Juliet quietly relayed an order to bring the Iron Rose about on a course that followed the outstretched finger of the sunken mast. After calculating wind speed and direction, she turned a specially marked sand glass on its end. There were two men on cables now, one of whom continuously called out depth readings from the bow, while the other dropped the logline off the stern and counted the number of knots that played out over the course of a minute to measure their speed. The rest of the crew stood silent, half of them poised in the yards, ready to act upon any orders the instant they were given. The other half stared forward to where Juliet now stood perched at the very tip of the bowsprit, communicating instructions to the helmsman by way of pre-arranged hand signals. Although she knew these waters as well as she knew the rifts and valleys of her own body, there was only one way through the reef, only one narrow channel of deeper water that took several twists and turns and did not forgive the arrogance of any pilot who failed to show the proper respect.
Almost to the mark, as the helmsman signalled that the last grain of sand had fallen through to the bottom globe of the hour glass, Juliet waved that the bow was over deep water again. Balancing between the taut stay lines, she returned along the bowsprit and jumped lightly down onto the forecastle deck where Johnny Boy was waiting with her spyglass. She took it, snapped open the brass and leather tube, and trained it anxiously on the much larger Santo Domingo, which was just beginning her run through the reef.
“She turns like a pig,” Juliet muttered. “I warrant Nathan has chewed his cud to mush.”
“I’ll wager Cap’n Simon is chewing a thing or two as well,” Johnny said, grinning.
Juliet swung the glass around and brought the islands into sharper focus. Four of the atolls were just that: caps of ancient volcanic rock that had pushed up through the surface of the sea. They were covered with tangles of brush crowned by a few scattered palms but were inhabited mainly by turtles and lizards. They offered no anchorage and promised nothing to passing ships except a splendid view of massive white waves crashing with spectacular violence against the barren rocks.
It was the fifth island, nestled in the middle and rising higher than the others, that housed the most sought-after secret in the Caribbee. Formed roughly in the shape of a C with overlapping arms, it had once been the uppermost rim of a volcano. An ancient upheaval on the sea floor had cracked the rim and created a natural deep water harbor in the bowl of the crater, a harbor completely shielded by walls of seemingly impenetrable rock. Simon Dante had discovered the island sanctuary purely by accident some thirty years before when a storm of horrendous proportions had produced fifty foot waves and swept his ship over the razor-like teeth of coral reef. It had taken him nearly six months to repair the damage to the keel of his beloved Virago and find a way out again—time enough to explore all five islands. He named the largest Pigeon Cay after the small clutch of gray birds his quartermaster had brought on board. They had been the first, when released from their cages, to fly straight at the base of the most improbable wall of sheer rock and show them the way through the entrance to the crater.
As keen as Juliet’s eyes were, even aided by familiarity, she would not be able to see the entrance until they were past the two outer islands. In her mind’s eye, however, she could clearly picture the lookouts on the summit clanging the alarm bells that would bring men running to the heavy battery of guns that guarded the approach. Never, in all her twenty-one years had Juliet known a single cannon to be fired in defence of Pigeon Cay yet she could not help but smile at the confusion that must be on some of the faces as they watched the massive Spanish warship maneuvering its way through the coral passage.
“If this were the Tribute,” she murmured, “and I was my brother Jonas, I would be tempted to loose off a broadside just to get their blood flowing a little faster.”
“Ye’d best be showing a friendly flag instead,” Nog Kelly suggested over his shoulder. “Unless my good eye deceives me, there be men bristling on them gun emplacements getting ready to offer us a warm welcome.”
Juliet trained the spyglass on the ledges she knew were halfway up the face of the cliffs. Sure enough, she could see the dull gleam of sunlight on metal and knew the snouts of two score heavy cannon had been cleared of the vines and brush that concealed them. The sentries would have seen the two ships from several leagues out and while the Iron Rose was as familiar to them as the backs of their hands, the fact she was accompanied by a Spanish warship of the Santo Domingo’s size and firepower would have set hackles rising.
“Do you think Cap’n Simon will be pleased with the prize you’ve brung home?”
Juliet lowered the glass a moment to smile at Johnny Boy. “Captain Simon will indeed be pleased with the Santo Domingo. It’s the rest of what we’re bringing him that might cause a vein or two to bulge in his forehead.”
She glanced pointedly down to where Varian St. Clare was standing by the rail and her smile turned into a scowl.
“Why is he on deck? I gave specific orders he was to remain below.”
Johnny Boy snorted. “As much as he knows about the sea, Cap’n, I doubt he could find his way back here in a thousand years.”
Juliet glared at the lad. “And just how would you know how much he knows about the sea?”
“When I fetched him his biscuits an’ ale this morning, ee asked me where we were. I showed ‘im a chart of the Tortugas an’ Cabecas de los Martyres an’ ee nodded like ee knew what ee was lookin’ at. I also told ‘im we were ten degrees off the equator, an’ he just nodded again.”
“Telling him we are two hundred leagues north of where we are is hardly proof of his ignorance, and if you’re wrong, you’ll be accounting to Captain Simon for the lapse. I suppose you were also the one who fetched him those clothes?”
“Weren’t no trouble, Cap’n. I found ‘em in some o’ the chests we brung over from the Spaniard an’ I didn’t think he should meet Cap’n Simon in torn breeks an’ a bloody apron. Looks a proper duke now, don’t ee?”
Something—probably the heat of silvery-blue eyes drilling into the back of his neck—prompted Varian St. Clare to turn and look up at the forecastle. His jaw was cleanly shaven, the moustache and imperial had been restored to precisely trimmed neatness. The bloodstained shirt had been replaced with one of fine Spanish linen, the cuffs and collar edged with lace. In place of the threadbare galligaskins, he now wore dark green Venetian breeches buckled just above the knee with gold silk bands. Dark hose, a pillow hat set on a rakish angle, and a surprisingly well fitted emerald velvet doublet completed the restoration from shipwreck survivor to royal envoy. If not for the bruising and the line of stitching down the left side of his face, she would have thought he had just come from the king’s court.
The midnight eyes held hers for a long moment before he bowed low to acknowledge her interest. She had not seen or spoken to him all morning and had no wish to do so now. It was enough to feel the residual heat smoldering under her skin and to know that if she did go near him, she might be tempted to throw him overboard and make him swim ashore.
“Arrogant bastard,” she muttered under her breath. “We shall see who mocks who before the day ends.”
With an effort, she dragged her attention back to the Santo Domingo. It seemed to take forever for the heavy galleon to clear the reef but once through, with the Iron Rose taking the lead again, the two ships made straight for Pigeon Cay. When she was close enough, Juliet raised the glass again and was able to identify some of the tiny specks that stood in clusters along the gun emplacements.
Her father was at the main battery, a tall, imposing figure who was equally at ease standing on the deck of a ship heading into battle as he was manning the defences of an island fortress. Standing by Simon Dante’s side, as ever, was Geoffrey Pitt, a man of inestimable knowledge who presented a scholarly appearance and gentle demeanor to the world but whose skill and ruthlessness at the helm of a fighting ship was second only to Dante’s.
Towering over the pair, his bald head shining in the sunlight, was the huge, black-skinned Cimaroon who had once been shackled beside Simon Dante in the belly of a Spanish galleyass. His hatred for his former captors was near as legendary as that of the man who had commanded his loyalty for the past three decades. Lucifer was Dante’s master gunner and there was not a cannon forged or a pistol made that he could not fire with frighteningly precise accuracy.
There was a fourth figure standing beside the lethal trio, smaller, slighter of build with an empty sleeve knotted below the left elbow. Isabeau Dante had taken the loss of her arm in stride. She had spent all of her life at sea and, just as Johnny Boy had learned to adapt to a missing limb, so had Beau adjusted and invented new ways to keep her husband and family on their toes. She did not seek any man’s sympathy, nor did she respect it when it was offered. In fact, when Juliet had left on this last sea trial, Isabeau and her aged first mate, Spit McCutcheon, had been working on a contraption that would fit the stump and allow her to hold a sword or a pistol.
“The flags, Cap’n?” Kelly shouted a reminder.
Juliet nodded and one of the crewmen ran out the pennons, the first a crimson wolfhound and a blue fleur-de-lis on a black field: the arms of Simon Dante, Comte de Tourville. Directly beneath it flew a second black and crimson burgee with a swallow tail, this one depicting the wolfhound with a gilded rose clamped between it’s teeth. A third plain green square of silk went up the mast, a prearranged signal that would relieve any concerns up on the ramparts that a Spaniard had somehow overtaken and coerced the Iron Rose into leading them to Pigeon Cay.
Within minutes of the flags snapping open in the breeze, the massive siege guns were hauled back under cover and their crews stepped forward, waving and hooting even though they were still too far away for the sound to carry. Geoffrey Pitt even removed his hat and raised it in a salute, which Juliet interpreted as a good sign despite the fact her father had not budged. He stood with his long legs braced wide apart, his hands clasped behind his back while he watched their approach.
Well into his fifth decade Simon Dante was still a handsome man. His body was iron-hard with muscle and aside from a few deep creases earned by raising three children and keeping a hot-spirited wife by his side, his face had not changed much over the years. Clear, silvery-blue eyes could still strike terror into the hearts of his enemies. The stern, authoritative voice could command the bloodless silence of a thousand men or, conversely, deliver a quip that could send the company around him into gales of irrepressible laughter. His expression gave nothing away that did not want giving and even though Juliet knew that enormous heart loved her beyond any mortal measure, she still felt butterflies beating madly in her belly. An angry word from those lips had the power to crush all her courage and bravado into dust. The smallest hint of disappointment in his eyes could gut her quicker than a knife.
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 rather than 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 she 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 a 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 tiller 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 c
ame 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 spithead 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.
Pirate Wolf Trilogy Page 45
