*
I reached the maintop—a square wooden platform forty feet above the deck—and leaned back against the mast with the wind on my cheek and sun on my face. I squinted ahead, trying to be the first to spot land. Nothing, just blue and sun as far as I could see in every direction. I usually loved the isolation of a ship at sea, but now it felt lonely. I’d had enough of the men with whom I shared this floating island; enough of the vast empty space surrounding us; I wanted people again. People and bustle and smells other than unwashed sailor, salt and tar. I wanted to hear women’s laughter, costermongers shouting their wares, and heated discussions that didn’t concern wood, canvas or hemp.
But I knew it wouldn’t be long before I again craved the sounds of life at sea—waves lapping against wood, tarred lines creaking through blocks, and wind whistling through taut rigging. Not to mention the chanting of men working together, heaving on rope, and sailing this wondrous beast across the known world and beyond.
There! Cloud on the horizon!
“Land oh!” I cried, loud enough to be heard on deck below. I smiled at the rush of men to ratlin and foredeck to see for themselves. It was just a grayish smudge at the moment, but five years at sea told me it was what I was looking for, and it would soon take on the shape and color of the Spanish Main. Home. Magdalena.
*
I still hadn’t seen another ship, and didn’t like it. Something was wrong. Porto Belo was a busy port on the northern coast of Panama—there should be ships both putting in and putting off out to sea. Where are they? I told myself there was nothing to worry about; there’d be a simple explanation. But I think I knew.
I climbed down and sent up the boy, Alonso, as lookout, then went aft to the quarterdeck and Capitán Valdez.
“It’s too quiet,” I said, “where’s all the shipping?”
He nodded, he’d realized the absence too. “Get the guns ready,” he said, “but do it quietly; I don’t want to worry the men unnecessarily.”
“Sí, Capitán,” I replied, and went forward to speak to Lopez and Rafael.
We were a merchantman and not heavily armed, but these waters were infested with pirates of every nationality, and we’d had to defend ourselves before. We all knew it was a part of life at sea, but none of us relished the prospect of a meeting with any one of them.
Lopez and Rafael went below to start shifting cargo. We had four cannon, but they were stowed to make room for goods—we were loaded with brandy, cloth and other home comforts from Spain. We’d have to bring some of it topside to make space to rig the guns and give them room enough to fire. Above deck we had two smaller rail guns, and while they were always in position, their powder and ball were below. I wouldn’t start bringing that up, in full view, until we had a better idea of what lay ahead.
I went aft again to the captain.
“Smoke,” he said, nodding his head forward.
I looked and realized he was right—it wasn’t cloud hanging over Porto Belo, but smoke. It had been sacked—again. It was likely that pirates were nearby.
“Ready the guns,” he shouted, and everybody stopped what they were doing and looked aft at us, then forward toward Porto Belo. They were professionals though, and the starboard watch immediately went below to the magazine to bring up muskets, pistols and ammunition. The rest of the men coiled down sheets and braces to keep all the rope out of the way, and packed bolts of cloth that had once been cargo against the bulwarks to try and afford some protection against splinters if we were caught in a fight.
Porto Belo was one of the Spanish Main’s treasure ports, loading up the bi-annual treasure fleet with silver from the mountain at Potosi, and had been raided again and again over the years, primarily by Englander and Frank. In times of war, the raiders were privateers, in times of peace they were pirates—or buccaneers as the Englanders styled themselves. In reality they were the same men, committing the same deeds, just with or without a letter of marque as license from their King; it didn’t seem to matter to them either way. And now they’d done it again, even though Spain and England had signed a peace treaty thirteen years before. I wondered if they’d missed the silver fleet—it should have sailed over a month ago to avoid the Carib hurricane season, but things rarely went to plan in the New World.
I raised my telescope—the one thing I had in memory of Papá—and looked at the harbor. The pirates were long gone. A lot of ships were sinking, but some were already on the bottom, only their topmasts visible above the waves. We’d have to take care on our approach to anchor, and I glanced up at Alonso on the maintop. It was only his second voyage and I hoped his eyes and wits were up to it.
I looked back at the waterfront. It had taken a pounding—most of the warehouses had been shattered by cannonball, including the one belonging to Luis. Panic gripped me and I found it hard to breathe. Please don’t let me have lost them too. Please don’t let me have lost Magdalena.
I glanced up at the sails—where’s the wind? I need more wind! I needed to know, but there was nothing I could do to get ashore any quicker.
*
“Let go anchor!”
Finally. I made sure I was in the first longboat with Capitán Valdez—even though as first mate my duty should have been aboard the ship. But it was Luis’ ship, and, for the first time, I used my family connection to get my own way. I had to know.
The pull ashore was intolerable; the water littered with debris of every description, including human. It already had the stench of a graveyard in the hot sun. I could hardly bear to think about what I would find ashore.
At long last, I stepped onto terra firma and tied the boat off, then straightened up and looked about me. The brick buildings were all in a state of collapse and fire had ravaged the wooden. There was nothing left.
“Leo!”
I started at the shout and turned.
“Luis!”
I hurried toward him. They’re alive!
“Gracias a Dios! Thank God you’re well!”
“Sí, I and Marisol were inland, we missed the raid.”
“And Magdalena?”
He looked at me, but said nothing.
“Luis, what of Magdalena? Is she well? Where is she?”
He shook his head. “Leo, I’m sorry, she’s gone. They took her.”
“Then we have to go after her!”
“Leo, no. You know what the buccaneers do to the women they take. She’s dead or soon will be. There’s nothing we can do. She’s gone.” He was in tears.
I clenched my teeth and fists equally hard, but he was right. They’d take their pleasure and toss her overboard; we could do nothing for her.
“Who?” I asked.
“Tarr. It was the Englander, Tarr.”
Tarr, Blake and Hornigold. Again. The same men who had killed Mamá. I’d been unable to do anything to stop them then. I could do nothing for Magdalena now.
Chapter 9
LEO
5th March 1684
Four Leagues West of Dominico
“Sail oh! To East’ard! No colors!”
I looked up at the shout from the tops, grabbed my telescope, and jumped into the ratlins to see for myself. We were heading north past the islands of Martinico and Dominico and it was probably nothing—these waters were full of merchant ships—but I also knew that made them ideal hunting grounds for pirates.
I trained my glass to the east and could see topsails—a twinmaster, fully canvassed, still with no flag flying. That in itself meant very little, most ships only flew their colors when they met another at sea or were approaching landfall. Merchantmen of the same nationality would take the opportunity to meet with their countrymen and swap news. Merchantmen of differing nationalities would keep well clear of each other for fear of attack.
“Break out the Cross of Burgundy,” I said, and our Spanish colors unfurled at the main-masthead and snapped in the stiff breeze. I watched the other ship. Nothing. It was etiquette to reply with one’s own colors. I didn’t like this. I studied her
again and realized she was carrying a little too much sail for the conditions. Whoever was on her quarterdeck was driving her hard and still showing no colors.
“Bear off!” I shouted, and jumped back down to the deck.
“Set the topgallant!”
Every instinct screamed at me that the vessel was trouble. I could not lose my ship on my first voyage as captain. I needed speed and for that I needed canvas. Setting the highest sail on the mainmast would put the rig under a lot of strain in this wind, but I was sure she could take it. We could well be in a race for our lives.
Pinta slowly turned westward, downwind—our fastest point of sailing—and men swarmed up the mainmast whilst others trimmed the rest of the sails on my three-masted command. We were bigger, with a longer waterline, and we had a good chance of outrunning the smaller vessel, as long as the masts stood firm with the extra canvas. But I was painfully aware that Pinta was built to carry cargo, and if that was a pirate ship astern, she would be fitted and rigged for speed.
*
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment to rid them of salt, then looked aft at the vessel behind. There was no doubt now that she was chasing us; she had adjusted her own course and was dead astern. She was still too far behind to affect our wind, but she was gaining and there was little I could do about it. I still hoped she was friendly, but realized there was little chance, and my worst fears were confirmed when she finally showed her colors. A plain red flag. La Jolie Rouge. Pirates—and the worst kind. Those that flew black offered quarter and would spare the lives of a crew that surrendered to them. Those that flew red offered none. They’d force the strongest and fittest men to join their own crew, and would likely torture and kill everyone else just for the sport of it.
We were in big trouble.
“Harden up!”
Pinta turned and the crew ran to sheets and braces to haul the sails around. I watched the pirates. They copied my maneuver, staying between us and the wind. I kept watching. Damn it, she was faster.
“Bear off!”
We turned back downwind.
“Lighten ship! Cargo overboard!”
My crew ran to obey. We would make no money from this voyage, but we were beyond profit now—we had to do everything we could just to escape with our lives, and a lighter ship was a faster ship.
Barrels of cacao and coffee littered our wake, but the pirates were relentless and crashed through both wave and cask. They were gaining.
I watched the topsails—the most powerful sails on the ship—and cursed as their canvas rippled. The pirates were close enough to steal our wind. If we kept this course, they’d be on us in minutes.
“Harden up!”
“Haul braces!”
It was our only chance, even though I already knew it wouldn’t work.
“Ready the guns!”
We had no choice but to fight. I looked at my decks and my crew of thirty men; then looked aft again. That vessel might be smaller, but there’d likely be over a hundred men crammed onto her decks and many more guns. I looked up at her masthead again and the bloody flag that flew there. There could be no surrender. It was time to start praying in earnest.
Chapter 10
I ducked, as did everyone else on my decks. It had been a warning shot; the ball hit the water ahead of us. That meant they wanted the ship; they weren’t going to sink us. That was something. If I was right.
The roar of the cannon died away, and I became aware of another noise, just as terrifying: a slamming of a hundred steel blades against the wooden rail of a ship, accompanied by the chanting of a hundred men.
“Kill! Kill! Kill! Blood! Blood! Blood! Die! Die! Die!”
They were almost alongside. My belly knotted in fear and I felt sick. Every weapon aboard was in the hands of my suddenly insignificant crew. We each had a pistol and a cutlass. Some of us had a dagger too. My two best shots, Mendez and the Portuguese Juaquim, had half a dozen muskets each up on the main- and foretops.
The pirates outnumbered us by more than three to one. They each had two, and in some cases four, pistols draped around their necks on wide silk ribbons. They had blades in hand, and more were stuck into the red, black or blue sashes wrapped around their waists. They had boarding axes and marlin spikes, chains, clubs and grappling hooks.
We had no chance.
I looked up at the bloody flag.
We had to fight.
“Now!”
Both my larboard cannon, loaded with cannonball, fired into the pirate ship—we had one chance to sink them. At this range we couldn’t miss—and did not.
They answered with their own cannon, and I realized they had loaded partridge shot. They didn’t care if they lost their ship; I’d been right, they weren’t trying to sink Pinta, they wanted to take and keep her. The small lead balls and bits of metal they fired were designed to kill men, not send our ship to the bottom. At least Pinta was bigger than their own vessel; maybe they would keep most of my men on as crew.
They wouldn’t want me, though. That captain wouldn’t want another on his crew to challenge him. Killing me would be the first thing he’d do to dominate my men.
Should I surrender, despite the flag? Hope he’ll want my men? Maybe save some lives?
I looked around the decks and at the strained faces. Would they surrender if I asked them to?
“We fight, Captain.”
I looked at Frazer, my Scottish first mate, who had spoken. One look at his face, and I knew he was right. We would fight.
The pirates’ chant stopped and was replaced with a blood-curdling scream and volley of pistol shot, which sent my men crashing to the decks to avoid being hit. Grappling hooks flew through the air into Pinta’s rigging, and men flew on the attached lines. My crew scrambled back to their feet to meet them.
Musket shot rang out from both tops and men fell. Mendez screamed all the way to the deck. Juan, my second mate, was hit as he stood at my side. Blood spurted over my face. He was dead before he could complete his cry of pain.
Pinta’s decks were full of men overwhelming her wooden boards. After the first volley of shots, it was too hard to distinguish pirate from Spaniard, and all I could hear was the clash of metal blade on metal blade; the thump of cutlass against flesh; screams of triumph, fear and pain.
I ducked and slashed my swordarm upwards to fend off the blade heading toward my head. I staggered backwards and thrust the dagger in my left hand forward into the man’s stomach. He fell.
I turned to meet the next challenge and gasped. My hesitation was nearly fatal, but I recovered my wits enough to fight off the man trying to kill me. He fell.
I spun back to look for the face I had recognized in the melee. Yes, it was him. Captain Richard Tarr. He was here, on my decks! This was my chance. I raised my still unfired pistol.
I never saw the man who hit me. One moment I had Tarr in my sights, the next I hit the rail and was falling overboard.
I surfaced, coughing brine, and watched my stricken ship, my crew, and my chance at revenge sail and fight on without me.
Chapter 11
LEO
7th March 1684
Somewhere West of Dominico
I was in the sea for days, clinging to one of the casks that had recently been my cargo, and more than once thought that was it. If I didn’t die of the sun and lack of water, I’d be eaten alive by the beasts living in my new home. I saw countless dark triangular fins heading toward me, as straight and true and fast as any ball that had been fired at Pinta but, when they reached me, instead of teeth, there was an overwhelming blackness, and I’d jerk awake once again, almost crying with relief until I realized that only part of my nightmare was a dream.
Eventually, I felt sand under my feet instead of water, but still didn’t trust my senses. Even though I’d seen the island intermittently over the last day or so, I hadn’t believed my eyes, and had thought it part of another nightmare; slipping in and out of the early morning mist in front of my eyes, one minute
there, then gone. Tantalizing me, giving hope just to strip it away again.
I knew I’d been lucky to have drifted onto the beach; if I’d had more faith in myself and believed in what was right in front of me, I could have got here much faster, but I didn’t care. I was out of my watery grave.
*
I lay on the beach, too tired to move, overpoweringly thirsty, and realized I could hear another sound over the heartbeat of the waves—a splashing, not a pulsing, a river? Fresh water?
I slowly got to my feet, the wind cold on my body, and walked; legs and arms feeling as heavy as cannonball. Soon my legs were shaking with the effort. It was ridiculous; I was a grown man, a strong man of the sea, and I was staggering along the beach like a babe, lurching from one step to another. Just how long have I been adrift?
*
Eventually, I reached the line of trees and shade, but instead of getting easier away from the relentless sun, the going got worse. The undergrowth seemed to cling to my bare feet, trying to hold me back, and I sat down, my back against a palm tree, and rested. It was just as well; sitting there in silence I realized the sound I was following was echoing off the cliffs I could just about make out through the canopy of green. I’d been about to head off in the wrong direction.
Once more full of doubt, I dallied with myself, thinking again that I was imagining things; there was no water. I’d reached land, surrounded by the water with which I’d chosen to share my life, and it had killed me. Frustrated and despairing, I banged my head against the bole of the palm behind me, the pain reminding me I was still alive, and it was up to me to make sure I stayed that way.
I went to push myself upright again and saw plants off to my side—ananás. Three of them nestled, cocooned and protected inside a shield of spiky leaves—and I realized I was going to live.
Desperately, I fumbled for my sheath knife with swollen fingers and cut into the ripe fruit. The cloying, sickly sweetness took my breath away, although it didn’t manage to eradicate the taste of brine. Halfway through the second fruit I started retching, throwing away the only food I had eaten in . . . I don’t know how long. Once the heaving was over, I cut open another fruit. This time I just sucked the juice and managed to keep it down.
The Valkyrie Series: The First Fleet - (Books 1-3) Look Sharpe!, Ill Wind & Dead Reckoning: Caribbean Pirate Adventure Page 23
