by C. K. Brooke
She steered the topic into safer waters. She still refused to believe that James had been using her to the end. “Papa?” She gave him a sideways glance. “Do you think I could ever marry, someday?”
He pointed his chin in the direction of the crew, above deck. “Have your pick. Although, I can’t much vouch for their hygiene. Or the number of teeth in their heads.”
Abi snorted, and her father chuckled genially beside her. “Anyone besides them,” she clarified.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, daughter. You’re a lovely girl, you are. But you aren’t liable to find a suitor who’ll take you, given who your papa is. And for that, I’m sorry.”
“But what if I did find someone?” she asked carefully. “Someone like us? Whom your reputation didn’t scare away?”
He shrugged as though the scenario was about as probable as a tentacled kraken bursting out of her cabin trunk. “Then, sure. You could marry.” He patted her knee. “Although, truth be told,” he winked, “you’re probably better off with me.”
Abi nodded weakly. Right.
Chapter 19
Bilbao, Spain
Late summer, 1720
Pristine blue waters reflected the sky. Out of his third-story inn window, James Morrow studied the busy quay. Since arriving at Bilbao, he had searched daily, taking long walks up and down the coastline that often didn’t bring him back till well after dark. He was waiting for a familiar ship.
The winds had been favorable on their journey. And so, it had taken only nine weeks to reach the Spanish coast. But that afternoon marked his tenth week apart from…
He paced by the open window. ‘…look no farther than Bilbao.’ Well, he was there, and he was looking. He had asked around at port, notwithstanding his poor Spanish, but no one seemed to recall having seen a señorita con cabello rojo of late. He thought the color of her hair would distinguish her among the copious brunettes of the region. Had she arrived, and perhaps kept her head covered with cap or kerchief? Or was she never coming?
The crew was enjoying the change of location, bustling and foreign, with plenty of women and wine. Had he not been so anxious, his mind overcome with a singular mission, James might have appreciated the scenery with its handsome straits and frame of brown mountains. Instead, he found the portside city rather hot and loud, the cuisine too rich.
He dwindled away another hour in his rented room, simply staring at a cargo ship unloading. It was insanity, really, to be holing himself up in that stifling little place. Yet he couldn’t shake the odd feeling that, if he left the inn, he might miss out on something.
The sky was turning pink, the sun about to set. He had squandered the whole day. But still, he remained. A frigate was sailing in, slowly approaching the port, water parting with its narrow bow. And that was when he caught the phrase, somewhere beneath him: “…we can find out.”
James jerked his gaze down from the distant port and fastened it to the bustling calles directly below. After a week of hearing naught but Spanish, which was but babble to his ears, the sound of a stranger speaking English was bound to grab his attention. It was a voice, he was certain, that didn’t belong to any of his sailors.
He leaned out the window for a better view. Searching the street, he tried to discern who had spoken. There were so many vendors and passersby, and he heard no other recognizable words from the collective drone of noise. Had his wishful mind only imagined it, misconstruing foreign words for familiar ones?
Just before he was about to pull his head back into the room, he cast one last glimpse to the end of the street. Rounding the corner amidst a gang of men was a figure he swore was shorter than the others. Whoever it was dressed just like them, but with a tendril of red hair swirling down its back.
“Abi?” James bellowed.
The group disappeared around the bend.
James flung open the door and dashed down two flights of stairs. Breaking outdoors amidst the heat, commotion, and the odor of horses, James shouted for her again. He pushed through the slow-moving crowd, dodging a carriage. Coming to the end of the street, he turned where he’d seen them head, his eyes darting every which way. No one. He’d been too late.
He panted, coming to a halt in the middle of the road. In a sea of olive skin, none were golden, with ruby hair. Was he going mad? Was the heat getting to him?
But nay, he resolved. He’d not second-guess himself. He knew what he saw. And there would be no stopping until he found her.
***
They had been in Bilbao for two days. But Captain Clear, ever cautious, had made them remain aboard in the Bay of Biscay, at first. They’d had to disguise the ship and raise faux flags before he would allow them to make port.
Abi didn’t think she could stand waiting any longer. She wanted to feel solid land beneath her feet and eat real food that wasn’t fish or hard biscuits. She longed to see new people who didn’t sound or smell as foul as the ones on her father’s ship. As the sun went down on the second day, she was relieved to finally—finally disembark.
The streets were fairly occupied, even into the oncoming evening. Abi had sailed near Portugal before, but had never been to Spain. Earthy mountains rose up against the pink and blue skyline, and the villages were far older than anything she had seen back home in the Colonies. Dark-haired women worked over wash bins of laundry behind stacked-up houses, while the odors and vendors’ shouts from the closing fish market wafted all the way down the road.
“Wot’s the plan, Captain?” asked Bones discreetly, pulling his cap over his face. With his dark skin, he looked like a gliding shadow.
“Abi,” Captain Clear addressed her. “Did you say the galleon went down in the Bay of Biscay, or off of it?”
Abi thought back to the night in James Morrow’s cabin, when she had learned his true identity. His gruff voice reverberated in her mind, as though it had only been yesterday. “She was barely a day off the coast when we raided.”
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I was told the galleon was barely a day from the coast. Could be she went down in the middle of the Bay. But I’m uncertain how many knots at which she could sail.” Indeed, depending on how small and swift, the galleon could have been farther along into the Atlantic.
“Mayhap the locals will recall the incident,” muttered Captain Clear. “If any of them can speak English, that is.”
“Aye,” said Rags. “Suppose we’ll have to ask around and see what we can find out.”
The conversation subsided as they turned the corner and ascended the next crowded street, Abi trailing behind them.
***
They had settled into lodging above a seedy tavern where the keeper spoke no English and asked no questions. The crew went about their own mischief the following day, while Abi and her father explored the city. When another night encroached upon them, Captain Clear tried to convince his daughter to remain in their upstairs room. But Abi wasn’t having it.
“I’d prefer if you retired,” her father contended. “You know the unsavory sort that frequent a place like this at night.”
“Oh, Papa.” She moved past him, making her way to the narrow stairwell. She had dressed in her red petticoat gown again, feeling festive for another night on land after months of sailing. Without thinking, she muttered, “It’s not as though I’m a maiden anymore.”
Her father’s tone was sharp in her wake. “What did you say?”
Abi’s heartbeat slowed with her footsteps. She bit down on her tongue. Summoning an airy grin, she faced him. “I only mean that I’m of age. In case you haven’t noticed. No need to guard me so vigilantly any longer.”
He scowled, donning his feathered tricorne captain’s hat. “To the contrary. Now I’ve more need to.”
Abi rolled her eyes. “I wager I’ll be the one guarding you tonight. Especially if you’re heavy on the sangria.”
Captain Clear offered his arm. Somewhat surprised, Abi took it. It was a gesture he seldom made. “If you insist on joining in
the eve’s revelry, then you’ll not leave my side.” He guided her down the steps.
Abi sighed. She didn’t mind keeping near to her father, only she wished he wouldn’t treat her as though she was still a child.
The tavern was lively with music and flagons clanging against mugs. One rowdy group spoke in rapid Spanish over hands of playing cards, while a man danced evocatively with a rather tastelessly-dressed woman.
“Cap’n!” Young Peter was already red in the face, chortling over his beverage. “You’ve found yourself a dame for the evenin’ already?”
Abi spun around in indignation, and Captain Clear whacked the boy behind the head. Cloudy, amber-colored liquid sloshed out of his mug.
“Lordy, that thar be Abi,” observed One-Eyed Will audibly. His own speech was rather slurred. “Didn’t recognize her without trousers.”
Abi fixed him a deadly glare, and Will closed his mouth.
“My own damn crew,” her father muttered, plunking onto a barstool. “I knew this was a bad idea.”
“Bebida, señor?” inquired the barman, drying his tan hands on a rag.
Captain Clear shook his head. “Nada.”
The barman turned to the next patron, and Abi pulled out the stool beside her father’s. “You’re not ordering anything to drink?”
“Not if I want a straight head on me.” The captain dropped his voice, leaning in as she sat. “I’m going to ask about the galleon.” He indicated the swarming room before them. A table of men and women laughed and clapped their hands in time to the music. Meanwhile, aproned stewards bent by the hearth, lighting sconces to prepare for sundown.
“Tonight?” Abi cocked an eyebrow.
“What better time than when they’re drunk?” he whispered. “A sloshed man’ll spill anything. I, on the other hand, wish to remember the answers.”
“If you say so.” Abi smirked. She cast another glance around, and noticed a trio wearing rather flamboyant waistcoats, with long, colorful feathers in their caps and a fresh shine to their boots. One of them looked up in time to catch her watching.
His hooded eyes connected with hers. He possessed an olive-toned, angular face, with a needle-thin mustache. He grinned at her. Abi quickly looked away.
As darkness settled outdoors, more patrons poured in. Abi had stopped paying attention to the opening and slamming of the door. It was too much a strain on her neck to keep turning to see. She didn’t know who she was expecting, anyway.
Her father had tried to strike conversation with a few fellows, but no luck. Either they spoke no English, or were just passing through and hadn’t heard of the incident that took place in the vicinity, ten years prior.
Abi had finished with an exotic supper and was sipping idly from her goblet when the stool to her left scraped against the floor. She looked up. The lavishly dressed man with the mustache boldly assumed the spot beside her. In his wake followed his two companions.
Abi braced herself for his greeting, when the gentleman instead tipped his gaudy hat to her father. “Buenas noches, señor. With your permission, may I be seated beside your niña?” His tenor voice was smooth and articulate, his accent punctuating every syllable. He might have been friendly, but somehow, the sound reminded Abi of a slithering snake.
Captain Clear appeared, if anything, delighted that the man spoke their tongue. “Of course!”
“I am Hernán.” The Spaniard extended a long, thin hand. Captain Clear shook it. “These are my amigos, Raul y Ferdinand.” He indicated the pair behind him.
“Charles,” Abner Clear introduced himself.
“Char-les,” repeated Hernán. His grin didn’t reach his eyes, making it look as though he was simply baring his teeth. He turned his focus to Abi. “Que linda. And this señorita ees, ah, your hija—your daughter?”
“Aye.” The captain hesitated. “That’s my daughter, Betty.”
Abi bobbed her chin. “Pleased to meet you.”
Hernán extended a hand, and Abi had no choice but to take it. Inexplicably, her skin crawled as he brushed a faint kiss on her knuckles, his lips dry and cool as stone.
The Spaniard chuckled to himself, releasing her. “Perdón, but ’tis an unusual place to bring one’s daughter, no?” Captain Clear looked uncomfortable, but Hernán swatted his back, barking with laughter. “I jest, Señor Char-les. So, what brings you two to Bilbao?” He took his seat beside Abi.
“Business, as usual,” Captain Clear told him vaguely.
Abi drew another sip from her goblet.
“Mmm.” Hernán settled on his stool, drawing too close to her. He smelled like wig powder. “Earlier, did I overhear you inquiring after a galeón?”
The captain’s eyes brightened. Beside him, Abi held her breath.
“Mayhap. Why d’you ask?” Her father rested an elbow casually atop the bar, as though only mildly invested in the conversation. Abi followed his lead, studying her empty supper plate, as if it interested her more than the flamboyant strangers.
“Eh,” shrugged Hernán, playing along, “we might know of a galeón. One went down not so far from here, some years ago. It was sunk,” his hooded eyes blackened, “by piratas.” The word clicked from his tongue, reminding Abi of a snapper turtle.
And that was when it dawned on her that Hernán did not like them at all. And she didn’t feel all too warm towards him, either.
Desperate for a means to communicate this to her father, she planted her heel over his toes. He shot her a brief glance of confusion, and nudged her boot away with his ankle. Abi stepped on his foot again.
Hernán examined his fingernails. “They say a great treasure went down with it.” The r in treasure rolled menacingly off his tongue.
The captain cleared his throat. “Do they?”
“No one has ever gone searching for it. But if they did,” the Spaniard spoke carefully, “their findings would certainly belong to España.”
Abi never did know when to keep her mouth shut. “But wouldn’t it belong to England, though?” she interjected. Hernán’s eyes flashed over to her. “Spain was sending the gold to them in a trade.”
His fake smile again. His stark white teeth looked jagged, like a shark’s. Abi wanted to cringe. “Why, Señorita Betty. But it would appear you are more informed than you and your papa let on.”
Abi and her father stilled.
The Spaniard lowered his voice to an unsettling rattle, glaring at her father. “Let’s not pretend any longer, Capitán.”
But of course, Abi realized. Her father was wearing his captain’s hat!
“You come for what is not yours. If that is your only business here, then my advice is you leave Bilbao on the first wind of the mañana…and not an hora later.” He tilted his chin toward Raul and Ferdinand behind him. Covertly, from their belts, they displayed twin rapiers. The metal gleamed in the torchlight. Hernán simpered smugly as they concealed the weapons again. “Entiende?”
Abi squeezed her father’s wrist, but the older man shook her off. “You dog,” he hissed to Hernán. “Who do you think you are, trying to intimidate me?”
Both men arose from their barstools, sizing each other up. Abi smelled trouble.
Frantic, she waved across the room for the crew. Bones, ever faithful, was the first to notice her. Recognizing the confrontational stances of his captain and the stranger, the black man got to his feet at once.
Abi slid off of her stool, intending to slip away and rejoin the safety of the crew’s ranks. But an iron grip clasped around her upper arm. “Ach,” she gasped. She was stalled from moving forward as Hernán pulled her painfully closer against his narrow, velvet-clad chest.
“Don’t touch her,” snarled her father. He unsheathed his cutlass. Raul and Ferdinand bore their rapiers in response. Someone yelped, and those around them backed away from the spectacle.
Hernán wielded a sword of his own. Before Abi could register what was happening, the blade was at her throat. She shivered in horror. It was already too late to fight bac
k. If she struggled against it, she’d slice open her neck.
The staff began to shout at them in Spanish. But when they saw the weapons and the hostage young woman, even they ducked, clearing out of the way. The door opened and shut, several patrons scuttling out while they could.
“Papa, your pistol,” Abi rasped.
“It ain’t loaded!” He looked ragged with terror. “Damn it, Abi, I told you to stay upstairs tonight!”
“Enough.” Hernán’s fingers gripped her arm so hard, she was certain there would be black and blue marks when he was through. “Let this be a lesson to you Inglés filth to keep off of our land, and away from our treasure. You will go now.”
“Not until you get your hands off her,” growled Bones, approaching with his dirk.
Slowly, Hernán lowered the sword. Abi was about to breathe with relief, but the man didn’t release his grip over her arm. “I think not.” He grinned sickeningly. “Mis amigos and I have never had a red-haired woman before.”
Abi’s stomach turned.
“Your little hija comes with us, Capitán.”
“The hell I do,” spat Abi, and jabbed her elbow into his navel with all of her force.
“Ai!” Hernán exclaimed.
She tore away as the crew broke into battle against him, Raul, and Ferdinand. At first, their prospects seemed more than favorable, so many against just three. But soon, not surprisingly, more of Hernán’s cohorts came crawling out of the woodwork, having been lurking elsewhere in the tavern, now rising to aid their ringleader.
“Abi—go!” Her father brandished his cutlass, slicing one attacker’s chest.
The last time she had left her father in the middle of battle, she’d been kidnapped. She had been lucky then, with a captain and crew who intended her no harm. But she was certain she wouldn’t have the same luck again. “I’m not leaving you, Papa,” she cried.
“You can’t disobey your captain,” Peter chided her. But in the instant it took him to turn and speak to her, a Spaniard plunged a knife into his side.
