Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Baret had one consolation—Levasseur knew that if he harmed her in any way, he would never see the treasure. He must still think he could bargain with Baret, or he wouldn’t have sailed for the South Cays, knowing there would surely be a confrontation there. Had Levasseur merely wanted Emerald, he would have sailed away to Tortuga or even St. Kitts.

  Baret had not at first realized that Rafael’s scheme was to use Emerald and Karlton to gain the treasure. But soon after Baret had set sail from Port Royal, he decided that since Levasseur was destined for Morgan’s rendezvous, it was the treasure of the Prince Philip that Levasseur’s lovesick heart pined over, not just Emerald. Realizing that, he had been able to relax a little and turn his mind to the journal.

  “This journal, dear Hob, will see us dining with His Majesty within a year. If things go as planned, my father will be vindicated of the piracy charges, and we’ll all be back in the good graces of Charles and the High Admiralty.”

  “Har, ye already be acclaimed by that Earl Cunningham. An agent of the king, he calls ye. That be a sticker in the throat of Lord Felix. An’ what’ll he do when he learns Miss Carlotta ran away with that Sir Jasper?”

  Felix would be furious, since he had plans to use his daughter in Porto Bello to bridge his friendship with the Spanish government in Madrid. It was all set forth in the letter Carlotta had written to Baret and placed with the journal in the box.

  Carlotta had written of how her father as a leader in the Royal African Company intended to gain the favor of the dons on the Main in order to have a market for West African slaves. To establish this rich trade, Felix was spying for Madrid in the High Admiralty Court and the king’s court in London through his contacts with the Spanish Peace Party. Information had been passing through Felix to the Spanish ambassador. And after coming to Jamaica, Felix had held secret meetings in Cartagena over smuggling by Jasper and others in Spanish Town.

  Baret had known most of this. But to have it in writing from Felix’s daughter, with Jasper also willing to confess, was added support for his father’s innocence.

  Baret had one more asset in hand—or perhaps “in ship”; he had the son of an important ruling don in Porto Bello. Capitan Miguel Vasquez was under guard in a cabin and was the crucial bait to be used in negotiating with the governor of Porto Bello for the release of Baret’s father and other prisoners.

  Then the big frame of his lieutenant, Yorke, shadowed the open doorway.

  “Cap’n? Jeremy’s sighted a ship!”

  Baret swiftly locked the journal in his sea chest and, snatching his shirt, strode out the door onto the deck, as Hob came behind with Yorke.

  His boatswain, Jeremy, had been in the crow’s nest since before dawn with high hopes. The captain of the Regale had promised that the first man to spy the ship that turned out to be the Venture would be given an extra half share from the pickings at Porto Bello.

  Jeremy was swinging from the ratlines, the wind in his fair hair. He called down, “Can’t tell yet, Cap’n, but me instincts tells me it’s the Venture.”

  Baret’s boots sounded firmly on the quarterdeck as he walked to the rail and took hold with both strong brown hands. He looked toward the sea, his dark eyes squinting against the tropical sunlight. The wind ruffled the jade waters and warmly touched his face and hair, billowing the sleeves of his tunic, still open at the front.

  Then he climbed the main shrouds and braced himself, holding the brassbound telescope steady as the ship cut through the water beneath a stone-blue sky. He smiled.

  Aboard the Venture, the tall Frenchman Pierre, his lean swarthy face grave, approached Captain Levasseur.

  Rafael was coming up the quarterdeck steps with Emerald, on the way to dine on deck. “What is it, Pierre?” he asked impatiently.

  “Monsieur le Capitaine, the storm you worry about last night does not come, but the crew, we think a storm of another kind is coming. A ship follows. We think it is the Regale.”

  Emerald’s heart swelled with a rush of joy. Baret. She smiled jubilantly toward Ty, standing by the rail.

  Rafael said something between his teeth and brushed past Pierre, shouting for his telescope.

  Emerald joined Ty at the rail, hoping for a glimpse of the grand sight she had spent most of the night praying for.

  “It’s Captain Foxworth, all right,” he whispered.

  “How do you know?” she whispered back, keeping a cautious eye on Rafael.

  “Pierre and I spotted the ship an hour ago. We watched her until she got in close enough.”

  She shaded her eyes and looked astern, hearing the Frenchmen murmuring among themselves.

  “And now what, Monsieur Capitaine?” growled Pierre. “Did we not say, do not take to sea with the betrothed of Foxworth? Nay, Monsieur, let us make a parley with him. Send the demoiselle to him by longboat! For you may bring his wrath upon us. It is the treasure we want. Did we not say there would be wrath to pay? Then you did so on the very night of the vow—”

  “Silence, you cowardly dog! Foxworth will not dare fire on us with Mademoiselle Emerald and her cousin on board. And he does not know that Karlton is not also aboard. He will not risk a fight with us but will trail us like a spy!”

  “Eh! And where do we lead him, my capitaine?”

  Levasseur’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “Where else, Monsieur, but to Morgan’s rendezvous? We will settle things there.”

  Emerald threw her arms around Ty. “We will both be free, you’ll see.”

  “Do not rejoice, Mademoiselle,” snapped Rafael, looking over at her. “It may be that I have wished to trap Foxworth in the South Cays. Do you think I fear his rapier? I shall cut him to pieces and feed him to the sharks.”

  Emerald looked out toward the Regale, following in their wake. Baret hadn’t believed the letter—he knew that her love for him was unwavering.

  For the remainder of that day, Rafael’s thoughts must have been diverted from his plans for marriage. He remained on deck, his eyes upon the Regale. Then toward late afternoon, as they were sailing the waters south of Cuba, Pierre came with a warning.

  “How will we take refuge at the South Cays? And what will Foxworth say when you need to deal with him? You saw how he disdained you at Tortuga over the demoiselle.”

  “It will be as I expect,” said Levasseur with a thin smile. “He will wish to duel me, of course. And I will accept.”

  Pierre gave him a dark look. It was clear that, after his previous defeat, not all his men believed him to be the better swordsman.

  “Do not forget, Pierre, I have Emerald. And he cannot lightly take her away unless he wishes to board and fight. He will not.”

  “You are so sure?”

  “Oui, mon foi. Foxworth will think well before he opens fire. He will not try to kill me. No, not as long as he knows I am in control of Emerald and her father.”

  “And what do you intend next? You cannot force the mademoiselle to marry you. And if you have her without marriage, he will deliver you to the Spaniards himself. Or skin you alive.”

  Levasseur smiled unpleasantly. “Mon ami, am I a beast? Mademoiselle is safe. To have all the treasure at Margarita, that is now my consolation. What else? All that Foxworth has he will give for the precious life of Mademoiselle Emerald and Monsieur Karl-ton. He will yet disclose the hiding place of the treasure. And when he has done so—if my plans go well—I shall have the treasure and Demoiselle too.”

  Pierre did not look altogether convinced, but his mood cheered somewhat, and he smiled. “You expect to kill him?”

  “Thorpe has pleaded for satisfaction. While he duels Foxworth, we shall make off with the treasure and Mademoiselle. And perhaps I shall leave both Foxworth and Thorpe—or whoever survives the duel—to the Spaniards on Margarita.” He laughed confidently. “I tell you, Pierre, I know what I am doing. I have planned long and well these months since he defamed me at Tortuga. I am not one to forget a slap in the face before the Brotherhood.”

  They were
just off the coast of the South Cays, sailing beneath an aquamarine sky. Baret could see other ships belonging to the Brotherhood already at the rendezvous point and anchored closer to shore. By now, Henry Morgan and his Golden Future would be there too.

  Baret balanced himself as he leaned into the shrouds, holding his telescope fixed upon the Venture as she made for the Cays. The Regale followed, steadily gaining.

  “Har! Me lordship, ye owes me twenty pieces o’ eight,” a gloating Hob called up. “I tells ye it were the ship o’ that cuckoldy jackanapes.”

  His heart leaped. The eighteen-gun ship was moving slowly and deeply through the water, her canvas billowing, the fleur de lis streaming gallantly.

  Jeremy, the bosun, clung to the ratlines, swaying in the wind. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he called down to the crew, “’Tis the Venture!” and a resounding cheer went up.

  As the Regale continued to overtake Rafael’s vessel, Baret lowered the telescope with restrained satisfaction.

  “Levasseur’s an indolent fellow for not careening his ship,” he murmured contemptuously.

  “Why do you say so, Cap’n?”

  “Look how it bellies deep in the water. His speed has been reduced.”

  “Aye. Ye could easily overtake him, Cap’n!” the bosun urged breathlessly.

  “And blow him to the sharks if it were my intent.”

  “I should like to see it, Cap’n!”

  “You have a greedy appetite, Jeremy. You forget the delicate prize he carries.”

  “Aye, Cap’n, but not for long. The drawing ye did of her comes swiftly to mind.”

  “Cap’n!” called up Yorke. “The captain of the Venture refuses to dip her colors!”

  “So I see, Yorke.”

  The audacity of the dawcock! He heard Yorke climbing up, and a moment later the man’s broad Scottish face, blue eyes sparkling maliciously, grinned at him.

  “What d’ye say, Cap’n?” he wheedled. “Just a very wee lesson to teach the Frenchie to obey the common courtesies of the Brotherhood.”

  Baret lifted his telescope again, focusing on the flag. “I’m thinking about it, Yorke. It’s a sore temptation. The man lacks manners on land and sea.”

  “Shall I order Jonstone to run out the guns? Slip a volley or two over his bow?”

  Baret considered, while the wind tugged at his hair. “We’ll dip his colors for him—prepare to take out his topsail.”

  Yorke’s eyes flared with a moment’s surprise, then he laughed deeply. “Aye, Cap’n!”

  Jonstone, the burly master gunner, came up from the waist and stood looking upward, his square hands on the hips of trousers cut off above the knee. His blue head kerchief whipped in the wind. “What’s the word, Yorke?”

  “Ready the gun crew!” shouted Yorke. “Use only the best gunners—Cap’n says we’ll just take out her topsail and colors!”

  Baret called to unfurl the topgallants. The buccaneers sprang to the ratlines. Others swarmed over the decks to their duties. Again, Baret lifted his glass and focused. The Venture was altering her course to face the Regale.

  There were rumblings as the Regale’s guns were run out.

  Baret came sliding down the backstay. He lifted his glass to focus again.

  “Cap’n!” Jeremy cried, swinging from the crow’s nest, disappointment in his voice. “They’re curtsying ’er colors!”

  “Only after seeing our guns. Proceed as planned,” ordered Baret from the quarterdeck.

  A shout of glee went up. “Aye, Cap’n!”

  A short time later the master gunner stood halfway up the companionway, looking toward Baret and prepared to give the final signal to his crew. “All’s ready, sir!”

  On the quarterdeck, Baret looked toward the Venture, but his jaw flexed with irritation. Now a third ship loomed, coming out of the heat haze near the Cays with canvas billowing and colors flying.

  Baret frowned.

  “Sail ho! It’s Cap’n Farrow’s Warspite!” called Jeremy from the crow’s nest.

  “No,” stated Baret and gave a short laugh. “It’s Henry Morgan.”

  “Morgan!”

  The news rippled like a wavelet among the crew.

  Morgan’s Golden Future was making straight for the Regale and the Venture.

  As Morgan came closer, Yorke shouted, “Cap’n! The Golden Future’s running out a twenty pounder!”

  Baret saw that Morgan was signaling both him and Levasseur to desist all hostile intentions. Baret knew why. The Venture carried eighteen guns, and French buccaneers were noted for tenacity. Although Morgan held no love for Rafael, he needed every ship and buccaneer he could muster for the expedition on the Main.

  Infighting among the Brotherhood was dealt with fast and furiously, and Morgan obviously intended to stop Baret from firing on Rafael. Baret had only meant to harass Rafael’s pride, and he half smiled as he focused the glass on the Golden Future. He could see Morgan standing, hands on hips, the yellow plume in his hat snapping cockily. Morgan raised his own telescope and fixed it on Baret.

  But Baret’s smile vanished when the Golden Future let go a volley that landed in the sea between the Regale and the Venture, parting the water with a splash that reached the Regale before it rode the swell. Another volley landed, this one much too close! The water splashed over the Regale and rained down on Baret. His dark eyes snapped as he felt the brine wet his face.

  The Welsh shark!

  Hob chuckled.

  Baret, wet and irritated, was nevertheless disciplined enough to consider that the Lord had used Morgan unwittingly to stop him from an act that he might regret when of a cooler disposition.

  Morgan dipped his colors, and Baret wryly looked at Yorke, then gestured to respond in kind. The colors of the Regale curtsied, as Jeremy liked to put it, and Baret ordered a welcoming shot to be fired in honor of the arrival of their admiral.

  “What are you grinning at?” he asked Hob, who returned with a towel in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. He well knew how to soothe his captain’s temper.

  “I be thinkin’ ye’d have sooner sent that welcoming shot into Morgan’s hide.”

  “You’re right.” And he smiled. “But it wouldn’t do, old spy. We need Morgan’s good graces to attack Porto Bello.”

  “Aye, me lordship, but ol’ Morgan be cantankerous to wet ye like that, says I, an’ more worried about your temper than Levasseur’s, I’m thinkin’.”

  Baret snatched the towel and dried himself as Yorke walked up, equally grumpy and wet.

  “Morgan’s signaling for a parley. Can’t say I’d blame ye if ye didn’t go, Cap’n.”

  Baret laughed.

  The Golden Future dropped anchor and lowered two longboats. One was rowing toward the Regale, the other toward the Venture.

  Baret handed the towel back to Hob, watching the longboat as he drank the black coffee and deliberated.

  “Prepare my regalia, Hob. It’s time for doffing hats. It may be we can settle Rafael’s treachery another way.”

  “Aye, but I’m a mite disappointed, seeing as how I was hoping to see Levasseur’s topgallants singed and smoking.”

  “So was I,” muttered Yorke. “That fancy French dawcock has himself a lickin’ coming one day. And when it comes to it, Cap’n, I’m hoping I’ll be there to see it.”

  Yorke turned to Jeremy. “Prepare to lower the cap’n to the longboat. We’ll be boarding the Golden Future for a parley.”

  13

  ABOARD THE GOLDEN FUTURE

  Baret sat in the longboat as Morgan’s crew rowed him across the jade green swells toward the Golden Future. Levasseur had arrived some ten minutes before him, and through his spyglass Baret watched him climb the rope ladder, bringing three of his crew with him. Baret came with Yorke. Capt. Erik Farrow, who had boarded a pinnace and rowed out to join the meeting, was waiting in the small boat near the ship.

  The tropical sun was blazing, and Baret lowered his wide-brimmed hat to divert the glare that reflect
ed off the water like a school of silvery fish. The briny tang of the damp sea breeze did little to cool him.

  Morgan’s crewmen rowed alongside the rope-boarding ladder and grabbed it to steady the boat against the side while Erik went up first with his lieutenant, a large African with a silver ring in his ear.

  Capt. Baret Foxworth climbed up next and swung his muscled frame over the side, stepping onto the deck at the ship’s waist. He stood looking as dangerous and gaudy in black velvet and cream lace as was expected of him for a buccaneers’ meeting.

  His flashing dark eyes scanned the waiting group. The first man he saw was Morgan, standing on the quarterdeck steps. The wind caught the admiral’s burgundy jacket with its silver lace worn over a rough tunic and gave it a jaunty snap.

  Baret, thinking of the volley of shot that had been fired against him, allowed a wry smile when he saw the subdued humor in Morgan’s eyes. Then he doffed his hat, one with a white ostrich feather curling about it, in buccaneer salutation. “A fine afternoon, Colonel Morgan.”

  “It was, so I thought.”

  Baret remained beside the ship’s rail until his alert gaze spotted Capt. Rafael Levasseur and his three sullen and dangerous Frenchmen on the other side. They were all likewise donned in their best taffetas and with crimson plumes in their hats. As though on cue, they swept them off in unison and bowed toward him, but their black eyes sparkled with anger. The fact that he would have fired on the Venture clearly had infuriated them, just as he’d known it would.

  He smiled at them unpleasantly. “Ah, bon jour, my gallante brothers!” and he bowed deeply, leaving his hand on his baldric where his dueling pistols were displayed. Then his mocking gaze met Levasseur’s, and irony turned into cold anger.

  Rafael smirked and stepped out briskly, hand on the hilt of his rapier. The warm breeze blew between them. “You have insulted the Venture, Monsieur Foxworth!”

  “Have I, my captain?”

  “Oui!”

  “Ah, but it was nothing such as you shall yet have. Of that I vow. You have so much to answer for, Captain Levasseur, that the hour must wait. For Morgan’s sake, your heart remains beating for another day.”