The Iron Rose

by Marsha Canham

  Varian flushed. He had been barely three years of age when Sir Francis Drake rallied England’s sea hawks to defend her coast against the last “invincible” armada, but he remembered that many of the stories of tremendous victory had been clouded by the treatment of the crews afterward. They were forced to remain in port for months, unpaid, poorly provisioned, forbidden to go ashore. Hundreds of brave men starved and died of disease and when the crown eventually did pay them for their services, it was not one-fifth of what they had been promised. To add insult to injury, the queen blamed Drake for failing to pursue the fleeing Spaniards, and in the end, he fell badly out of favor and was forced to retire in disgrace and near poverty.

  “The name and legend of el Draque still causes grown men to tremble here in the Indies,” Simon remarked dryly. “I thought him a bit of a puffer, myself, but there is no arguing his successes against the Spanish. Sprinkle his name wisely amongst the rhetoric and you give rise to the specter of glory and victory again.”

  “Thirty ships against a hundred are still improbable odds, Captain.”

  “Indeed they are. That is why we will have to work swiftly to improve them somewhat.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Spaniards are arrogant and because of their arrogance, they resist change. Not only do they continue to send their treasure fleets back and forth twice a year on a regular schedule, but their point of disembarkation, their route, the method of protecting them, has not changed in over a century. Their fighting tactics are predictable as well, for there is only one sure way for vessels that are top-heavy and square-rigged to gain the advantage, and that is to stand off and pound an enemy with their guns, then close and depend on their soldiers to carry the battle. That is why more than half a galleon’s complement is made up of troops who wouldn’t know a knot of speed from a knot in a rope. For the same reason, their command is split. There is a capitán de mar who oversees the mariners, and a capitán del navío who commands the soldiers and, in battle, commands the entire ship. Most of the time, neither one knows anything about the other’s job; thus there is always a certain amount of confusion on board—more so if the two commanders dislike one another and turn the whole thing into a power pissing match. More rum?”

  Varian looked down at his glass, surprised to see it was empty. “Please.”

  After the men replenished their drinks, Dante tipped his head by way of inviting Varian over to the topographical table. He took a taper from the mantel and lit it off one of the candles on the desk, then touched the flame to the multitined candelabra mounted on each corner of the table. The candles there were framed by curved sheets of polished metal, which focused all of the light down onto the tabletop. The effect threw shadows behind the mountain ranges and gave an even more realistic sense of depth to the islands and channels.

  Pitt, meanwhile, had reached under the table and produced a handful of small, carved replicas of galleons. He started placing ships in ports located all around the table, naming them off as he went, setting particularly heavy clusters at the two main ports of Vera Cruz and Nombre de Dios.

  “Some time over the next four weeks, all of these ships will be leaving port”—he pointed across the table—“and making for Havana.”

  Varian watched with interest as Pitt and Dante began moving the carved ships out into the open water of the gulf, aiming them by squadrons in the direction of Havana. At one point he saw another movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced over at the door in time to see Juliet slip inside the room. She did not approach the brightly lit table, but remained back in the shadows and stood with her shoulders leaning against the wall.

  “The Dutch like to hunt here,” Pitt said, placing a ship that had been painted green off the islands marked Little Antilles. A blue ship denoting French privateers was positioned west of the Caribbee Isles, and a third ship, painted red, was tucked into the Baja Más Islands. “The French are determined to take possession of the southern Caribbee, so they concentrate their efforts there, whereas the English favor the Straits of Florida, where the galleons catch the gulf currents and begin their run out to the Atlantic. As long as we all have one common, rich enemy—the Spanish—there is a certain degree of polite civility between the various nationalities. This is not to say that a Dutchman would not blast a Frenchman out of the water if the opportunity presented itself, but as a general rule, we exchange information when it is to our mutual advantage to do so.”

  “For instance, if our brethren to the south and west were to be told about the increased numbers of treasure ships bound for Havana,” Dante said, “they would happily embark on a feeding frenzy of their own. If they are even modestly successful, word of the attacks will spread through the rest of the fleet and rattle the almirante’s composure before his ships even leave port.”

  “The Spanish are predictable in another way.” Pitt was still maneuvering his vessels toward the port of Havana, lining them up in an orderly procession facing north. “They like to place their most formidable warships out in front, scattering galleons of a lesser size and firepower down each flank, then bringing up the rear with more heavy ships. The treasure ships are here”—he pointed—“in the middle. A fleet this size will take at least two days to clear the port. Because of prevailing winds and currents at this time of year, it will become strung out over twenty leagues or more until the rear guard, acting like dogs herding sheep, can bring all the stragglers up into formation. Once the fleet achieves that final formation, they are nearly impregnable, which is why, once they are out in the open water of the Atlantic, only a fool would attempt an attack. But here”—he touched a long, tapered finger on the port of Havana and traced it along the passage that ran between the eastern coast of Florida and the Baja Más Islands—“here is where they are the most vulnerable, for there are hundreds of low, sandy cays to hide behind. The strongest currents run through this area and few ships of any size are able to put about once they are committed. All an enterprising captain need do is lie in wait until a comely bitch passes by, then come up fast and attack from behind.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “Do I? If I have given you that impression, pray strike it instantly from your mind. The conditions in the Straits are the same for the predator as for the prey, and while I grant you our ships are lighter and faster and have the distinct advantage in maneuverability, they do not turn on a nod. If we miss on the first pass, it could take an hour or more to regain the weather gauge and by then, the element of surprise is gone and the galleon’s guns are primed and waiting.”

  “If we were to succeed, however,” Dante said, “we would stand a damned good chance of breaking up the convoy, of driving some of the ships into taking cover behind the islands, where they would sail right into the waiting hands and guns of our fellow brethren.”

  Once again Varian was struck by the penetrating intensity of the silver eyes. It was the same look he had seen in Juliet’s eyes on the deck of the Santo Domingo when she had been fighting the Spaniards, and it was the same intoxicating power he had seen in her eyes when they had climbed the summit and she had spread her arms wide to catch the wind.

  Beyond this place there be dragons.

  The whispered echo of Juliet’s words came to him with a shiver of understanding. The ancient mapmakers had known more than they suspected, for he had indeed arrived at the edge of the world he knew and understood. Beyond this room, beyond the boundaries of this island paradise, there were dragons waiting, too numerous to even begin to count. The next step he took would decide his course. To go forward was to step over the edge of the horizon and risk whatever perils lay waiting there. To step back was to retreat to where things were rational, orderly, and safe and where risks were only taken by others more suited to the task. It was his decision to make and he knew that once he was caught up in the current, there would be no turning back.

  Varian looked from Simon Dante to Geoffrey Pitt to the silent, watchful figure standing in t
he shadows. The tightness in his chest grew until he was almost light-headed from the pressure and without even glancing down to see how steep a drop it was, he felt himself starting to pitch forward over the edge of the cliff.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Run out the guns, Mr. Crisp. We’ll fire three rounds with an extra ration of rum for the quickest crew.”

  “Aye, Captain.” A grin put Nathan at the rail looking down over the waist of the ship. The men had anticipated the order and had their faces tilted expectantly up toward the quarterdeck. They had cleared the jagged teeth of the coral reef and would have to pile on sail to catch up to the five regal pyramids of canvas ahead of them, but there could be nothing left to chance on this voyage. After sitting in port for eight days, Juliet wanted all the guns to be fired, swabbed, and packed with fresh loads. There was nothing more damning than a cannon that had sat unused in the tropical heat and dampness. Despite wax plugs, moisture from rain and dew could have seeped into the touch holes and degraded the powder, making it merely pop and fizzle when a match was applied. Her father and brothers had taken similar precautions, as had Geoffrey Pitt, who had brought his sleek Christiana out for her maiden voyage.

  Lucifer had been placed in command of the Santo Domingo, the crew once again supplemented by Lieutenant Beck and his Englishmen. In truth, if not for Beck presenting himself before her with a smart salute and an offer to help sail the galleon, she was not sure the Domingo would have left Pigeon Cay. Beck had admitted that the idea was not his. It was Varian St. Clare who had approached him, advised him of the situation they were in regarding Spain’s intentions to amass another invasion fleet, and left it to Beck’s conscience as to whether he wanted to take a fast ship home with the news or stay and fight.

  Beacom, having been presented with a similar choice, stood pale and withering beside Varian, his hands clapped over his ears as the orders were relayed to roll out the heavy guns.

  On Nathan’s command, the gunners opened the ports, knocked out the wedges that blocked the wheels of the gun carriages, and heaved on the breeching tackle. The eight twenty-four-pounder demi-culverins on the main deck were run out as were the twelve thirty-two-pounder culverins on the lower deck. The chief gunner for the starboard battery walked quickly down the line checking the lay of the guns and the readiness of the men, passing out glowing linstocks to each crew as he passed. The chief gunner for the larboard side did the same, pausing once to kick the backside of a man who had allowed one of the cables to go slack.

  “Larboard ready!”

  “Starboard ready!”

  “Three rounds hot, gentlemen. Fire at will.”

  The words were not out of Nathan’s mouth when the roar from twenty exploding guns swept along both decks. The sound traveled through the planking and trembled up the masts. It was followed by clouds of dense white smoke that boiled from the snouts of the guns and brought the harsh stink of sulfur and cordite creaming back over the decks.

  Taking advantage of the recoil, the crews heaved on the tackling lines again, hauling the beasts inboard. While one man swabbed the barrel with a sponge and water, another stood waiting with a charge of powder and a ladle. A third was ready with the rammer and cloth wadding, a fourth with a ball of cast iron shot. Another pricked the powder charge through the touch hole and added a measure of fine ignition powder from a horn. When the crew was clear, the gun was run out again and the glowing end of the linstock applied to the primer.

  Juliet was justifiably proud of her crew. They could fire two rounds in under three minutes. Each man knew how to lay a charge so that if any one man fell in action, another could step up and sight the gun, adjust the elevation wedges and the training tackle, load, and fire. That was something her father insisted upon after witnessing the confusion caused in battle when the lack of knowledge and training resulted in guns falling silent.

  The three rounds were fired and ended in a draw between four crews. Juliet happily allowed full measures of rum for all, then ordered fresh charges loaded and the guns secured from the ports. Men were sent into the tops to add more canvas and within the hour, they had closed the gap between the Iron Rose and her brothers’ ships, the Valour and the Tribute, to a few hundred yards. It looked strange to see the Spanish galleon sailing in their midst but Juliet was pleased to see that the changes Nog had made on board had increased her speed considerably. She could keep apace at a steady eight knots and as long as the wind did not take a drastic shift in direction, the new sails and rigging would allow for better maneuverability. More than twenty carpenters had swarmed over her from stem to stern, sawing away unnecessary bulkheads, stripping the fancy paneling from her cabins, banging away the cabins themselves. They had cannibalized the two castles fore and aft so that from a distance she gave the silhouette of a top-heavy galleon, but up close she was a mere shell with catwalks built around the upper bulwarks to give the impression of a full deck. The renovations were continuing while she was under sail, for hardly a league passed where there were not discarded sheets of planking floating in her wake.

  A sharp clash of metal brought Juliet’s attention back to the main deck. She moved slowly to the rail, knowing what she would see before she got there. Simon Dante may have used his powers of persuasion to coax the Duke of Harrow into accompanying them to New Providence, but he had also informed her that Varian St. Clare was still her responsibility.

  It had been Nathan’s suggestion that they assign him something to do on board and overseeing the daily practice with swords and pistols seemed a likely choice. He hadn’t balked at the notion, and by the way he slashed through the first five men who ventured into the fighting circle, he looked as though he had been craving the exercise.

  After leaving the chart room that evening, Juliet had returned to the Iron Rose. She had spent nearly every day and night since then on board, supervising the repairs here and on the Santo Domingo. She had kept herself too busy to think about Varian St. Clare, had barely said more than two words to him in passing, and had made a point never to be alone with him at any time.

  It was not that she feared what would happen. She had no doubt they would come together like two oiled snakes given half the opportunity. It was more a matter of proving to herself that she had the force of will to stay away, that she could remain detached and observe him from the rail of the quarterdeck just as she observed every other member of her crew—with an impartial, critical eye.

  Each of the first two opponents who faced him managed a half dozen strokes before a twist of St. Clare’s wrist sent their blades spinning out of their hands. The third made but one clumsy lunge before he was sprawling, red-faced, on the deck, a ducal foot planted solidly on his backside. The fourth and fifth lasted slightly longer but they were clearly no match for St. Clare’s expertise and again, their blades fell victim to the slight twist and spiral that saw their weapons somersaulting over their heads.

  One by one he went through the ranks. The circle was thickening, the combatants attracting more and more onlookers, some of whom began to grow resentful as each of their mates fell victim to one trick or another that saw them disarmed and chased away at the point of the duke’s elegant rapier.

  “It could get ugly down there, lass,” Nathan murmured, standing by her shoulder.

  “It could,” she agreed.

  The crowd parted to a rousing cheer and Juliet smiled. Big Alf had been fetched from the lower deck, undoubtedly dragged away from his regular duties in order to have him teach a lesson to the pretty duke. Big Alf was deserving of his name, for he was a tower of bulging muscle, with hair sprouting from every conceivable pore on his arms, back, and shoulders. His favored weapon was the short, broad-bladed cutlass, and every man on board had seen him take the head off an opponent with one effortless swing.

  As solidly built as Varian was, he still could have fit three of himself inside Big Alf’s galligaskins and canvas pinafore with room to spare. And no sooner had Big Alf appeared at the edge of the circle than the g
lowerings and grumblings turned to excited laughter. Here, then, was someone who would show this lubber the color of his flag!

  Varian merely took the measure of his opponent for a moment, then walked to where Beacom was sweating himself into a puddle. He exchanged his elegant rapier for a thicker, flat-bladed cutlass and returned to his quadrant, working his wrist back and forth as if to accustom himself to the heavier weight.

  To the encouraging whistles and hoots from his mates, Big Alf lunged forward. He had a grin on his wide, hairy face as his first few hacking slashes forced St. Clare into a defensive stance, but the grin quickly turned into a grimace as the duke held off every blow, deflected every strike that would have sent any other normal man scrambling for cover. Alf’s face turned red and his swings became broader. It was only practice and the intent was not to kill or maim, but it was a fine line that marked the difference.

  Not that it mattered in the end, for within four more strikes, Big Alf’s blade was slicing through the thin air where Varian’s head should have been, and was buried instead into two inches of solid oak. It bit deep and stuck fast but before he could pull it free, the edge of Varian’s blade was lying along Alf’s jugular.

  The men fell instantly silent, their champion defeated.

  Up on the quarterdeck, Nathan read the expressions on their faces and his warning came out like a low growl. “Lass …”

  “Wait,” she whispered. She was watching Varian; his mouth was an inch from Big Alf’s ear, and his lips were moving, so slightly she almost missed it herself.