Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  “Let him go,” Morgan said, kneeling beside her. “You don’t want his blood on your hands.”

  Perhaps he was right, perhaps she didn’t, and yet it would have been a satisfaction, some recompense for the losses she had sustained because of Valcour Murat.

  Around her, the men left on the beach snatched up the one or two remaining pistols, firing after the fast-rowing pirates as they drew away. Splashing into the water, they shouted, yelled, cursed, flung sticks of wood and sea shells, all to no effect. The men in the boats pulled farther and farther out to sea, taking the weapons, the hopes, the chance of survival of the men on the island, leaving them marooned with nothing except the specter of harsh Spanish justice.

  The babble of rage and blame, despair and fruitless plans died away. The Prudence lay with bare poles; there was no chance of getting her ready in under six hours of hard labor at least. She was useless then, and her boat had been on shore and was now gone. They had nothing with which to defend themselves other than a few knives and daggers, carpenter’s tools and hand spikes that would be useless against well-armed soldiery. The only thing left was to take to the woods, going into hiding, though the island was so small it would be only a matter of time before they were found and dragged one by one from their dens.

  A few took the chance, sidling away, disappearing into the green shadows of the palm forests, but most stood where they were.

  The bluff captain of the Prudence could be heard counseling his men, drawing them apart. Most of them, he said, were English by birth and recently taken by the pirates to boot. It should go easy with them, even the dons being able to understand the oaths men swear when the devil drives. They had only to tell the same tale, and like as not their ship with her cargo, the salted cod left uneaten by the pirates, would be returned to them, Spain and England being, for once, not at war with each other.

  There was no such comfort for the others as they watched the mutineers swarm aboard the Black Stallion. With the frigates growing larger on the horizon, they could hear the shout of orders and squeal of the winches of the brigantine drawing her anchor free of the blue water. They saw the white sails unfurl beneath the yard-arms, dropping downward until the trades bellied them and the great fore and aft sail on the mainmast filled, the boom swinging wide. Sleekly, without apparent effort, the ship began to move out of the cove, leaving them behind with a fine kick of froth at her stern.

  “He’s going to make it,” Captain Bonhomme said. “That whore-son is going to make it.”

  But Morgan was watching the trees at the points of the cove, a frown drawing his thick brows together. “I think not.”

  From around the curves of the cove, coming from opposite directions, their masts mingling with the tree trunks, were two war vessels, great ships of the line mounting more than two hundred guns between them.

  “Sacre bleu!” the other man breathed, though it was difficult to tell whether in sorrow or gladness, as his gaze swung to follow Morgan’s sighting, then returned to the slender lines of the brigantine. Though the men on board were mutineers, they had also been his crew for many a long day and longer leagues of sea travel. That the men aboard the Black Stallion had seen them was plain from the scurrying to and fro and the angling of the guns.

  Félicité drew in her breath as she recognized the danger.

  “It may be they can still get away,” Bonhomme said, “if only they can clear this deathtrap of a harbor.”

  “He’s going to try for it,” Morgan said, his voice quiet.

  “He may as well. The brigantine has a shallower draft, right enough, and he could run back into the cove where the frigates and heavier ships could not follow, but the cannon of the Spanish are longer, with a greater weight and range. The dons can stand out to sea and smash him to flinders. Nay, he has to try for it, or else choose the rope.”

  The Spanish ships converged, coming nearer and nearer the pirate vessel, until, squinting against the sun, it seemed to Félicité that a stone thrown from one deck could easily have hit the other. “Maybe,” she said slowly, “the Spaniards are not going to fire on him.”

  Captain Bonhomme shielded his eyes, staring at the nearer vessels, casting a long doubtful glance at the frigates farther out. Then as his gaze lighted on the more distant brigantine, a great oath was torn from him.

  “What is it?” Félicité asked.

  “Ah, that I should live to see the day,” the man, groaned. “Mon Dieu, what have I done to deserve this betrayal? What did I ever do?”

  Félicité turned her eyes toward the lighter-weight ship traveling under the protective convoy of the frigates. Her voice soft with puzzled amazement, she said, “Why, it’s La Paloma!”

  “Of a certainty. It is the ship of that beautiful whoring bitch Isabella. She has sold us out to the dons.”

  “You must be wrong,” Félicité said, slanting a quick look at Morgan, waiting for his denial. He said nothing, his face bleak as he stared out to sea.

  “No, I am not wrong,” the other man said, “and well our friend Morgan knows it!”

  It was then that the Black Stallion opened fire, all her starboard guns speaking at once with a single, deep-thudding boom. At such point-black range, every shot struck the westward-gliding war vessel. Sails flapped and splinters flew. Shrieks of agony drifted over the water, but the Spanish ship glided onward for the space of several breaths without retaliation. Then from her decks there blossomed smoke and flame, and she heeled with the recoil of a thunderous broadside. The smoking cannon balls exploded across the deck of the Black Stallion, leaving tearing havoc in their wake. She veered then in ponderous grace, taking herself from the line of fire of her sister ship bearing down upon the now crippled brigantine.

  Like a wounded minnow, the Black Stallion zigzagged, trying to bring her port guns to bear despite shattered bulwarks and tattered sails. But there must have been damage to her helm, for she could not come about completely. One or two of her guns roared from near the stem, but the range was faulty. The round shot fell short and to the right, sending brine splashing skyward.

  It was the last shot fired from her, for the second war vessel with its high, ornate Spanish poop opened fire then with bellowing destruction. The cannonade reverberated against the sky and echoed from the hollow limestone bluff of the island. The men gathered on shore gave a collective grunt as the hurled shot brought down newly stepped mast and fresh sails.

  The cries of the dying sent a shiver along Félicité’s nerves. The brigantine, caught in the rays of the rising sun, seemed to glow, and then she realized that the bright shimmer amidships was licking tongues of fire. In hot greed they ran upward into the tangled and broken rigging and along the railing, feeding on tar and tallow and combustible pitch. Within minutes the ship was an inferno. Men with clothing ablaze leaped screaming into the water. One man climbed out upon the bowsprit to escape the rampaging heat and lost his grip, falling with a despairing wail to disappear beneath the waves. Great clouds of steam rose hissing to the heavens as the ship began to settle. Fearful of floating sparks of fire and windblown flame, the Spanish vessel stood off.

  “My God,” Morgan muttered, “aren’t they going to pick up survivors?”

  As if in answer, one tall ship began with leisurely motions to launch a longboat, but though it swept back and forth around the dying ship, by the time it reached the scene, there was no one left alive to rescue.

  The Black Stallion burned to the waterline, took on water, and sank stem first into the waves. Long before the final bubble of air had floated upward from the hulk, the war vessels rendezvoused with the frigates out on the sea and anchor cables were run down. There was a great breaking out of signal flags as complimentary messages were relayed back and forth and orders dispatched. Then, as if with one accord, the attention of the men on the Spanish vessels was directed toward the island.

  Valcour was dead, and with him more than a score of men. Félicité had seen them die, could even now see the dark turn of corps
es and charred timbers in the waves, could smell the smoke and see it dissipating over the sea. Still, she could not believe it, did not want to believe that life could cease so easily in the soft light of morning. That such a thing could happen, suddenly, without appeal, seemed more a crime against nature than the justice she knew it to be. That her own life could be nearing its run, the seconds fleeing with every passing breath, was something she understood, but could not accept.

  Her fears, as with anguished brown eyes she watched the longboats filled with red uniforms put out from the Spanish vessels, were not entirely for herself. They were also for the man at her side. How would Morgan, a turncoat Irish mercenary and former officer, fare with the Spanish? What would they do to him? What special death would they reserve for one who had betrayed them so publicly and was now caught in their snare?

  The boats swept nearer, cresting the waves, the gathering brilliance of the sun touching gold braid, flashing on scarlet, and glinting silver-blue along musket barrels. In the prow of one sat a dark-haired woman with white-streaked hair. Seeing her, the French captain moved with dragging footsteps farther down the beach, where with hands propped on his hips and the wind ruffling the brown curls of his hair he stood waiting.

  The other men gathered in groups. Bast, some distance away with several other members of the Black Stallion’s original crew, stared in Félicité’s direction. The depths of his dark eyes seemed to hold a silent farewell, but he made no attempt to approach. Félicité smiled, a small gesture of contrition from the aching fullness of her heart, then, lifting her head, she turned from him toward Morgan.

  Reaching out, she laid her cool fingers upon the muscled hardness of his forearm. Her voice low and clear, she spoke his name.

  He turned his head to stare down at her, his mouth curved in the ghost of a smile and the look in his green eyes dark. “Yes, Félicité?”

  “There is something I must tell you.”

  He put his fingers over hers, his touch warm, but oddly tentative. “I too,” he said in low tones, “but perhaps it would be better if we wait.”

  She shook her head, refusing in the urgency of the moment to listen to him. “For what? Soon it may be too late, and I must tell you that — that I love you.”

  “Félicité,” he breathed, the word a whisper of pain. “It is a fine gift for a man about to die, but—”

  “I did not tell you for that reason,” she said, searching his face, her velvet-brown eyes wide, “but because I wanted you to know, and there may not be another chance. I have known it these many weeks, long before Valcour asked me to help him take your ship. I have known it and would not speak, because—” She faltered and could not go on.

  “Because you could not trust me,” he finished for her, his voice dull. “Why then is now any different?”

  “If there is no future, trust is no longer important. Nothing matters except this moment.”

  He drew her into his arms then, holding her close, rocking her gently. “No matter how long I live, or what happens hereafter,” he said, his breath warm against her temple, “I will never forget this day, nor will I forget you, Félicité, in your shirt and breeches with the wind and the sea in your hair. And the words you have spoken will be engraved on my heart when I quit this life.”

  He pressed his lips to hers then in a warm, caressing salute that might almost have been a renouncement, then, cradling her in the circle of his arms, held her brown eyes with his own emerald gaze.

  Behind Félicité, there came the scrape and thud of the longboats landing at the water’s edge. The time had run out. For her, from Morgan McCormack, there had not been, would not be, a single word of love.

  20

  ISABELLA DE HERRARA WAS THE first to step from a Spanish boat. The French captain gave her his hand, helping her down to the sand. She smiled with great warmness, her fingers resting in his grasp for long moments. She spoke then a few quiet words that left an arrested look on his features, and turned away. Captain Jacques Bonhomme bowed, retreating a few steps, though his gaze did not leave the Spanish noblewoman.

  With orderly precision and little sign of haste, a pair of Spanish officers disembarked. After them came the soldiers in red who formed ranks with shouldered muskets and stood stolid and incurious, awaiting orders.

  “Morgan!” Isabella cried, as, looking around her, she discovered him with Félicité. Her smile was luminous with relief as she advanced. “I cannot tell you how marvelous it is to see you alive and whole. I so feared you would do something rash, such as attempting to fly with Félicité.”

  “The thought crossed my mind,” he answered, taking the hand the woman stretched out to him.

  Isabella nodded to Félicité and smiled before turning back. “Through the glass, I could not see you aboard your ship, nor could any other. Still, it was impossible to be certain. Of course, when the Black Stallion fired on us our captains had to assume either that you were not, or else you had gone mad! They had no choice except to destroy the vessel.”

  “I understand perfectly,” Morgan answered.

  It was more than Félicité did, and yet she was beginning to entertain a surmise so sweeping that it left her with a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “You are safe, that is all that matters. The rest can be — adjusted,” Isabella said hurriedly, then stepped aside as one of the Spanish officers drew near.

  “Ah, Colonel McCormack,” the man said, bowing with a hand resting on his sword. “I am sure the marquesa has expressed our, relief at finding you here on the island, and our regrets for the destruction of your ship. It is only left for me to extend congratulations for the successful conclusion of a most difficult mission.”

  Morgan returned the bow. “Thank you, Captain Ortega. The end of the affair would have been quite different but for your timely arrival.”

  With a murmured excuse and a thoughtful look in her eyes, La Paloma slipped away then. The captain watched her go with a trace of admiration in his face before he turned back to Morgan.

  “For our prompt arrival,” the man said, “much credit is owed to the Marquesa de Talavera. It was she who located your position for us. With the change of, your status after the pirates took your ship, and the whole of the Caribbean in which to search for you, it would have been a harder and more time-consuming task without her and the unusual vessel she commandeered. I will admit I was skeptical of the usefulness of the offer when she first expressed an interest in being of aid while cruising in the area, but I have since been much chastened by her accomplishments. As she put it to me, there are many places La Paloma — the ship I am speaking of, you understand — can go without causing alarm that a fleet of ships of the line cannot.”

  “Quite true, I would imagine,” Morgan answered, his tone dry. Isabella had reached Captain Bonhomme, and was speaking to him in low tones once more. To one side stood the captain of the Prudence waiting impatiently to have his say, while beyond him, Bast, his shoulders assuming their military straightness; once more was standing at ease in laughing conversation with the other ship’s officer. Félicité’ watched them all with a sense of grim unreality. The friendliness and respect being shown Morgan was not mere civilized behavior. With certainty, she saw that Morgan was not, had never been, a renegade. He had, in fact, never ceased to receive the pay of Spain. His presence in the Caribbean, far from being his own preference, had been carefully arranged, its purpose no doubt directed against the pirate activity in the area that threatened the success of the Spanish takeover of Louisiana.

  The Spanish captain was speaking once more. “This operation, and the way it has ended, should give the sea bandits plaguing our shipping pause. They will be looking over their shoulders from now on! Governor-General O’Reilly will be pleased, I’m sure.”

  “It’s only a beginning.”

  “But a salutary lesson, a statement of our position that had to be made.”

  “Yes,” Morgan agreed without enthusiasm.

  The offic
er nodded, then, dismissing the subject, asked, “What of this Murat you were bound to catch? Where is he? And what of the other vessel in the cove and the man here with you? What is their position? Also, I believe a few of the pirates were seen making for the wooded area. Should men be detailed to round up the stragglers? Just what do you suggest, colonel? My men are at your disposal.”

  Morgan glanced at Félicité, not quite meeting her eyes, “I will explain about Murat later. The men who took to the woods were understandably nervous of your arrival, having no idea of just what you intended toward any of us. Most are either from the snow in the harbor, or else were recruited by me for this expedition. The captain of the snow is waiting to be introduced, but first let me repair my bad manners by making you known, Captain Ortega, to Mademoiselle Lafargue.”

  “Mademoiselle,” the Spaniard said when the introduction had been completed. As he executed his bow, there was a knowing look in his dark eyes that said plainly it was not the first time he had heard her name. The gaze flicking over her costume of shirt and breeches was disapproving.

  “I would be grateful, captain,” Morgan went on, “if you would send this lady under escort to your ship.”

  “Of course,” the officer replied, his face hardening.

  Félicité swung sharply to stare at Morgan. He met her gaze for an instant only before turning back to the other man.

  “You will oblige me by showing her to whatever quarters may be provided for me, and by seeing she is granted every comfort and expression of respect.”

  The officer inclined his head with slightly pursed lips before he turned to give the necessary orders.

  “I-I must get a few things from the hut,” she said over the constriction in her throat. Was she a prisoner, or was she not? Though Morgan’s position was changed, the same could not be said of her own. She had gone on board the Raven willingly enough, had aided in the capture of the Black Stallion. Nothing she had done or said since could alter these facts, no excuse mitigated against the offense. In the eyes of the Spanish, then, she must be considered a female pirate and subject to the extreme penalties meted out for the crime.