Captive Secrets
Page 7
Wilhelm’s nostrils quivered. He smelled money. “Now, why would I want those rotten ships? And why would the likes of you be wanting a frigate?”
Staring at him, Amalie was reminded of a mound of dough with finger indentations. “I asked you a question, Mr. Wilhelm. If you can’t give me an answer, I’ll go to the Dutch East India Company. Or I can make inquiries elsewhere.”
Wilhelm sighed wearily. “It would cost a fortune to have those ships careened, and they’re rotted with teredo worm,” he lied. “That will have to be taken care of before we can begin to discuss the possibilities you mentioned,” the harbormaster said craftily. He wondered uneasily if this was some kind of trick to trap him. His fat stomach lurched when he remembered how he’d spent the money that came from Spain for repairs and harbor fees. Long ago he’d made up his mind to lie if any of the Spaniards’ superiors ever came to claim the ships left in his care. He’d never been able to bring himself to the point where he would sell off or dispose of the ships out of fear that perhaps one day some fool would arrive with the proper credentials and claim the ships.
“I’m prepared to pay the bill . . . in full. But don’t try to cheat me, Mr. Wilhelm,” Amalie said quietly. “I know how much upkeep costs per year. My father kept a ledger with all his debts.”
“Yes, your . . . Mr. Alvarez was a crafty bastard.” And so are you, he added silently.
They haggled for well over an hour until Amalie suddenly turned to leave. “We’re getting nowhere, Mr. Wilhelm. Either you’re interested or you aren’t. I wish to settle this now. As to the frigate, I know there is one in the harbor that has been there for two years. Set your price . . . now!”
“All right, all right.” Wilhelm waved a hand in the air as if tired of debate. “If you have a mind to, we can walk out to the wharf and see just how rotten those ships are.”
“Both of us already know how rotten they are. They can, however, be salvaged, so why not finalize our business now? I’ll return tomorrow, and you can have the papers ready for me to sign. I want the justice to oversee this transaction. I’m sure he’ll want to send off another letter to my father’s government, apprising them of the fact that I’m selling the ships to you. Is that satisfactory?”
After another twenty minutes of haggling, the final price was agreed upon. “I want the frigate careened and then taken to the cove at Saianha,” Amalie said. “How long will that take?”
“A month, possibly less,” the harbormaster said, rubbing his jowls thoughtfully.
“Good. Then it’s a bargain?”
“Yes, a bargain.” Wilhelm’s eyes gleamed at the thought of how full his cash box would be.
Amalie nodded. “I’ll return at eight o’clock in the morning. Will that be satisfactory?” Again Wilhelm bobbed his head.
Smiling, Amalie strode down the plank walkway to the harbor and stared at the row of ships in their berths. She knew immediately which ones were her father’s, and she also knew where the frigate was. She shaded her eyes from the burning sun for a better look. To her, the frigate looked in worse condition than her father’s ships. When she’d had enough of the brutal sun and the sailors’ leering eyes, she retraced her steps and headed down a well-trod path to the town’s only brothel.
Amalie hated the place and all that went on behind the curtains on the second floor, hated it because the women were used and paid a pittance for their bodies. Three girls from the mission were here simply because there was nowhere else for them to go.
At the back door of Christabel’s establishment she called out and announced herself. Anyone who knew her would have been astounded at the look of compassion in her eyes as several young girls ran to her. How old and weary they looked, and none of them was as old as she. She stared into the eyes of the old hag who owned the brothel. “I’ve come to tell you that these children won’t be returning to this . . . place,” she said coldly, defying the hag to question her further.
Outside in the sultry late afternoon, Amalie explained to her charges that she was taking them back to her plantation, where they would live and work. “All I ask is your loyalty; if you can pledge that to me, then I will take care of you.” The girls nodded, their eyes alive for the first time in months. “Then it’s settled. I must stay in town this evening so I can be at the harbormaster’s office at eight o’clock. We’ll have to sleep in the wagon this evening, and we’ll need food. One of you can go to the shop for it. I also need to know where I can hire some able-bodied men to crew my frigate once it reaches Saianha.”
The girls giggled. The oldest, at fourteen, pointed to the path behind her. “All you have to do is waylay them on their way back from Christabel’s parlor. Or we can do it for you, they know us.” Three pairs of grateful eyes waited for Amalie’s response. After a tense moment, she nodded.
“Waylay them, then—but that’s all. Believe me when I tell you you’ll never suffer at a man’s hands again. It’s getting late now, and I have no desire to be on this street once darkness falls. We’ll come back after midnight.”
The children, as Amalie thought of them, huddled close together in the wagon, a huge banyan tree shielding them from the late-afternoon sun. For a while they whispered and giggled; then, eventually, they slept, sweet smiles on their faces.
Amalie sat on the ground with her back against the ageless tree, her long, honey-colored legs stretched out in front of her and her future secure in the pouch around her neck. Her head buzzed with the day’s activities and the knowledge that by tomorrow she would have a frigate and a crew to man it. She would also have her father’s mansion. The girls would clean it and keep house, but would there be enough money left to initiate the necessary repairs to make the place livable? There would have to be; she’d see to it.
A much more serious problem was what to do about the old priest and the dangerous knowledge he possessed. He alone could ruin her scheme. If walking back to the mission in the heat hadn’t killed him, then she would be forced to deal with Father Renaldo more directly. It would be at least a year before another missionary would arrive, possibly longer.
She could move the rickety mission to her plantation. The children could live in the old slave quarters, and their first major task would be to clear away the jungle from the main house. She knew that the fussy, flighty town women would cluck their tongues at first, but in the end they would approve as long as the quarters held beds and were clean. Amalie Suub Alvarez . . . protector of small children. Who would ever fault her?
Amalie’s yellow eyes calmed, and as she relaxed she gave the appearance of a sleepy cat. Her plan, as she thought of it, had many parts. The children were the first part; she needed them to work for her. The frigate was the second part of the plan, and securing a good crew was the third part. The last part of her plan, the grand finale, hinged on the first three parts.
Excitement coursed through Amalie. It would be dangerous, deadly even, but if she didn’t make any mistakes, she was sure she could assume the identity of the woman her father called the Sea Siren. An able crew would help her plunder the seas. Riches beyond her dreams would be hers. Her father’s kingdom would be restored. She would be a queen and the children her loyal subjects. It was a perfect plan. The only flaw—if it could be called a flaw—was that her kingdom wouldn’t have a king. Perhaps a prince or two, but never a king.
Amalie chuckled deep in her throat and dug her toes into the soft dark earth. Father Renaldo had always said one must anticipate problems and work them out before they became major concerns. There would be problems. She had no wicked scar on her arm, for one thing. The pictures in back of her father’s journal denoted a terrible scar that ran the length of the sea witch’s arm. Yes, the scar was going to be a problem, but it could be dealt with if she was willing to endure pain and disfigurement.
But how would she explain her sudden wealth? The thought had been in the back of her mind for days now. Anticipate, anticipate . . .
Amalie bolted upward, her cat’s eyes lighti
ng with sudden inspiration. The justice had said he was sending a second letter to her father’s superiors in Spain informing them of his decision. Months from now she could say her father’s holdings in Cadiz and Seville had been transferred over to her. The yellow eyes gleamed. The only person who could dispute her was the justice, but he would have given over his post by then. And he was a very tired, very old man, looking forward to his retirement.
Her plan, Amalie decided, would have no flaws, none at all.
A long time later, when the slice of moon rode high in the heavens, Amalie stirred. It was cool now, with a light caressing breeze. Overhead, stars sprinkled the sky in the velvety night. The birds had been silent for hours, and not a sound crept to her ears. It was time.
She walked on callused feet to the wagon, betraying her uncertainty as she roused the girls and asked, “How do we do this? Should we walk through town or . . . ?”
One of the girls giggled and said, “No self-respecting lady walks about after dark unless she’s escorted by a man. Christabel’s place is past the harbor. I know another way to get there, but it is longer.”
“Show me the way,” Amalie ordered, relieved. She wanted no encounters with any of the townspeople.
In the following hours, Amalie made many promises. Some she would keep; others were mere words. There was no honor in what she was planning, and the only reason she knew she would keep some of the pledges was to stay alive herself.
Shortly before dawn she issued her last order to a swarthy seaman with a stubble of beard and a nose that had been broken in too many places to count. “One month from today you will sail my ship to the cove at Saianha. Once the ship is berthed there, you will live aboard until I am ready to set sail. You will have a home with me for as long as you need one, providing you do not betray me or cross me in any way. You will be well paid, and you will be richer than you ever dreamed. I demand only one thing of you, and that is loyalty. Do you agree to my terms?”
The seaman looked Amalie over from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. His eyes strayed to the little girls, all of whom he’d had over the past months. Mellow now with rum in his gut and his loins sated, he nodded agreeably, but his eyes were those of a shark in open water.
“Aye, one month from today I will be in Saianha,” he replied.
Amalie watched as he stumbled down the road to town. She nodded to the girls. “It seems I have the scurviest, deadliest crew imaginable. For the right price one can get anything.”
“Cutthroats,” one of the girls whispered.
“Devils,” said the second little girl.
“Vermin,” said the third.
“Yes, all those things, but they will make us rich. They are men—stupid creatures who understand greed because money can buy them women and rum. But they don’t think beyond that. I, on the other hand, am a woman, and there are no limits to what a woman can do, especially one who understands her adversaries.”
Amalie’s plan was under way.
That morning, Amalie’s business with the harbormaster was completed in less than an hour, and she was on her way back to the mission by nine o’clock, a satisfied smile on her face. The smile lasted for several hours—until she and the girls discovered Father Renaldo’s body alongside the road. Amalie leapt from the wagon and cried real tears . . . of relief.
Chapter Three
The trees overhead were silent in the soft, warm breeze, an indication that Pilar was calm . . . for the moment. Jet eyes watched, their field of vision almost limitless as her young sailed up and then down, testing their newfound freedom.
Pilar’s killing talons were tucked beneath her long, fluffy belly feathers and had been in that position for some time. Slowly, calmly, she ruffled her feathers, taking on the appearance of a dry pine cone, and then shook them free a second later. Shiny emerald leaves moved in the dry breeze as the huge bird was transformed suddenly into something swift and deadly. The houseboy standing under the tree dropped the pail of raw meat and ran as fast as his bare feet would carry him. Safely inside, he peered through the breakfast room windows, his eyes searching fearfully for Gaspar.
The hawks were his responsibility, the housekeeper had told him, and he had given his word to the van der Rhys that he would care for the winged devils until they were ready to move on. He hated and feared them and their deadly sounds.
The evil-looking male, Gaspar, had been gone for almost two days, something that had happened twice before since Miss Fury’s departure. The female was not her usual calm self. “Devil birds,” he spat out, and blessed himself before returning to his other duties.
Outside, the branches of the chestnut tree dipped and swayed as Sato and Lago frantically sought purchase with their talons. Satisfied that her offspring were secure, Pilar soared to the ground, her talons digging into the wooden pail. She waited, wings tucked close against her chest, for her young to descend. The moment they left their perch she sailed upward. She watched as the young ate their fill and then returned to their perch beneath Pilar to wait for Gaspar.
The huge hawk returned as the sun was setting. Pilar fanned her wing and lowered it delicately over his tired body. He slept, his shiny eyes at rest, with Pilar next to him.
Six weeks to the day of Fury’s departure, Sato and Lago were able to fend for themselves. Their glittering eyes watched as Gaspar and Pilar emptied the basket in the chestnut tree.
Gaspar ruffled his feathers before he soared straight up, Pilar in his wake. They circled overhead several times before they started their journey.
“Kukukukuku.” Good-byegood-byegood-byegood-bye. For one startling second Pilar faltered, her huge wings dipping in the soft breeze. Then Gaspar tapped her wings with his own, his signal not to look back.
Their journey was just beginning.
Ronrico Diaz, the captain of the Java Queen, was a religious man, and he found himself looking forward to the late afternoons when Fury would walk about the deck and talk with him about her beliefs and her decision to enter the convent. He himself had two daughters who were nuns and one son who was a priest, and he constantly spoke of his family. Every night he prayed for this girl because he wasn’t sure she was ready for God. So many rosaries, so many prayers tumbling from her lips, so many questions in her eyes.
“Miss Fury, do you think you will recognize Java once we dock? It’s been many years since you were there,” he said gruffly.
“I think so. I was ten when we left, and my parents talked about Java constantly so that I would remember. I’m looking forward to seeing my old home again. You seem pensive this afternoon, Captain Diaz. Is something troubling you?”
“Yes and no. We’re due for some bad weather shortly, I can feel it in my bones, and we sail with an empty hold. Cargo makes it easier to ride out a storm.”
“I have every faith in you and the crew. And to add to that faith, I will say some extra prayers. I thought . . . what I mean to say is, I was concerned that you might be worried about pirates. We’re approaching dangerous waters, are we not?”
He patted her arm. “The Java Queen is a fortress, your father saw to that. There’s no need for you to worry about pirates. They won’t waste time attacking a ship that carries no cargo. In ten weeks you’ll be safe and sound in your old home. I made that promise to your parents.”
“God sees to our safety, Captain Diaz. I myself have no fear. Long ago I placed my hand in His, and He will protect me, and you, and this crew. But I must admit I’m so bored, I would almost relish some excitement,” she blurted out.
“What kind of excitement?” the captain asked uneasily, wishing Regan van der Rhys had allowed him to take on at least a few passengers. But the governor had been adamant about the empty hold and not taking on passengers.
“Anything!” Fury cried. “Captain, do you think the men would allow me to join in some of their games, the ones they play with cards and dice?”
“Your father would have me drawn and quartered!” the captain exploded.
“They’re a motley crew, and they swear and cheat,” the captain told her. “And they play for money. It’s no place for a woman promised to God.”
“Would they swear and cheat with a woman promised to God? I think not. And I have money to play with. I see no problem, Captain.”
“They drink and tell bawdy stories,” the captain said desperately.
“Captain Diaz, I was not raised in cotton bunting. I grew up with four brothers who were all hellions. I’ve heard all the bawdy stories. I’m an adult, Captain, and just because I’m entering a convent doesn’t mean I don’t know what goes on in the world.” To drive her point home, she added, “Don’t forget how my father took us all to sea every year. He told me I needed a well-rounded education. I even know how to swear, what do you think of that?”
“I think it’s a sin,” Captain Diaz groaned.
“We’re all sinners in one way or another. Captain, I wish to play,” she said firmly. “And tomorrow I would like to take the wheel for a little while if you have no objection.”
The captain had plenty of objections, but he wasn’t about to voice them now. “I’ll speak to the men. If they say nay, there isn’t much I can do about it. If they agree, then you . . . may participate. Now, isn’t it time for your evening prayers?” he asked sourly.
“So it is. I’ll pray that you tell me during the evening meal that it’s agreeable. Adios, Captain.” Fury laughed all the way to her cabin.
Alone in her cabin, Fury realized she was more than just bored: she was lonely. She’d been at sea for a little over six weeks and still had ten more weeks to go before she set foot on dry land. Her rosary, always a source of comfort, found its way to her hand. She fingered the beads, but she didn’t pray. The holy ritual did not comfort her; she felt angry and didn’t know why. She made a tight fist of the prayer beads before she placed them under her pillow to gaze around her with somber eyes.