Elinore had not recovered from the shock of finding Stuyvesant in her cabin bent on rape, and spent her afternoons standing in the cleansing spray of the ship, shivering. Somers wisely let her be. They were still six hundred miles—a guess—from English Harbor and, if she was not herself by the time they got there, he hoped caring for Beauty would set her to rights. He’d taken everything of Stuyvesant’s and thrown it overboard, but the bastard’s memory was still aboard.
The responsibility for hiring Stuyvesant weighed on him. He’d been too eager to leave Bermuda and had imprudently jumped at the chance to be away. He thought he could manage any situation that Stuyvesant might create, rough as he was, and perhaps he had managed it. But at what cost to Elinore?
It was two days since Stuyvesant had fallen overboard, and Elinore still had not spoken of it. That afternoon he’d asked her to have dinner with him, and she’d demurred. He’d pressed, and she’d finally relented. His intention was to bring comfort if she’d accept it.
The meal was in Petite Bouton’s captain’s cabin, such as it was, for she was only a sloop. Though the ship was thrashing badly in the relentless east wind, Somers’s steward had produced something of a meal, and the old man and his daughter braced themselves against the table as best they could. After a brief prayer of thanksgiving delivered by Somers, they began eating in silence. Somers watched his daughter carefully.
“You are wondering if I can go on as before,” said Elinore quietly, intuitive as always.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” admitted Somers. “What happened was a horrible thing, I know. Unimaginable to a man. How can I make the world safe for you again?”
Elinore stopped eating and looked at her father, that good man whom she’d grown to love and accept over these past years in spite of barely abiding him all the years before. He was doing his best.
“I’m afraid you can’t make the world safe for me anymore, Father,” she said, reaching for his hand. “I’m not a child and I know too much. But hear me: I love you for trying.”
Somers was visibly relieved. First, because she was talking to him. And second, she seemed to be forgiving him for hiring Stuyvesant in the first place. Well, now that he was dead, at any rate.
“I should tell you that I will be fine, but I was never worried for myself. Not even when … when … you know.”
“But who were you worried for?” asked Somers, obviously surprised.
“My baby,” Elinore said quietly. “I’m pregnant, Father.”
RASCAL MOVED deep into the Caribbean Sea, heeled over in the gusts of the strengthening wind, before tacking north again toward Saint-Domingue and then, later, toward the western boundary of Santo Domingo.
Brooks had the ship well-managed in the blustery conditions. It was doubtful he’d ever sailed so close to the water since he’d joined the Royal Navy. It was real sailing for him, with every rise and fall of the ship telling him something as opposed to the muted movements of a frigate or a ship-of-the-line. Brooks had wisely taken in the top hamper in the rising wind and seas, and had ordered a reef in the courses. Rascal was comfortable enough, if wet.
Unfortunately, Rascal’s movements were apparently not kind to James Wharton’s stomach, and he spent much of his time below decks in distress. Colquist could do nothing for him, for the usual remedies seemed not to apply. By the fourth day out of Matanzas, the surgeon grew concerned, and then quite concerned, for Wharton sank into unconsciousness. Fallon was called below, for Colquist felt something was going on besides seasickness. What? was the question. Colquist suspected something was constricting Wharton’s intestines, or perhaps he had a heart ailment, or his lungs were failing. In other words, Colquist had no idea why James Wharton was sick. Well, the man wasn’t a doctor of physic, and the intricacies of the human body were largely a mystery to him. Dressing a wound or amputating a limb were more in his line.
Fallon was by Wharton’s bedside as much as possible, but his conversation and even his hand-holding seemed to have little effect. So it was, on a long board away from Santo Domingo, that James Wharton quietly died. It was a sad affair to bury him at sea, with only his name and his secrets. His death brought a pall over the ship, for he had become popular with the crew. Still, seamen so used to death mourned him as a right shipmate and let him go, along with his memory.
Fallon grieved as he had rarely grieved for a shipmate. He felt he had made a friend in Wharton, though he had to admit that he actually knew very little about him save his childhood and his bravery. It was how the intelligence agent wanted it, perhaps how he had to have it to be successful and stay alive. But now that he was dead, what had it mattered?
It was the afternoon of the morning burial and Fallon was in his cabin going over charts to keep his melancholy at bay. He heard Barclay order the ship to go about on the starboard tack, which would take them toward Santo Domingo yet again, the ship making slow progress to Antigua. Instinct or boredom led Fallon to set the chart aside and climb the companionway to have a look at the land with his telescope.
“Deck there!” came the lookout’s call. “Three sail off the starboard bow! Coming out of port!”
Well, that was to be expected, thought Fallon, remembering the river called Rio Ozama from his chart. Santo Domingo had a large enough port that ships would be coming and going. Still, it was an enemy port, and it was best to stay clear of 3-1 odds in case of trouble. They were miles away from the sails, which he could not see from the deck, so he felt no apprehension.
Rascal held her course and Fallon conferred with Barclay on the distance left to sail for Antigua, for he was anxious to deliver the news of the French ship-of-the-line and eager to see Beauty’s progress. Seeing Paloma in Davies’ arms would be something special as well. It was a romantic thought, and he held onto it right up until the lookout shouted down again.
“Deck there! Out of the port! Two sloops and a black brig!”
Well, well, thought Fallon as he snapped out of his reverie. The little wolves.
FORTY
BARCLAY ESTIMATED the little wolves to be six miles ahead, tacking against the strong easterly wind and apparently making for the eastern Caribbean, just as they were. Now the wolves were being followed, at least for the moment, and Barclay looked at Fallon with a quizzical eye, wondering what his captain was thinking.
Fallon was wondering what he was thinking himself. Revenge was a fickle thing, and chasing it was often a fool’s errand. He couldn’t let his wounded pride make his decisions. And yet … it was likely that the Holy One’s lookout had seen Rascal, but unlikely he could recognize the ship from such a distance bow-on. It was also likely that the ships had been in the port of Santo Domingo for wood and water after the long trip to and from Cuba. Now they were off hunting again. Fallon decided to lie back and keep his identity from being discovered for as long as possible.
Aja stood near Fallon at the windward rail while Rascal was on the starboard tack, concern etched on his forehead. He had kept to himself since leaving Matanzas and tempered his joy of rescuing the prisoners with the sadness of seeing Young David refuse to come aboard.
“Captain, sir,” he said to Fallon. “Where do you think Young David went when he left us?”
“I think he went back to the country,” said Fallon as compassionately as he could. “Back to burn fields and free the slaves he found. God help him.”
“He will never be captured alive again, will he?”
“No, Aja, I’m afraid not. He wouldn’t let that happen again,” answered Fallon. “One day we may hear about a brave and resourceful African slave who refused the life he was kidnapped into and risked everything for freedom. He might be as famous as Louverture.”
Aja hung his head.
“Try not to be sad. Young David made his choice and we must agree with it,” said Fallon softly. “You gave him the chance to have that choice, and he took it. Respect him now, for God willing we could all be so brave at a moment like that.”
The boy looked
out to sea, thinking. Fallon let him be, and finally Aja walked away, his head up now, more proud than sad. Aja had pictured his friend afraid and hiding. But Fallon had drawn a different picture, with Young David astride a white horse, waving a sword and calling slaves to freedom. It was a new, sustaining picture that Aja could almost imagine.
THE LOOKOUT aboard Negro Sol had reported a sail in the distance and believed it to be a schooner, but it flew no flag he could see. The Holy One was not concerned by a single ship, though he wondered for a moment if it was the American schooner that had mauled his sloops and then appeared in Matanzas. That would be too much of a coincidence, he decided, and even if it were the same schooner she would be no match for the combined firepower of his little fleet, now at full strength. The schooner had run once, she would run again. That possibility addressed, he returned his attention to his good fortune in the sale of hundreds of slaves at the market in Matanzas. It was a long way to take them, but the Cuban prices!
Raiding plantations had now become his new business, and he pointed his ships to Porto Rico for, though the island was controlled by Spain, it was a plentiful source of slaves. The Holy One was ambivalent when it came to which countries he robbed. The lowlands of Porto Rico were covered in sugarcane plantations whose fields sprawled to the sea. That’s all that mattered.
The wind was becoming a problem, however, and the sloops had already taken in one reef and were asking for permission to take in another. The Holy One decided to anchor in the Bahia Salinas on the southeastern Porto Rican coast, not only to get his ships out of the wind but because the tall stacks of the sugar mills on shore were like beacons guiding him toward inestimable riches.
PETITE BOUTON was struggling in the worsening conditions of wind and sea, and Somers knew they were far off course. With no land to windward, the seas had a long fetch and had grown so large that tacking was dangerous. And, too, several of the crew were below with injuries from wrestling a cannon whose carriage had come loose. Nothing that wouldn’t mend eventually, but they were effectively absent from their duties in handling the ship. With the wind rising to a shriek, the little sloop was pitching and plunging wildly, making considerable leeway to the west with every wave and gust. Somers had done his best to navigate, but he had no real idea of their position until he saw an island in the distance that, after consulting with the chart, he confirmed as Porto Rico. The sloop was far off course, indeed.
FALLON CLIMBED the ratlines to see the little wolves for himself. It was coming on to the second dog and the sun was behind Rascal, giving him a good view of the ships far ahead. The little wolves were on the starboard tack, while Rascal had gone about on the larboard tack, effectively sailing away from them. Still, the point wasn’t to overtake the little wolves but merely to keep them in sight until an opportunity presented itself.
Fallon decided to have a word with his first mate.
“Mr. Brooks, the wind and seas continue to set us farther south on this tack. I would like to keep a loose cover on those ships,” he said, pointing to his left in the direction of the little wolves. “Perhaps you can just see them from the deck now.”
Brooks looked at the distant ships through his telescope. They were still quite far away and now on a long tack to the north.
“Is that the black brig we saw in Matanzas unloading slaves?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Fallon, “I believe he is a Spanish pirate who usually sails with those two sloops and raids slavers. Aja calls them the little wolves, for they hunt in a pack. For now, I want to see where they are going and what they’re up to, if possible. At least while there is light.”
Brooks instantly called for a starboard tack and Rascal slowly came about on her new course, roughly parallel with the brig and sloops but at least three miles astern. Fallon looked down the starboard railing at Paloma and Aja talking, the boy no doubt acquainting the señora with the little wolves. Fallon still had no plan to attack, and if they sailed through the strait between Santo Domingo and Porto Rico he would not catch them before night fell, at any rate, though Rascal was a better sailer than any of them.
His curiosity was piqued, however. He raised his telescope to scan the distant shoreline of Porto Rico’s southern coast. He could see the spires of sugar mill smokestacks but little else save the green, undulating hillsides.
Where are you going? he wondered.
IT WAS a decision Somers hated to make but one he was forced to. He ordered the ship to fall off and sail down toward the western end of Porto Rico. There was no sensible or safe way to continue tacking against the prevailing easterly, strong as it was, with a depleted crew and evening coming on. No, better to get into the lee of Porto Rico and anchor for the night, snug and secure in a quiet cove. Then, in the morning, fresh and rested, they could resume their journey to Antigua. Elinore was down below with morning sickness, or seasickness, or both. She had been sick all day, and Somers had to think of her well-being as well.
The shock of hearing she was with child had quite given way to joy at being a grandfather. He had no care for the scandal her pregnancy might cause on Bermuda. He was only concerned for her happiness and her health, and the gossips on Bermuda could go to hell. Of course, he wasn’t the one who would be most affected by gossip, he admitted. But Elinore had enough of his blood in her veins that he doubted she would care either.
He thought briefly of Fallon’s reaction, if and when they caught up to him. He was a good man, an honorable man, and he seemed to love Elinore deeply. There would be a wedding, by God! He was as sure of it as he was of his own name.
But first they had to get to shelter and get the damned anchor down.
FORTY-ONE
PETITE BOUTON’S crew was able to get the little ship to the western coast of Porto Rico without difficulty, and when they were in the lee of the island the wind and sea were dramatically moderated by the land. Somers had consulted the chart and chosen Bahia Salinas as an anchorage for the night. It was well down the coast and would give them an excellent jumping off place the next day to resume their journey to English Harbor. They sailed comfortably southward, and when they finally arrived at Bahia Salinas the bay was empty and the backdrop of the island was lush and golden in the late afternoon light. When the anchor was finally down and the sails furled, Somers sent the hands to supper. With a last look around he went below to check on Elinore.
THE HOLY ONE led the way in Negro Sol toward the southwestern tip of Porto Rico, and then the sails were eased to round Rojo Cabo to starboard before proceeding up the coast to Bahia Salinas. His ships were sailing quite close to the coast of Porto Rico now and the smokestacks were clearly visible without a telescope. The Holy One never smiled, but his upper lip did curl slightly at the thought of his ships’ holds stuffed with black gold by dawn.
It would fall to the two sloops, Bella and Estrella Azul, to anchor as close to shore in Bahia Salinas as possible, not least because the Holy One wanted many slaves tonight and that would mean rowing back and forth from shore to ship to load them. Typically, each sloop sent fifteen men ashore, moving to the mill smokestacks that were visible against the sky. This led them to the barracoons where the slaves slept. If the overseer appeared while they were stealing the slaves, he was killed. If the planter appeared, he was killed as well. No one had any value except the slaves.
The sloop captains had been aware of the distant sail shadowing them, aware that in all probability it was the schooner that had bedeviled them with a surprise attack at dawn and watched them in Matanzas, but they had no real concern as they were protected by the brig. In very little time they would be anchored for the night close in shore with Negro Sol anchored farther seaward, which would prevent any surprises.
The Holy One hated surprises.
Well, he hated them unless they were a gift dropped right into his lap. What is this? the Holy One thought as Negro Sol entered Bahia Salinas. A lone sloop anchored for the night? A third sloop for his little fleet!
He signa
led for Bella and Estrella to do their work.
FALLON WAITED until the little wolves had rounded Rojo Cabo before deciding to follow them. The day was beginning to lose its light, and he worried briefly that his pride made the decision—a reaction to the impotence and humiliation he’d felt in Matanzas. Well, he had to admit that maybe wounded pride was some of the reason. But the rest of the reason had to do with the evil he felt emanating from the Holy One, an evil made more immoral by promoting unspeakable misery while presuming to be a man of God. That offended Fallon and called up a sort of righteous indignation he’d never experienced before.
Rascal would be no threat to a brig and two sloops in a straight-up fight, of course, but Fallon had no intention of fighting a straight-up fight. He would simply let events take their course until he lost sight of them, then call off the chase. That was the deal he made with his pride, at any rate.
The wind was still blowing hard, and Rascal rolled and plunged in the seas in spite of the best efforts of the helmsman to steer small. Paloma went down below, with a word to Aja that she didn’t feel well, and Fallon wasn’t surprised. She was a landswoman, though this sea would test anyone’s stomach.
“Mr. Brooks,” said Fallon to his first lieutenant. “We’ll be going around Rojo Cabo soon and I don’t want to be caught out if the little wolves are waiting for a fight. Pray have all the guns loaded but not run out. Ask Cully to load the long nine, as well.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” said Brooks with relish, for the long day tacking back and forth had made him eager to catch the little wolves in spite of Fallon’s orders to shadow them loosely. The chase had sorely tested his patience and the call to load the guns excited him, though 3-1 odds were more than he had ever faced in battle.
The Black Ring Page 19
