Scarlett

by Christopher C Tubbs

  “Four-thousand pieces of eight for the captain. Two-thousand each for the lieutenants.”

  Sir Christopher looked surprised.

  “That is a very high price.”

  “They will pay it,” Scarlett declared emphatically and with a certain amount of venom. “They owe me for the loss of the Merlin and Françoise. If they don’t, I will sail to Havana and hang them from my yards in sight of the town wall.”

  Sir Christopher was slightly taken aback by the venom in her voice and recalled the old adage ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ or in this case, betrayed.

  “Before you leave,” he said as she made to turn away, “I am planning a raid on Campeche and I would welcome your ship in the force.”

  Scarlett paused in the doorway and looked back at him over her shoulder.

  “That’s in Yucatan. I would be most offended not to be invited,” she said with a smile, “let me know when you will be leaving.”

  Scarlett left the residence, and her bodyguards fell in around her. The prisoners would be held in the town gaol until the Spanish paid or she took them to Havana and executed them.

  She walked through town past several noisy taverns getting cheers from her men that were enjoying shore leave. Others looked at her speculatively, unsure whether to believe the stories her men told or not. People stepped aside for her, the presence of Montoya and four heavily armed escorts ensured she was unmolested, and apart from the odd cat call from the middle of a crowd, she was left alone.

  Scarlett’s entrance into the Mermaid caused the room to go quiet. Not because of her guards, they stayed outside, but her presence. She was beautiful and everyone knew her reputation. She carried an air of deadly capability even dressed as she was.

  Henry Morgan stood to greet her. He received her note not long after her ship arrived, and he found himself unable to resist the chance to see her again.

  That smile is worth it on its own, he thought as she spotted him and gave him the benefit of a genuine smile that lit up her face.

  “Hello Henry, did you see my new ship?” she said as she sat in her chair, which he pulled out for her.

  “You have a new ship?” he teased, as it was the talk of the taverns along the wharf.

  “Yes!” she said, enthused, and started to tell him. She only stopped when she recognised the amused gleam in his eye. “You know already,” she accused him, eyes narrowed.

  He held up his hands.

  “I thought you would want to tell me yourself and you are quite beautiful when you are so enthusiastic,” he defended himself.

  She blushed at the unexpected praise.

  “Tell me how you won it,” he asked, partly because he was intrigued and partly to get her happy mood back.

  “Order me a drink and some food and I will,” she said with a mock sulk.

  The food arrived and as they ate, she described the capture of the prizes and the action against the frigate. She didn’t mention the bullion chest nor the stopover in St Lucia.

  He looked thoughtful for a moment then asked,

  “How would you feel about us taking a joint cruise?”

  “What? Just the two of us?” she teased, “what would our crews say.”

  “You know what I mean,” he grumbled, “if we go out with both our ships, the Cambridge and Fox would be a formidable team.”

  “Oh, you mean a purely business arrangement,” she pouted, still teasing him.

  “Well,” he responded and leaned closer, “if you have any ideas for a more personal relationship, I am all ears…”

  The next morning, Scarlett awoke in a soft bed in an unfamiliar room. there was a warm body behind her cuddled up tight against her back. She thought back to last night, sorting her memories out. Morgan and she went to a party and danced until late into the night, but he was carried home before the end of the party having drunk far too much. Scarlett then fell in with a crowd of young people, one of which, Robert, took her fancy.

  Now Scarlett was neither an angel nor celibate and a romp with Robert was both fun and satisfying. Much to his indignation, she insisted on him using condoms made from pig’s bladders. Several were discarded in the chamber pot beside the bed as testament to their energetic love making.

  She slipped out of bed and started to get dressed. Robert woke and watched her for a moment.

  “Do you have to go so early?” he asked as he admired her trim and athletic figure.

  “’fraid so,” she replied as she pulled her dress up and laced up the bodice ties, “time and ships wait for no one.”

  “How did you get to be a captain?” he asked.

  Scarlett bent over and kissed him on the forehead, then avoided his grab.

  “Now don’t spoil it by asking silly questions,” she told him and reached across to pick up the garter with a sheathed dagger attached that she’d left on the bedside table. His eyes widened when he saw her lift her skirt and tie it in place on her thigh.

  “I didn’t see that last night!” he exclaimed.

  Scarlett laughed; he was far too distracted last night to notice anything.

  “I will be in port for a week or so,” she said in parting, dangling the hint of a promise.

  Montoya sat on the doorstep, waiting for her, and the two set off back to the dock. Scarlett stopped as they passed a shop that sold hand weapons, spotting something in the window, and stepped inside.

  “Can I help you, miss?” the shopkeeper asked, squinting at her short-sightedly.

  “Yes, I saw a curious pistol in the window. It has a number of barrels,” she replied.

  “That will be the Jan Kitzen, five-barrelled pistol.” He reached into the window, lifted it out, and handed it to her.

  The pistol had a walnut stock that extended forward to support the five barrels that were each of around forty-five calibre and set in a pentangle. The barrels were round and about eight inches long and the lock action was positioned on the right-hand side. It seemed that all five barrels would fire together.

  “Does it work?” Scarlett asked, hefting it then holding it at arm’s length as if firing it.

  “Certainly. It is Dutch made and excellent for close quarters work,” he confirmed.

  “It must have a kick like a mule,” Scarlett frowned. She liked the idea of firing five shots at once, but the recoil must be horrendous.

  “It is not as bad as you would expect. The barrels fire in sequence in a sort of ripple as each one touches off the next,” he explained.

  “Can I try it?” she asked.

  The shop keeper decided to humour this obviously wealthy young woman and took her to the rear of the shop and out of the back door where he had a range set up. He showed her how to load each barrel in turn, how to prime it, and cautioned her to lean into the gun before firing.

  There was a row of man shaped targets about ten yards down the range, and Scarlett set herself to fire at them. Bearing in mind the recoil, she aimed low at groin height.

  Her finger tightened on the trigger and the sear gave smoothly, the hammer snapping forward. The priming ignited with a fizz, then the barrels fired rapidly one after the other in a continuous, extended bang.

  The smoke cleared and she saw that two of the targets had holes in that started at groin height and finished around mid-chest. The spread was wider than she expected, and she realised the barrels must have slight offsets. The recoil was hard but not unmanageable and she realised if she traversed her arm sideways as she fired, she could increase the spread of shot.

  “How do you clean it?” she asked and noted Montoya stepped closer to watch.

  The shopkeeper noticed Montoya eventually and suddenly realized who this beautiful young woman was. He instantly took her far more seriously. He showed her step by step how to disassemble, clean, and reassemble it. Montoya watched every step intently.

  Satisfied, Scarlett said she would buy it and they went back into the shop. She was about to start haggling on the price when she saw Montoya looking at
a pair of brutally efficient-looking short swords with simple cross guards and leather wrapped hilts mounted on the wall.

  “Can we see those please,” she asked, pointing to them.

  The shopkeeper took them down, the blades were twenty inches long and about two inches wide where at the ricasso. There was a fuller that ran two-thirds of the length of the blade, giving them strength and the balance point was around six inches in front of the hilt. She didn’t know it, but they were styled after Roman gladius. She gestured for Montoya to take them.

  Montoya hefted the blades. They felt comfortable and nicely balanced a little towards the point to make them better choppers. The hilts fit his hands nicely and as they were quite short, would suit his knife-based fighting style.

  Scarlett was watching him.

  “Let’s step outside where you have room to swing them,” she suggested.

  They stepped out of the front door of the shop. The shopkeeper looked concerned, worried they would wander off without paying.

  Scarlett drew her own sword and main gauche, assuming the ready position, inviting Montoya to spar. He grinned. He had watched her practice and knew what to expect.

  The blades flashed in the sun as Scarlett launched an attack, and Montoya parried, turning his defence into an attack of his own. The denizens of an adjacent tavern turned out to watch and soon, cat calls and advice were heard amidst the laughter and cheering.

  The ‘test’ finished by mutual consent and they stepped back, none the worse for wear. Scarlett sheathed her blades and checked Montoya’s for damage. There was not a nick.

  “I will take these as well. Do they have sheaths?” she asked.

  The shopkeeper, looking relieved no one was hurt and that he would get paid, led them back into the shop and produced two finely made leather sheaths tipped in brass and a curious harness.

  “The previous owner wore them crossed on his back, said they didn’t get in the way when he moved that way, but you could also fit them to a normal belt.”

  Montoya understood and thought about it, examining the harness. He finally figured out how it fitted, slipped his arms through it and settled the swords on his back, the hilts protruding above his shoulders.

  “That’s different,” Scarlett quipped, “it works, though.” Montoya reached up and snapped them forward. He could get them out fast enough, but Scarlett had to help him re-sheath them. That would get easier with practice.

  The crew was preparing the Fox for careening, all the guns were being removed, powder and shot offloaded, water barrels emptied and sent ashore for cleaning and repairing, and the ship emptied. Once all that was done, the top men would lower the top masts to the deck and move them ashore. Finally, the whole crew would warp her onto the beach at high tide. Riggers would attach ropes to the base of the masts and feed them through a system of pulleys to anchors set into the sand. These would be used by the cleaning and repair crews to cant the ship over from one beam to the other so they could reach the entire hull.

  The strong box with their latest haul of bullion was still in its hidden compartment and Scarlett thought about what to do with it. Exposing it would invite someone to try and take it, the place was a den of thieves after all, but with all the workmen climbing all over the ship she didn’t think she could leave it there.

  The problem was, it was disproportionately heavy for its size and would stick out like a sore thumb if they just moved it as it was. Then as she watched a merchant’s labourers move a stack of sacks with a sled, she had an idea.

  An hour or so later, a wooden hatch cover was used as a base to stack a pile of baggage and stores on, which was then secured by a cargo net tied over and around it. Ropes were attached to each corner and the whole thing was hoisted ashore by the crew and moved into the warehouse where they were storing everything that was being taken off the ship.

  It just looked like a clever way of moving a lot of stuff that didn’t weigh very much individually, but in the middle was the strong box, well-hidden, and hopefully, secure. The warehouse would be guarded to prevent pilfering but that was normal and wouldn’t attract any attention at all.

  The Fox was hauled up on the beach, the ropes pulled her over onto her starboard side, and the cleaning crew got to work burning and scraping the bottom clean. As each section was cleared, the carpenter, Frank van der Molen, and his mates checked each plank for worm and removed any that didn’t come up to scratch.

  Scarlett and Steven bought new timbers, the only ones available were local hardwoods and they would need a lot of steaming to get them to bend to fit. Copper nails were easily sourced as they were shipped out from Cornwall by the ton.

  The third day of careening saw the Fox looking a bit skeletal as Frank had condemned abut one plank in four and was complaining that the Spanish had no idea how to build a proper ship. Scarlett had to pay an extra crew of carpenters to lend a hand to stay on schedule.

  As it turned out, it took close to three weeks plus a significant outlay in cash to get the planks replaced and the hull re-tarred. It was a relieved Scarlett who watched her ship regain its natural environment again. Then it was just a case of putting everything back where it belonged.

  She was seeing Morgan regularly and she arranged to see him again that morning, but she was surprised to see Sir Christopher waiting with him. Both men rose as she approached, and Morgan held her chair for her as she sat.

  “This is a surprise, Sir Christopher,” Scarlett smiled in greeting.

  “Henry told me you were meeting this morning and I wanted to tell you that the expedition to Campeche will take place in two weeks.”

  “My ship will be ready by then and I would be pleased to join you. I assume that all booty will be shared proportionately amongst the ships?”

  “You take what you can carry,” Morgan replied.

  Lucky we have a big ship then, Scarlett thought to herself.

  “How many ships will there be?” Scarlett asked.

  “Fourteen British including yours, four French, and three Dutch. We will be reinforced by around fourteen hundred independent buccaneers and a few of their ships,” he replied.

  “Quite a force. You intend to sack the town?”

  “Strip it bare. There should be plenty of plunder for everyone.”

  “Commanders?” she asked, expecting Morgan to be one of them and was surprised when Sir Christopher answered,

  “I will lead, and Edward Mansvelt will be second,”

  She looked at Morgan, and he just shrugged.

  “I assume you know what kind of defences they have?” She fired off to cover her surprise.

  “I personally visited the town and estimate they have, at most, a couple hundred militia.”

  “Significant, but it shouldn’t be too difficult,” Morgan interjected.

  “Two weeks is the third week in January,” Mings said, and Scarlett realized she missed Christmas. “We will assemble the English, French, and Dutch ships here along with the bigger buccaneer ships. The rest will join us en-route.”

  “So, this raid will fill our hold with loot?” Steven asked as they supervised the reloading of all their guns and stores. The Fox’s two decks with eighteen guns to a side (ten on the lower deck and eight on the upper) had ample cargo space and the thought of filling it with loot made his mouth water.

  “Those mercenaries who signed up are bowmen, aren’t they?” Scarlett asked.

  “Yes, they are Swiss,” Steven replied.

  “I was thinking, the guns are all well and good but once you’ve fired them, they are just clubs. Now, we have these nice high decks, why don’t we put bowmen on them so they can rain down arrows on any ships who resist?”

  “A gun in the bow and now bowmen on the fore and aft decks? You will be frightening the traditionalist to death,” he laughed.

  “Talking of which, how have we mounted that big gun?” Scarlet craned her neck to try and see down the deck past all the men.

  “Come, I will show you,” Steven
replied and offered her his arm.

  She was in a good mood, so she took it and that made Steven smile, but she didn’t notice as she was too busy looking at what the crew was doing.

  “You!” she suddenly barked as they passed a sailor who was supposed to be making up the tackles on one of the upper deck demi-culverins, “what the hell are you doing?”

  Steven jerked to a stop as her arm caught his and looked at what the offending wretch was doing. The tackle was threaded in such a way that it would jam when the gun tried to recoil. It wasn’t obvious and might be overlooked until the gun spun when one side gave and the other didn’t when it was fired next.

  “Seize him,” Scarlett ordered Montoya and Berko who, as ever, were close behind. They grabbed him and hoisted the poor man to his feet. He was small, no more than five feet.

  “What’s your name and how long have you been on this ship?” Scarlett barked.

  Steven was looking at the man with a frown. He thought he knew every man aboard by at least sight and he didn’t recognize this one at all.

  The man didn’t struggle, his eyes were wide with fright and he stammered a reply,

  “John Smith, ma’am,” his voice warbled between tenor and alto.

  Scarlett noticed and looked at him closely, under the dirt, she realized he was a fourteen or fifteen-year-old boy.

  “Highly unlikely and how old are you?”

  “Nineteen, ma’am,” the boy replied, making a comical attempt to sound older than he was.

  “Well, that’s bollox,” she frowned fiercely, “now tell me the truth or Montaya there will cut off your nose.”

  Montoya put on his fiercest face and slowly drew his knife.

  “Ernest, Ernest Conway and I’m fifteen!” he cried in terror, tears in his eyes.

  “And just how did you get on my ship?”

  “I came on with the last lot of supplies. I heard a body can get rich sailing with you and…”

  “You thought you would tag along,” Scarlett finished for him and waved at the men to let him go.