarita.
The dawn was peeking in through the window, but it wasn’t the brightening sunlight that awakened her. It was the sound of commotion on the deck overhead—rushing feet, the dragging of tackle, boisterous activity in the gun room underneath her where cannon, culverins, powder, matches, and ammunition were kept. The big guns were being run out. She sensed that the Regale was no longer moving.
The pitch of readying for battle was familiar. She’d heard the same dreadful sounds aboard her father’s ship just before the Black Dragon had attacked. But this situation seemed different. The Regale appeared to be the challenger, but why?
Emerald sat up, heart racing. Her first thought was that he was about to attack the San Pedro, on which Minette was held, then realized that something far different was taking place.
She listened intently to the movements of the crew above and the gunners below. What Zeddie called “the leaden aprons” were being removed from the guns. She envisioned the touch-holes being primed, all ready to be ignited by the linstocks as the gunners waited for Captain Foxworth to give the word to fire.
Using table and chairs for support, she moved to the window as swiftly as her sprain would permit.
Across the blue-green water of a bay, the sun broke bright and hot. She made out the shoreline and a curving white beach. What looked to be a fort was under construction but not yet completed. Farther inland, thick vegetation and fringed palms stood green against the soft blue morning sky. Spanish soldiers were scurrying about as though aware of imminent attack from an accursed ship belonging to piratous hereticos!
Emerald attained new understanding of Baret’s keen instinct for seizing unexpected opportunities to harass the Spaniards, for she didn’t think this present action had been planned until coming upon the soldiers. He enjoyed a sharp appetite for adventure and perhaps Spanish treasure as well, she decided, especially when it offered a hard blow to the coffers of Madrid.
There came a bulge of white smoke, followed by the ear-splitting thunder of cannon. Since the Regale had twenty guns, the nerve-shattering noise continued. The vessel shuddered beneath her bare feet, and she struggled to keep her balance while trying to cover her ears. When she looked again, showers of spray exploded upward on the beach. Smoke loomed above the fort, and, although she could not see them, she knew Spanish soldiers lay sprawled on the sand, while others ran to mount their defenses.
To Emerald, the cannon booms lasted forever. When they finally ceased, a deathly still hovered over the ship. She held her breath, waiting for return fire that she remembered too well from the attack of the Black Dragon, but the silence held. Could the Spaniards not return fire? Had they been caught before the fort’s cannons were installed?
Longboats bumped alongside, as they were lowered into the water. Firm voices and the dip of oars followed, as boats filled with buccaneers pulled away toward shore. Captain Foxworth was taking the attack to land.
Sporadic gunfire sounded from shore. The longboats were being bombarded by the soldiers. Her tension mounted as she envisioned Baret shot or soon run through with a sword.
No more could be seen through the window, and she finally gave up, hoping Hob might come to fill her in. But as minutes dragged into hours, even Hob didn’t appear with his usual tea and cheery words. She considered hobbling onto the deck to find out from some crewman what was happening. She might even dare to go to the captain’s cabin and inquire of the senorita.
But Emerald restrained herself. If Baret had wished her to know more, he would have informed her before the attack. And if he found out she had sought out the young woman, he might think she was spying on him. It hurt—but was true nevertheless, she told herself—Baret wanted to avoid her. The betrothal embarrassed him, made him feel trapped into complying.
The long day wore on, a day in which she knew nothing of what was happening except for the message coming to her ears in the distant sound of gunfire. The Regale was ghostly quiet. She heard only the squeak of the windlass, the creaking of timbers at rest as the ship lolled in the still waters off the bay, safe from harm’s reach.
A thousand questions paraded through her mind, and not even Hob, who loved to talk, had time to answer them all when at last he appeared.
He came to the cabin after sunset with her supper. “Be ashamed of meself, I am, Miss Emerald. Done got too busy to take care o’ ye like his lordship ordered. A mere bowl o’ turtle soup is all there be tonight, seein’ as how I was busy all day in yon wardroom, cleaning guns. I done told Hogan to bring ye tea this mornin’, but the bloke forgot.”
“It’s all right, Hob. What happened! Is the captain well? Has he returned? And his crew?”
“All safe, except Jeremy. The lad took a musket ball in his leg, an’ it were so bad the cap’n had no choice but to cut it off above the knee.”
“He’ll live?” she whispered.
“Oh, aye, he will, says I. An’ he ain’t weepin’ neither. Says half a leg is more’n them papists left his father on Hispaniola. They was boucaniers there until a raid from the guarda costa caught ’em. They was all killed or made slaves. Young Jeremy has himself a brother who’s a galley slave on the San Pedro. He be waitin’ anxiously for the ship to be taken, I can tell ye that. And Cap’n Foxworth keeps tellin’ him to be patient.”
Emerald, alert, hung on his every word. “Is that why they plan to attack the ship from Cartagena? Protestant prisoners?”
He rubbed his chin. “Aye, it is, and more. The cap’n best tell ye ‘stead of me. I got meself in a kettle o’ trouble last time for talkin’ to ye too much about Miss Carlotta.”
The tale of horror surrounding prisoners was growing all too familiar to Emerald. Until recently, she had never fully realized just how strong was the hatred between Spain and the European colonists on the sugar islands. Since she had spent most of her life on Foxemoore, her own trials had come from family rejection and the plight of the slaves from Africa. True, her father had spoken of the Inquisition, and so had Great-uncle Mathias, but the tales had been secondhand. That is, until she had met Baret and learned of his mother’s martyrdom in Holland and the capture of his father.
Wherever she moved among buccaneers and pirates alike, she found extreme loathing for Spain and what they scurrilously called “papists.” Not that there weren’t Catholics among the buccaneers and pirates. Her father said there were many. But since the Church of Spain often failed to recognize them as true communicants, the Catholic buccaneers joined in shouting, “Death to all papists!” as fervently when taking a galleon as did those of the Reformed faith.
“Har!” Hob continued. “It were a gloatin’ eyeful, seein’ fancy soldiers of King Philip scamperin’ to hide like wailin’ mice.” And with glee he rubbed his gnarled hands together.
“Did the captain plan to attack? Is that why he sailed here?”
“Warn’t expectin’ ’em at all as we come up on the coast. An’ then we learned how ships was here earlier from Cumaná, unloadin’ cannon, but the guns warn’t in place yet.”
“Oh? How did he learn that?”
“Miss Carlotta t
ells him.”
“The supper under the ‘sweet melon moon’ paid off, I see.”
Hob’s eyes twinkled. “Ye don’t need to be jealous of her, Miss Emerald.”
She offered a too casual shrug. “It never entered my mind, Hob.”
His grin gave away her pretense.
“The viscount is still in love with Lady Thaxton—we both know that,” she told him quietly, for there was no reason to pretend with Hob.
“Is he, miss? Ain’t be so sure meself. I got a drawing to show ye one o’ these days—if’n I can borrow it from his desk without him knowin’. And now—I be sayin’ too much again. He’ll stew me in a pot like me turtles if’n I don’t watch me tongue.”
That was yet another reference to a drawing, and she wondered curiously which one Hob could have in mind. She knew Baret often relaxed his tensions by sketching, and he was quite good at it. Still, how could a drawing suggest, as Hob hinted, that Baret was not in love with her cousin Lavender.
“An’ then, when I comes upon his lordship at dawn to bring ‘im his coffee, what’s he doing but peering through his telescope at the Main, and he laughs. ‘Look, Hob,’ he says to me. ‘Did you ever see anything so ripe for picking?’ An then I looks and sees all these Spanish soldiers bunched together like plantains, instead of spreading out for cover. He says the thing be too sweet to ignore. So he attacks. Then he goes after ’em, and the Spanish captain took off for the trees. So we routed ’em all. They left all their weapons and boxes of ammunition, and their clothes too— well, ye knows what I mean, miss. Then there’s talk of how we can take all them cannon back to the Dutch islands to use in the war with England, but Foxworth says that were impossible. So they pushes ’em into the bay to rust. Har! A pert sight it was, says I.”
As Emerald contemplated, interested in Baret’s reasoning about aiding the Dutch, Hob grinned. “And now we be headin’ for Cumaná.”
“But why?” she asked nervously.
“Sure now. Cumaná be a star center for Spanish pearl fisheries. His lordship be interested in collectin’ a few. Soon we’ll be loadin’ the innards of the ship with pearls aplenty.” He crowed with laughter.
So Baret Buckington from Cambridge Divinity College was not above donning the garb of an outright pirate. To show mute disapproval, she refused to smile.
Hob cleared his throat and grew serious. “Aye, I be knowin’ what you’re thinking, but his lordship is for anything that pains them Spaniards. An’ the more pain, the more pleased he be. He’d loot Cartagena if he could. An’ he wouldn’t blink an eye over it, nor apologize to Madrid, neither.”
“Nor to King Charles, I’m thinking,” she said wryly. “He’ll hang if Lord Felix can catch him.”
Hob rubbed his wrinkled neck. “Aye, we all will be twistin’, says I. An’ that be the rusty side of the piece o’ eight. But his lordship has his reasons, and he thinks he can outsmart his Uncle Felix. Knowin’ Foxworth, I’m wagering he will.”
Emerald was not as certain. Her concerns for Baret grew as she thought of the upcoming attack on the San Pedro. Even though Minette was aboard, and she wished her cousin’s safe return, how much better it would be for Baret and Erik Farrow as well if they could somehow simply trail the ship to its destination, learn where Minette would be taken, then arrange for her freedom through the governor or even the friar. Perhaps she could mention this option to Baret, though he was not an easy man to convince of anything.
She slept fitfully that night but awoke to a tropical breeze filling the cabin with the pleasant smell of the sea. The Regale was racing with the wind in her sails. She took this to mean Baret was in a hurry to rendezvous with Captains Farrow and LaMonte.
Hob came to tell her that plans had been arranged beforehand and there would be a parley at sea that night. “The cap’n will sup with ’em aboard the Warspite. He says if’n ye still have a hankerin’ to join your father, now be your opportunity. Ye can row across with him. Says he’ll send Yorke to carry ye up when he’s ready.”
“Tell him I won’t need Mr. Yorke. My ankle is stronger, and I can walk.” She smiled. “Thanks to your turtle oil.”
“I’ll tell him ye’ve made up your mind.”
Emerald waited anxiously throughout the day. That night the ship dropped anchor, and she supposed that they had arrived at the designated spot for the parley. Was there still a hope of convincing him to avoid attacking the San Pedro?
She took a last look in the mirror. Deftly twisting her thick braid of dark hair, she pinned it, then smoothed the lace at the high neck of her plain, full-skirted muslin dress. Carefully she put on her shoe and found it only a little snug. At least she could walk. Minutes later she started up the flight of steps to the deck.
The trade wind felt wonderful after Emerald’s several days inside the cabin, and the white moon reminded her of a smooth giant pearl on black velvet. She came slowly up the steps to the quarterdeck, and halted.
Ahead, leaning against the bulkhead was the young Spanish senorita called Carlotta. Her dark hair blew freely in the wind, and she wore an expensive red silk mantilla. Jewels flashed at her earlobes and about her throat. She was speaking anxiously and quietly to Baret, who stood before her in his usual stance, arms folded, listening.
It was distracting to Emerald that his masculine good looks were so easily and unpretentiously displayed without his trying. The breeze tugged at the full sleeves of his white shirt, gathered at the wrists but loosely laced with a crisscross cord at the neck.
I’m hopelessly in love with him, she thought with a pang of realization. If only I were the lady that Cousin Lavender is—or nobility like this Spanish senorita. Or is she?
Doubtless, Baret had wanted these last moments alone with Carlotta. Hob had said there was nothing between them, but was that true?
The senorita’s head turned. Seeing Emerald, she said something to him, then proudly walked away as he gazed after her. The girl came down the steps with head high, not giving Emerald another glance of her flashing eyes. Emerald caught a whiff of strong perfume, felt the red silk float against her hand.
She looked suspiciously up the steps at Baret.
He left the rail and crossed the quarterdeck, watching her with a countenance that told her absolutely nothing. It was maddening! He must find Carlotta attractive, she thought.
Emerald reluctantly met his potent dark eyes. They had a way of making her heart beat too fast. She felt the plainness of her frock. The dress was modest, with bell sleeves at the elbows, over a longer sleeve of white lace that encircled her wrists.
He swept her with one brief glance, taking in the braid. “Looks as though you’re recovering well enough. Are you ready to go?”
Her frustration bubbled over despite self-lectures that she would say nothing. “Is that all you’re going to say?” she breathed.
He glanced about at the sea, the sky. “There’s nothing like the Caribbean for a romantic evening—the sea teeming with pirates and sharks. The longboat waits. And,” he added wryly, “I’m hungry.”
Her hands clenched. She brushed past him toward the ship’s side. “You didn’t appear as anxious to leave for Captain Farrow’s fish stew when bidding the senorita good-bye.”
Now why had she let that come out!
“Am I to believe this flare of jealousy means you care? Rather, perhaps you are disappointed I haven’t greeted you with the ardency of Rafael? How often have you lingered in the moonlight with him?”
His suggestion about Levasseur came as a whiplash. She floundered, then, “Rafael?”
“Yes, Captain Rafael Levasseur. Pirate without honor.”
“Are you daring to still suggest there is anything between us when I’ve already denied it?”
“I asked you in the cabin if you sent a message to him on Tortuga giving away my plans, alerting him I would be here. You denied that.”
“Yes, I denied it. I deny it still!”
“Then what, madam, is this?” His voice grated. “Read
it. Perhaps it will help awaken your conscience.”
She stared at a folded note he had taken from his shirt, and she recoiled slightly. Rafael, skunk that he was, could not be trusted, and she wondered if some trap awaited her. Some undefinable pain appeared to trouble Baret, and because it did, she was all the more afraid. She reached for the paper he held out, knowing she was innocent of any misdoing, yet somehow feeling a sense of guilt. “Is it from Rafael?” she asked meekly.
A half smile touched his mouth. “How innocent you look. Your sweet face deceives me again. Refresh your faulty memory, please. Or should I read it to you?”
She snatched the paper with cold hands and opened it, turning the writing toward the bright moonlight.
Darling Rafael,
Our plans are working better than we anticipated. Neither my father nor Captain Foxworth suspects anything between us. As planned, I shall meet you at the point of their rendezvous near the smaller islands close to Margarita. The treasure is there. Once the Spanish governor is alerted, they will arrest Baret, and we can make our escape. Be sure my father is spared.
Emerald
She looked at him, embarrassed. “You don’t believe this of me?”
“I admit I had difficulty.”
She turned cold as he stared hard into her eyes. “This is absurd,” she whispered.
“Is it?”
“How can you think I wrote this?”
“You deny it?”
“Yes! Yes! I deny it! Where did you get it?”
“Actually, I happened upon it by chance in his cabin when we met a week ago.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I have never been in the arms of Rafael,” she choked, throwing the letter at him. “Nor in Jamie’s either, if you must know.”
“Then explain how this came to be on the desk aboard darling Rafael’s Venture. What I told Lex was true. I did meet Levasseur. And I would have sunk his ship had he not capitulated. I met him in his cabin to talk terms. He agreed to return to Tortuga. And when he left to call for his lieutenant, I found this on his desk.”
Buccaneers Series Page 53
