As for herself, whenever she had ended up in the right arms, those arms had been snatched away from her. She had been separated from Kells first by misunderstandings, then by old entanglements and other people’s quarrels and chicanery - and now by the sheer chance of his having arrived back in Port Royal at precisely the wrong moment, when a sinking city and a cresting wave had conspired to down his broken ship.
A luckier man would have escaped that.
A luckier woman would have had a chance to say good-by to her lover before he sank beneath the waves.
Carolina’s lips twisted bitterly. There was no truth to the cheerful belief that good would triumph over evil, she told herself. Look at Robin Tyrell, Marquess of Saltenham! Look at Reba and Reba’s mother! They had certainly triumphed and were living no doubt in splendour in England, secure in the knowledge that Robin’s crimes had been safely pinned on someone else - Kells.
And now Kells was dead and would never be able to raise his voice against Robin, never retrieve his damaged reputation.
Carolina stared into the dark, her hands clenched, and fervently prayed to God that she would someday have the chance to confront the marquess, that she would have the chance to bring him down. In Kells’s behalf.
A bittersweet vision of Robin Tyrell rose hauntingly in her mind. Dark and attractive, so fleetingly like Kells, Robin had been the dark side of the coin. Memories assailed her, lashed her. Of empty grey eyes, of a dissolute face, of a caressing voice that had called her ‘dear lady’. There had been a time when she had almost believed she could change him.
Now she was older, wiser. Now she knew that people rarely changed - only circumstances.
And Robin and her old schoolmate Reba, the Marquess and Marchioness of Saltenham, were blithely going their way with never a thought for the woe they had left behind them.
Life was unjust.
Carolina threw herself face down upon her bunk, wishing she would smother and never wake, never live to face all the heartache, all the distasteful realities that lay in store.
And lying thus, she fell asleep and dreamed she was a little girl again, back on the Eastern Shore, crying for a lost doll - and for a father who could never love her.
And amid her tears, into that dream on magical boots strode a tall dark Englishman - Kells. Half awake, half asleep, she found herself tossing on her bunk and reliving those wild days in Tortuga, those days when she had by turn loved him and hated him. And in her dream a tall white ship carried them back to the Tidewater and a gala reunion with her mother at Level Green.
Having drifted off to sleep with thoughts of that leisurely world of Virginia’s Tidewater that she had lost so long ago, Carolina woke refreshed for the first time in days - and as she went out on deck in a pink dawn that turned the sea momentarily to a misty lavender, she realized that what had wakened her had been the ship’s turning sharply about.
The reason for that change of course was glaringly apparent.
Not only were the golden galleons still visible in the distance as they sailed cautiously past the coral reefs that guarded the northeast corner of Eleuthera, but two lean ships flying the French flag were approaching from the open ocean. Captain Simmons had turned tail and was fleeing before them to the west - a course that would inevitably take him down the Northeast Providence Channel.
The young captain had gambled and lost.
It was a black look he gave her when he saw her standing, yellow calico skirts blowing, by the rail. A look that said. We might have gone round Abaco Island and so reached safety had it not been for your counsel!
But Carolina, watching the ships approach, had a fatalistic feeling that there were ships everywhere that day on the watch for such as they, and that it would not have mattered whether Green Turtle Cay or even Pensacola Cay, the result would have been exactly the same - a frowning warship bearing down, driving them ever onward.
Like the others aboard she watched glumly as those stout ships herded them down the Northeast Providence Channel, past Spanish Wells, past Hole in the Wall. If they held this course they would wind up at the pirate port of Nassau on New Providence Island.
‘What does Captain Simmons intend?’ she asked the sailing master when she could get a word with him. ‘Does he not know that his present course will bring him to New Providence? Why does he not turn hard to starboard and run between Berry Island and Gorda Cay up the Northwest Providence Channel and so reach the Straits of Florida? It is his only chance!’
The sailing master looked hard at this young woman who had studied a buccaneer’s charts so well. ‘I would you were in command of the ship,’ he muttered, running a distracted hand through his nut-brown hair. ‘But the captain seems to have lost his resolve. He stands there with his teeth chattering!’ He gave his captain’s back in the distance a contemptuous look.
‘Well, someone must jolt him out of it or we are lost!’
The sailing master gave her a glum look. ‘I doubt anyone can do it. I wish to God I had never signed on for this voyage!’ He was still muttering as he moved on down the deck.
Carolina hesitated but a moment. The captain did not like her, but he must hear her out - all their lives depended on it. For she had little hope for any of them if they reached New Providence.
Squaring her slim shoulders, she marched upon the captain. He stood with his back to her, a beaten dejected figure in crumpled clothes.
‘Captain Simmons,’ she began.
He did not turn. He did not seem to hear her. His head was bowed and he was lost in contemplation of the deck planking.
She opened her mouth to speak again and even as she did the captain’s head was jerked upward by a cry from the rigging above and they saw, coming out from behind Sandy Point up the coast of Abaco Island on their right, the masts of a tall ship - and from her masthead she flew the blue and gold lilies of France.
What would Kells have done in such a case? was racing through Carolina’s mind.
‘Captain Simmons!’ she cried. ‘Turn hard to starboard. Run past that ship. You may yet escape a broadside and reach the Straits of Florida!’
As if in a trance, the young captain stared at the oncoming ship - his only barrier at that point to freedom. Slowly he swung to face the clamour that had arisen behind Carolina for others aboard were of her persuasion.
‘It is too late,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘We could never pass her. We would be blown out of the water.’
Carolina stared at the beaten captain and in her rage she wanted to burst into tears. How inglorious it would be to go to the bottom without ever firing a shot! Around her the crew was muttering, but they were not likely to mutiny - not in time at least, for they were fast losing their chance as the majestic French vessel moved out into the channel.
Captain Simmons blundered past her as if he could not bear the sight and Carolina watched bitterly as the big warships herded their inoffensive vessel towards New Providence Island and who knew what grim fate.
WELCOME TO
NEW PROVIDENCE!
16
All day beneath a cloudless sky they had sailed the clear cerulean waters. No shot had rung across the Ordeal's bow. Indeed it was unnecessary. She had struck her colours without being asked to do so and now slunk along, a beaten ship but still intact.
Along with the grim-faced officers, Carolina had remained on deck as the Ordeal was herded past reefs of pink coral and over a bottom whose white sand held a brilliance that seemed to highlight the parrot fish and barracuda that held sway in the aquamarine depths. And now their escort had been joined by other ships, silently driving towards New Providence.
No one aboard understood exactly what was happening, why French and Spanish ships were beating together towards Nassau, but Carolina sensed that the jaws of a trap were closing.
And now as the swift tropical darkness fell, they saw ahead of them a line of low, dark green bluffs rising. They had reached New Providence, and the shanty town that was Nassau lay ahead with
its protected harbour that could anchor half a thousand pirate vessels while denying access to the deeper draught men of war.
Nature had provided assistance, too. The long sandy spit of Hog Island, dotted with occasional wind-stunted trees, provided a barrier to protect the busy harbour where countless shallow draught ships seemed to be anchored, their white sails turned rose-coloured by the setting sun.
At that point a nine-pounder spoke from somewhere along the coast and Captain Simmons in panic gave orders to come about.
It was the wrong manoeuvre to have made just then. With a jarring lurch the Ordeal came to a halt. With the last of the light she had run aground on a sandbar off Hog Island.
Carolina never really understood what happened through the night. There was desultory firing, occasional lights blinking from shore, shouts that came from out of the darkness as great ships glided by. Once in the harbour a powder magazine blew up with a deafening explosion that sent an incandescent array of hot metal and flaming sparks into fiery arcs that hissed back into the black waters. Moonlight glinted on the white surf that boomed off a nearby reef. Carolina had heard that there were two entrances to this harbour - she had no doubt that this determined fleet that had so successfully blocked the Ordeal's escape had blocked them both off.
When morning came, shot pounded around them as desperate pirates tried to run the French and Spanish blockade with their fast, shallow draught vessels. Some of their ships were blown out of the water, some were captured and new crews put aboard to be sent into the harbour to pound the coast. Miraculously the Ordeal remained untouched, stuck fast to the sandbar, for the sturdy merchant ship had resisted all efforts to dislodge her.
As morning advanced, Carolina borrowed a glass from one of the ship’s officers and studied the town with curiosity. What she saw was mainly a tent city. Spars had been stuck into the sand with a bit of ragged sail attached to give shade from the brilliant sun. Behind that white sand beach, beyond the pink coral heads and the waving palms, stretched a jungle, and beyond that the coral hills where lookouts undoubtedly kept watch. Carolina wondered if the pirate lookouts had all been drunk yesterday that they had not seen their stately advance and given warning sooner.
The attacking force had gone ashore now and there was fighting on the beach. The nine-pounder in the crumbling fort had been silenced, but there was the popping sound of small-arms fire. She could see men running - and sometimes women with bright skirts flying.
Gilly had been one of those ... It was easy to picture the ginger-haired urchin mouthing oaths and jeers as she ran . . . But Gilly lay deep beneath Port Royal harbour.
Carolina’s jaw tightened. This was no time to ponder upon the past, upon what might have been. A longboat was approaching from one of the galleons that had cast anchor nearby, and in the prow was a frowning Spanish officer.
And Carolina, as the only person aboard who could speak Spanish, found herself cast in the role of translator.
Captain José Avila arrived aboard with an armed escort and formally demanded surrender of the ship Ordeal, which he termed ‘an impudent invader of Spain’s sovereign seas.’ He also demanded surrender of Captain Simmons’s sword but since Captain Simmons didn’t have a sword, he took command of the ship anyway.
‘Ask them where they are taking us,’ squeaked Captain Simmons in an agony of fright.
‘He will only say “disposal will be made of us,”’ Carolina reported woodenly.
‘Tell him I insist on having another interpreter,’ cried Captain Simmons.
Carolina turned and gave him a wounded look but she repeated his request faithfully to Captain Avila, who raised his dark brows, snapped his fingers, and muttered something in Spanish to one of the officers who accompanied him. There was a short wait during which Captain Avila instructed Carolina to read him the roster of the ship’s company and the ship’s manifest.
By the time she had finished that, they had a new translator, a melancholy-faced young man who came on board and snapped tensely to attention. Carolina guessed he was a young officer on his first assignment - perhaps he had been recently a student - and was overwhelmed by suddenly being singled out for duty under the sharp eyes of his commanding officer.
There was a swift exchange of words between Captain Simmons and the go-between. ‘Tell your superior officer that this ship is not an interloper,’ he said earnestly and there were now beads of sweat glistening on his brow. ‘We were carrying important cargo to England, there to be delivered to the Spanish ambassador for transshipment to Spain.’
He had their full attention now. Everyone, Spaniard and Englishman alike, was hanging on his words.
‘And what cargo is this?’
‘We carry the Silver Wench of whom you may have heard. She is the woman of Captain Kells, who loves her well. For her sake he will surrender his body to Spain!’
There was a general growl among his men but Carolina stood transfixed. She turned her accusing gaze on the sweating young captain for a moment, then decided to enter the fray herself.
‘It is true I am called the Silver Wench,’ she told her captor in her very good Castilian Spanish. ‘And it is true that I will always be Captain Kells’s woman!’ Her voice rang out. ‘But - ’
‘How come you to speak our language with such grace, señorita?’ cut in her captor with narrowed eyes.
‘I once found a Spanish girl shipwrecked on the Virginia coast. She was the lone survivor of a galleon that foundered in a storm. My father arranged for her return to Spain via the Spanish ambassador in London, but in the months she stayed with us, I learned her language. Later- on Tortuga - I befriended the Spanish prisoners of the buccaneers, bringing them fresh fruit and talking with them - they had few friends there.’
The Spanish officer, who up to now had considered Spain had a corner on gallantry, gazed upon the glowing beauty of this admitted buccaneer’s woman, and a grudging admiration crept into his dark eyes. Suddenly he swept her a courtly bow.
‘You are safe here, señorita,’ he said. ‘My men will not molest you.’ He turned with a frown to Captain Simmons, who had viewed this sudden bowing with alarm. ‘Tell this quaking captain that my men will now take over his ship for transportation of the prisoners from this pirate stronghold we have just now subdued.’
‘But we have here the Silver Wench! We offer her in exchange for our freedom!’ Captain Simmons cried almost tearfully.
‘Tell the young captain that he has a loose tongue,’ was the scathing rejoinder. ‘If he allows it to wag any more on this subject, I will have it cut off.’
Captain Simmons cringed back and Carolina noted how, as he joined his men, they drew away from him. She turned to the Spanish officer and gave him a deep curtsy and her brightest smile. ‘You are a true caballero of Spain, mi capitan.'
‘And you are a dangerous wench,’ he growled. But a captivating one, his smiling eyes added.
Boatloads of women were approaching, Carolina saw, being rowed in longboats by laconic Spanish sailors. She peered past them, looking for other boats - boats containing the hundreds of men who had fought the invasion on shore. ‘Where are the men?’ she wondered.
‘Put to the sword,' replied the Spanish captain and she looked at him, hardly comprehending.
‘You took no prisoners?’ she demanded.
‘Only the women,’ he said grimly. ‘Will you do me the honour to be their translator, señorita? For we have found none of them who speak Spanish.’
‘Yes,’ Carolina murmured dizzily. All dead, she was thinking. Kells had never done anything like that - not when he took Cartagena, not when he took Spanish vessels. He had ransomed them, not killed them!
She was diverted from her thoughts by the first woman clambering aboard - a blowzy woman with broken teeth and the wildest assortment of clothing Carolina had ever seen, topped off with a multicoloured bandanna wrapped around her large head.
One by one they came aboard, some laughing, some crying, some making eyes at the men a
board and flirting their skirts invitingly. But the last to arrive was the one who made an impression on Carolina.
She came aboard like a spitting cat and slapped the face of the young officer, who had handled her too familiarly as he helped her over the side, with a crack that snapped his head back.
‘Insulting whelp!’ she cried.‘Watch where you put your hands!’
Captain Avila was watching this byplay with some amusement. His dark gaze - approving in spite of himself - passed over this splendid bit of womanhood, her magnificent figure only accentuated by the fact that she was wearing men’s clothing. A pair of fine upstanding breasts pushed against the white cambric of her torn shirt and through it came delectable glimpses of pale female flesh. Her dark trousers fit rather too snugly and her lower legs were bare - indeed she was barefoot. Her dark blue eyes snapped imperiously and a head of riotous red hair sprang like glowing flame to surround a commandingly beautiful face - and a face accustomed to command.
‘This, señorita, is the famous Rouge,’ the Spanish captain told Carolina humorously.
But Carolina seemed not to hear him. A look of shock had spread over her lovely countenance, and for a moment she seemed to totter.
‘Penny,’ she said faintly. ‘Dear God, it’s really you! You're Rouge!’
ON TO HAVANA!
17
‘You are the Silver Wench? You, my little sister? I knew that Christabel Willing was the Silver Wench, but I never in my wildest dreams imagined that Christabel Willing was Carolina Lightfoot!’ Penny nearly doubled up with laughter.
Nightsong Page 20
