Isabeau Dante was only slightly less terrifying.
“Bring us in, Mr. Anthony,” Juliet said quietly, glancing at the helmsman.
“Aye, Cap’n. The lads are that anxious to be home an’ braggin’, they’ll likely have the boats lowered before the anchor splashes down.”
Juliet did not return his eager smile. “There will be time enough for bragging and boasting when everyone’s job is done. I’ll not want to see a scrap of rope left on deck or a single hatch unbattened. Moreover, I want the powder kegs rotated and the deck guns oiled and bunged before a drop of rum passes anyone’s lips. Mr. Kelly”—she turned to the carpenter—“by noon tomorrow I will expect to see a new foremast mounted on the Rose as well as a detailed list of the repairs that are needed on board the Santo Domingo. I’m sure there will be no lack of help from shore to off-load whatever cargo may be in her holds, but I want her searched thoroughly and any unnecessary weight removed. Strip her to the beams if you must, but I want to be able to call up another five knots in speed.”
“I could cut off what’s left of those bloody castles fore an’ aft; you’d gain two points off the wind and an extra rung above the waterline.”
Juliet shook her head. “Let us see how she handles with those new fittings and balloon sails we discussed before we go changing her silhouette too much. You never know when a Trojan horse might come in useful.”
“Eh? Ye’re gonny use her to carry horses? Great Gomorrah’s entrails, what do we need with horses?”
Juliet sighed and waved away any attempt at an explanation. “Just trust me when I say she may be useful.”
“Cap’n Simon might just have something to say about that. Horses is nasty creatures. Got bit on the arse once when I were young. Still have the mark.”
Juliet peered through the spyglass. “Yes, well, unless the vaunted Pirata Lobo has taken it upon himself to rewrite the articles of privateering we signed, the Domingo is mine. I won her. I brought her home. She’s mine to do with as I please.”
Kelly threw his hands up by way of expressing his final opinion on the matter. “I’d be the last to argue with ye, Cap’n. I’m just sayin’ ye could sell her to the Portugee and make yourself a tidy sum.”
“I already have a tidy sum, enough to suffice into my old age.”
Juliet took a final sweep of the waves crashing against the base of the cliffs, noting the lines of foam and spindrift that marked the flow of currents around the jagged breakwater. This time of day, the tides would be more favorable to ships leaving the hidden harbor than to those arriving, and a careful eye had to be kept on the swirling eddies and whirlpools at the base of the cliffs. Once inside the curved spit that guarded the entrance, attention had to be paid to holding speed and not succumbing to the drag that wanted to pull them back out the mouth. There were men with ropes and grappling lines on either side of the channel to assist in hauling a ship through to the harbor if necessary, but Juliet had only been towed once, when her rudder had been jury-rigged and she had not trusted the temporary repair to hold against the current. Her brothers, on the other hand, had been towed in more often than not and it was a matter of pride for her to maintain the Rose’s speed until the very last possible instant.
Most of the crew knew of the unspoken rivalry and held their breath in those final moments of the approach. The slightest miscalculation could send the ship careening into the rocks and as Juliet made her way onto the quarterdeck, all eyes turned to the towering ramparts of the cliff and the huge fountains of white spume that exploded at its base.
Varian St. Clare had spent nine years in the army. As one of the youngest officers to earn a promotion to captain, he had won accolades for his bravery and courage under fire. He had served three of those years as Captain of the King’s Royal Guard—no mean feat considering the number of papists who cursed the day Scotland and England united under one ruler. He had faced down the zealot Guy Fawkes, who had tried to kill the king and all his ministers by blowing up the Parliament buildings. He had calmly, if stupidly, walked into a cellar packed with thirty barrels of black powder and cut the burning fuse without flinching an eye … yet he found himself backing cautiously away from the rail now, with clammy beads of sweat rolling between his shoulder blades, as the Iron Rose rushed headlong toward what appeared to be an inevitable collision with six-hundred-foot cliffs.
Search as he might, he could see no cracks, no breaks in the rocks, no caverns, that might allow forty feet of masts to sail beneath. Although he glanced frequently at the madwoman standing on the quarterdeck, she seemed more intent upon watching the flight of a gull circling overhead than marking the thunderous fury of the breakers ahead. She did not even acknowledge the helmsman when he started shifting from one foot to the other and removing his hands from the whipstaff every few seconds to dry them on his breeches.
“Now, Mr. Anthony,” she said clearly. “Haul in sail if you please and bring her hard to starboard. Leave me the mizzen for steerage and have men ready on the bills.”
Varian looked up as a hail of shouts relayed the orders and the men in the yards came alive. They reeled in the sheets of canvas as fast as their hands could pull the cables, tying them off in thick bundles that lined the spars like rolls of sausage. On deck, men took positions along both sides of the ship holding thick oak staffs whose purpose Varian could only guess.
Their speed did not noticeably decrease. If anything, the ship seemed to gather momentum as she began to turn and was carried sideways by a wave. The surf took them sliding gracefully around a spit of rock and it was then that Varian saw the opening. For a moment he thought they might yet sweep right past it and he looked hard at the waves crashing not two hundred yards off the larboard beam, close enough he could feel the mist dampening his face.
But he could also see the faces of the men in the tops and lining the rails. Some were laughing outright, enjoying the exhilaration of the ride.
“Oh my good sweet God!” Beacom wailed into his hands. “We are doomed! We shall be wrecked! Dashed upon the rocks! Drowned after all that we have endured!”
“For pity’s sake, Beacom, we are not going to drown. Open your eyes, man,” Varian added with dawning comprehension, “and behold a feat of unparalleled brilliance.”
He moved to the rail again. The timing had been precise, the turn had been exact, and the ship was gliding smoothly forward between two sheer walls of rock, leaving the roaring tumult of the waves behind. The need for the stout poles came clear at once as the stern threatened to swing too far and grind against the rocks, but the Iron Rose answered her rudder and righted herself, holding regally to the middle of the channel.
Steep walls covered with lush green vegetation rose on either side of them, narrowing overhead, so that the tangled vines filtered most of the light and turned it green. There were paths hidden behind the drooping palms, and the greetings exchanged between the men on board and the men who ran along the concealed ledges echoed back and forth across the water. Despite the steady decrease in their speed, the ship continued forward, and Varian was amazed yet again to see a bright opening at the end of the overgrown tunnel. Another hundred feet and they broke through to clear water and bright sunlight, and this time, the sight that unfolded before him was nothing short of astounding.
They appeared to have sailed into a huge enclosed harbor that stretched two miles or more at its widest point. Far from being the gnarled and uninviting crown of sparsely vegetated rock the island presented to the outside world, the interior boasted lush green slopes and masses of thick palm groves. Peppered in among the trees were clusters of thatched huts and stone cottages while pastures higher on the rim held flocks of sheep and cattle. Lime and lemon trees grew in profusion and on the far side of the bay, a large pan of rock used for extracting salt crystals from the seawater gleamed white against the distant green shore. The sun had already dipped below the westerly rim of the crater, casting most of the slope in thickening shadows and at the base, there were already
lights twinkling to life in some of the huts, suggesting there were taverns and shanties down by the main jetty.
The latter would have rivaled any busy wharf on the Thames. There were warehouses and long flat buildings built of timber, loading docks and enormous winches hung with cargo nets. There was even a road following the shoreline, crowded with carts and wagons. At the far end was a church, its steeple rising white above the shadows.
There was also a trio of tall ships sitting at anchor. Two of them were similar in size and tonnage to the Iron Rose; the third was larger, showing twice the number of gunports on her decks.
“That be Cap’n Simon’s ship,” Johnny Boy said, coming up beside him. “The Avenger.”
Varian was too overwhelmed to do more than nod. He was also duly impressed, knowing he was likely among the privileged few who had seen the vaunted privateer this close without her guns blazing. As the Iron Rose glided past, he studied the sleek lines of the ship that had been throwing terror into the hearts of Spanish captains for over two decades, his gaze stalling when it came to the unusual figurehead on her bow.
The face bore an astonishing resemblance to Juliet. The exaggerated abundance of carved hair was spread back on either side of the bowsprit, making it seem as if the wind were sending the wavelike curls flowing out behind her. The thin slip of a garment she was wearing had fallen down, baring an oak breast that was as perfectly shaped as the one Varian had beheld last night. Below that, however, the similarity ended, for the body was that of a swan, the feathers looking as real as if they had been plucked out of a bird and glued there, the enormous black wings spread back against the wind.
“That be the Cap’n’s wife, Miz Isabeau,” Johnny Boy said almost reverently. “It were the only thing he saved from her ship, the Black Swan, before they had to scuttle ’er. Not Cap’n Beau, of course. Just the ship. An’ that lady over there”—he pointed to a sleek two-masted vessel that had been partially hidden by the larger privateer—“is the Christiana, Mr. Pitt’s ship. He designed her himself an’ she’s the fastest thing ye’ll ever see on the water. Leastwise she will be when he finishes her. The other two, over yon, are the Tribute an’ the Valour. They belong to Cap’n Jonas an’ Cap’n Gabriel.”
There were a dozen lighter pinnaces anchored closer to shore, single-masted vessels that were used mainly as transports for ferrying supplies. They had no specific captains, Johnny Boy explained, since they were made to be broken down and stowed in the ballast of a bigger ship. They had also passed a considerable flock of longboats filled with men, oars, and cables waiting at the mouth of the channel to row out and fetch the Santo Domingo. The Rose had traversed the currents and whirlpools safely, but the Spaniard would need a tow.
Varian nodded mutely throughout the boy’s chatter, but his attention had strayed elsewhere. Higher up on the eastern slope of the crater, where the last of the sun’s rays still washed the hill with light, a sprawling two-story manor house had been built on a natural green terrace of land. It was as large and fine as anything that could be found in the English countryside, built of white stone with red clay tiles on the roof and latticed verandas wrapping around the outside of the upper and lower floors. The road that led from the manor to the harbor looked like a ribbon where it trailed down through the greenery, and as the Rose sidled to a halt and the anchor chain began rattling through the hawser, small puffs of chalky dust could be seen in the wake of two riders charging toward the docks.
“That’ll be Cap’n Jonas an’ Cap’n Gabriel,” Johnny Boy guessed. “Folk call ’em the Hell Twins for good reason, so ye might want to have a care. They don’t take kindly to lubbers. Specially Cap’n Jonas. He has the red hair o’ a demon and the temper to match.”
“I plan to be on my best behavior.”
The boy smirked. “If that was yer plan, it didn’t work with Cap’n Juliet, did it?”
Varian glanced sidelong and bristled under the lad’s grin. “How old are you, boy?”
“Twelve come Michaelmas,” he answered promptly. “My ma says I were born under the sign of the holy star. Mr. Crisp says it were just a lamp shining up on the hill.”
“Mr. Crisp sounds like a practical man.”
The boy shrugged his narrow shoulders. “He’s my da so I’m bounden to listen to him but I like the story of the holy star better.”
“Mr. Crisp is your father?”
“Said so didn’t I?”
“I meant no offense, I just …” Varian glanced down at the ornately carved stump that served as the boy’s leg. “Well, I find it odd a man would allow his son in harm’s way when so much harm has been done already.”
“Ye mean my leg? Aye, I paid the butcher’s bill wi’ that one. Were my own fault, though. I were carrying a charge of powder and set it too close to a burning fuse. I looked away for just a blink and blam! Off it went. Mr. Kelly made this for me,” he added proudly, rapping his knuckles on the carved snake’s head. “Cap’n Juliet give me the emerald for his eye. Miz Beau gave me the pearls for the scales, an’ Cap’n Simon, well, he gave me bloody hellfire for not havin’ better sense. But I was only six then an’ didn’t know much better. Now I’m twelve an’ Cap’n Juliet is teaching me how to read charts an’ plot a course.”
“I am sure you will make a fine navigator some day.”
“Terror o’ the Seas. That’s what I want to be. Just like Cap’n Dante.” The boy beamed and tugged a forelock. At a shout from the helm, he moved farther along the rail and unlatched the section that swung open at the gangway. Several jolly-boats had pushed off from various points along the shoreline and were converging on the Iron Rose like iron shavings to a magnet. The one carrying the Dante brothers was the first to arrive and Varian moved discreetly back from the gangway as it bumped against the hull.
The brothers climbed up the steps set into the ship’s hull and vaulted through the gangway, shouting for the captain before their boots were planted solidly on the timbers. They were similar in height and build, but that was where the resemblance ended. Thanks to Johnny Boy’s description, Varian could identify Jonas Spence Dante by the violent shock of flame red hair that curled over his burly shoulders. His jaw was square, stubbled with the same titian hairs that bristled across his brows and lashes. A visible scar dented the left side of his chin, another crossed his neck above the collar of his battered leather doublet.
By contrast, the younger of the Hell Twins, Gabriel, had a face like a deposed archangel. Dark mahogany hair surrounded a handsome face dominated by large, expressive eyes and a sinfully shaped mouth that would have set women swooning in droves were he to walk into a crowded London ballroom. Where his brother looked at home in leather and coarse cotton, Gabriel’s shirt was made of the finest white cambric, his jerkin was embroidered brocade, and his long legs were encased in supple chamois.
“Well, where is she?” Jonas’s voice boomed out like thunder. Eyes the color of tarnished gold scanned the grinning crew from beneath the wide brim of his hat. “Where is the captain of this sorry excuse for a sailing ship?”
The forward hatchway opened and Juliet Dante stepped through.
Varian followed the sound of men cheering and had to blink to double-check his vision, for the chameleon had changed her skin again. She was dressed in tight black doeskin breeches and a snow-white silk shirt that had fonts of lace circling the collar and cuffs. The trim shape of her waist was now accentuated by a formfitting black leather doublet that glittered with bands of seed pearls. A short satin cape was draped artfully over one shoulder, the lining scarlet, the wings turned back to leave her swordarm free. Her hair fell in a mass of auburn curls down her back, covered by a flamboyant hat with a sweeping scarlet brim. Tall black boots had wide cuffs folded down over the knee, and at her waist, the exquisitely wrought Toledo sword.
Varian almost forgot whom he was staring at as he watched her stride across the deck, the image of a proud, triumphant privateer.
“Who let these two whoremongers on board my
ship?” she demanded. “A pair of gold doubloons to any man brave enough to throw them overboard!”
Despite the excited murmur that went through the crew, none were imprudent enough to step forward and it was with an exaggerated sigh that Juliet withdrew her rapier slowly from its sheath.
“I see I shall have to do the honors myself, then,” Juliet announced. “Who first? The mongrel or the pup?”
Jonas Dante grinned hugely and drew his sword. “If she’s still dry when I’m finished with her, Gabe m’boy, you have my permission to lay a stripe or two across that saucy arse of hers.”
“And you have mine, Gabriel dearest,” Juliet said, flexing the thin blade of her rapier in a shiny arc, “to carve that rather overboastful codpiece he wears down to its proper size. Unless, of course, I attend to it first.”
A raucous cheer went up from the crew of the Rose, who were hanging over the rails on the foredeck, draped over yardarms, gathered three-deep on the quarterdeck. Wagers were shouted and shoulders slapped to make room as brother and sister slowly began to circle one another, their blades hissing to and fro, slicing the air as they warmed their arms and readied themselves to engage.
“Gracious good heavens, my lord,” Beacom whispered over Varian’s shoulder. “Do you suppose they intend real harm to one another?”
But Varian only held up a hand to command silence, intrigued by the spectacle unfolding before him. He and his brothers had often practiced their swordsmanship, but never with unblunted blades, never with such fearsome intensity in their eyes.
Jonas broke first, taking advantage of a clever feint to open the attack. Juliet deflected the initial series of parries with ease, countering each with a lethal deftness that forced the much larger Dante to scramble into a hasty retreat.
A second prolonged engagement saw the two leaping catlike between the anchor capstans, lunging over and around barrels and crates, pushing the wall of roaring crewmen back to the rail. The sound of steel ringing off steel was accompanied by flashes of blue sparks and grunts as both combatants were forced to think quick on their feet as the strikes came faster, closer to their marks.
The Iron Rose Page 12
