“Here we are, in the middle of nowhere, with no threat in sight and a ship ripe for picking, so why do we feel anxious?”
Christian shrugged. “I don’t know. Are we getting too old for the pirate life?”
Santiago frowned, but then smiled when his first mate winked. “Light the smoke pans. Hopefully, our quarry has been lulled into thinking we pose no danger and will come to the aid of another Spanish ship in trouble. Or she’ll run.”
“Usually works,” Christian replied as he went off to ensure the order was carried out properly. There was always a danger of setting one’s own ship alight.
Santiago wished his friend had shown more enthusiasm, but what could go wrong? The method was tried and true. Create enough smoke to make the prey believe you were on fire so they would come to your aid.
When he judged the obnoxious black clouds from the oil-pans thick enough, he gave the order to strike the sails, then took out his telescope.
After long, tense minutes, the merchantman slowed and began to turn slowly. All that remained was to let the Santa María drift to within boarding distance.
As the other ship drew closer, Santiago’s crew assembled on deck, their faces blackened. It was a proven fact that captains surrendered more readily when they believed the screeching, heavily armed bandits attacking them were escaped slaves.
The thick smokescreen irritated Santiago’s throat, but at least it concealed his men.
“Wait for my signal,” Christian shouted.
The merchantman was within reach of the Santa María’s boarding ladders. The thrill of the hunt pumped in Santiago’s veins. “Hoist the drac,” he yelled.
As the purple dragon ran up the pole, the smoke cleared for a brief moment. But it was long enough to make out row upon row of uniformed sailors on the deck of the merchantman, all armed with muskets.
“Mierda!” Santiago shouted hoarsely, elation fleeing. “Infantería de Marina.”
“Spanish Marines,” Christian echoed.
Santiago was relieved when his crew hesitated. They’d be cut to pieces by the elite navy-men. “We surrender,” he bellowed, throwing down his sword. “Nos rendimos.”
Within minutes, the marines had boarded the Santa María and disarmed the crew. An officer emerged from the smoke and stood nose to nose with Santiago, an annoying smirk on his face. He sneered at the purple drac. “Capitán Velázquez, in the name of our sacred Majesty, King Carlos, I arrest you for piracy.”
Santiago exchanged a glance with his first mate. The amused resignation in Christian’s eyes showed that he too recognized they’d been caught in their own trap. The prey had turned out to be the hunter.
Again, Santiago had failed to pay heed to the necessity for caution. His crew would pay for his carelessness with their lives.
“My men will take charge of your ship,” the officer informed him.
Santiago kept silent, knowing what came next.
“Once we reach San Agustín, you will come before the Governor of La Florida to face trial.”
“I warned you a new broom sweeps clean,” Christian muttered as they were herded into the hold.
“I should have paid more attention,” he replied.
“This isn’t your fault,” his first mate insisted. “We all knew we’d get caught some day. It’s the risk we took.”
Santiago shook his head. “I ignored my instincts.”
Christian clamped a beefy hand on his shoulder. “Hindsight’s a great thing, my friend.”
Trial
Castillo de San Marcos, San Agustín, La Florida, 1763
“The court wishes to know where you were born, Capitán Velázquez.”
The question had been posed by the Governor of La Florida, who already knew his history, so Santiago deemed this just another step in the inevitable journey to the gallows. “Sevilla, Vuestra Merced,” he replied, squaring his shoulders as he looked up into the vaulted ceiling.
“Andalucía,” Governor Melchor hissed, his jaw clenched.
“Sí,” Santiago replied patiently, not bothering to politely add Your Honor this time. What was the point? He wasn’t ashamed of his Andalusian birth, though a Castilian such as Melchor wouldn’t consider him a true Spaniard.
However, a balding, ill-shaven clerk sat at a small, makeshift desk adjacent to the governor’s, long quill poised. If there was to be a record of the proceedings leading to Santiago’s execution in this foreign land, it was perhaps fitting to point out that his family’s deep roots lay elsewhere. “My ancestors were originally…”
The governor waved his hand, perhaps shooing away a persistent mosquito, and looked down his long nose. “The court is aware of your history, and of your pirate ancestor’s criminal behavior centuries ago.”
Santiago risked a sideways glance at Christian. As he expected, his first mate’s black face showed no emotion. He was probably the only man not sweating in the sweltering heat of the cramped space.
The Spanish governor of La Florida had appointed himself sole judge and jury. Obviously ill-at-ease conducting a trial in a storage room still bearing evidence of the hastily removed sacks of grain, Melchor dabbed the perspiration from his brow with a lace kerchief. “The Azores, wasn’t it?” he asked, apparently changing his mind about delving into Santiago’s past.
A grueling month spent in the citadel’s infernally hot, bug-infested cells, with little or no food, almost prompted Santiago to suggest his tormentor simply get on with the sentencing. He glanced again at the clerk chewing the end of the quill, swallowed his thirst and continued. “More than three hundred years ago, my great, great, great…”
Melchor interrupted again. “Grandfather…Santiago Fernandez. You are named for him.”
Christian blinked.
Chains clinked as the other twenty members of his crew accused of piracy swiveled their heads to gape at Santiago. They were aware of the circumstances that had led to his flight from Spain to the New World. In dubious taverns and alehouses the length and breadth of the Spanish Main, they loved to recount the tale of their dashing captain. It was the stuff of legend—a nobleman forced into piracy after fleeing a charge of deviant sexual behavior. It was a false accusation leveled by a spurned mistress who happened to have the ear of the Grand Inquisitor. In their estimation, his desire for vengeance on the country that had persecuted him was reason enough for attacking ships delivering goods to Spain’s far flung colonies.
But his men obviously hadn’t known of his connection to the legendary Fernandez, scourge of the English Channel and the Bay of Biscay, pirate-king of the Demonios del Mar, sworn enemy of every Englishman, Frenchman and Scotsman who’d drawn breath in the fifteenth century. That was a family skeleton he’d assumed he would take to the grave.
Some of the original crew from Sevilla had remained loyal, entering the buccaneering profession with relish once they realized the wealth to be had. Santiago never hesitated to share the spoils, and most of the food they pillaged was given to the inhabitants of native villages. However, a goodly portion of the gold they’d amassed still lay hidden—and would remain so after his execution.
The laborious scratching of the clerk’s nib jolted him out of his reminiscences. “Sí,” he replied. “Fernandez carried on his activities from Puerto de los Dioses, near the Azores.”
“And what happened to him?”
Melchor’s sonorous tone indicated he was about to pronounce sentence. Santiago raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “I have no knowledge of his ultimate end three hundred years ago. I suppose he died.”
Melchor glared the sniggering crewmen to silence, then stroked his mustache. “As an avid student of history, I discovered that Fernandez was eventually granted Letters of Marque by the King of Spain, legitimizing his piracy against British ships.”
Santiago should have been pleased to discover new information about his ancestor, but it rankled that Melchor knew something he didn’t, and why was the supercilious bureaucrat telling him all this? Just to show of
f his knowledge?
“You’re wondering why I mention Letters of Marque,” the governor said.
For the first time, a tic played just under Christian’s right eye. The rest of the crew gaped, frowning in confusion.
Melchor snapped his fingers at the clerk. “Leave.”
Once the little man had shouldered his way out of the crowded room, Melchor got to his feet. “Let me get straight to the heart of the matter. Thanks to the incompetence of our French allies, we are losing the war against the British they dragged us into. If we do, they will expect to get their hands on La Florida. I am prepared to sign Letters of Marque granting you license to do everything you can to harass and plunder British ships.”
Santiago hesitated. The pickings could be rich but, according to reliable sources, the war was already lost. Melchor had to know La Habana had fallen to the British. That was too close to his treasure hoard for comfort. There was little time left. “What’s in it for us if we agree?”
“You get to keep your heads.”
Should he push his luck? “A complete pardon, even for alleged crimes in Spain?”
Melchor grimaced. “Sí.”
Evidently, the governor had known about Salomé’s accusations. “In writing? For all my men?”
“Sí.”
“Then I agree.”
Pandemonium erupted as the crew cheered and patted each other on the back. Ivory teeth flashed and bright eyes sparkled when a broad grin split Christian’s black face from ear to ear.
Manuela drew her black shawl more tightly around her thin frame. “Your Papa has made the wrong decision,” she muttered. “And it certainly is not seemly for you to be present at such an event.”
Valentina continued to twirl in front of the looking glass, smoothing wrinkles from her blue silk skirts, and trying to appear unperturbed by her dueña’s outburst. She had no recollection of her chaperone ever criticizing her father, so perhaps Manuela was right. An unmarried young woman shouldn’t be exposed to the thieving brigands her father had recently recruited as privateers.
Social events in San Agustín were few and far between, but Valentina had willingly stepped into the role of official hostess after her mother’s death. Throughout the illness that had begun during the long voyage to the Americas, Paula Melchor had schooled her daughter to take her place.
“It’s my duty,” she replied. “The presentation of Letters of Marque is an important step forward in our war against England.”
“Tonterías,” Manuela retorted. “Legitimizing piracy isn’t progress, it’s rubbish.”
“But Papa insists Capitán Velázquez is of noble Spanish blood. His line apparently goes back hundreds of years.”
Therein lay the real reason she was determined to attend the ceremony. What little her father had told her about Santiago Velázquez had piqued her curiosity. She loved living in La Florida, but day to day existence in this outpost of the Spanish empire could be tedious. The busy social life they’d lived in Madrid was a distant memory. The royal appointment had been a promotion for her father, a feather in his cap; the tropical climate had cost the frail Paula Melchor her life.
However, if Valentina revealed her yearning for excitement to the still-muttering Manuela, it would doubtless make her dueña more determined she not be allowed to go.
Christian braced his legs against the gentle rocking of the Santa María at anchor and folded brawny arms across his broad chest. “You look like a macaroni,” he told his captain.
Santiago’s cabin was large, but he was getting overheated in his finery. He feigned annoyance. “What would a runaway slave know about the fashions of the nobility?” he asked, tilting his tricorn hat to a slightly more rakish angle. “Especially one from Jamaica.”
Christian shrugged. “At least you’re not wearing one of those foppish powdered wigs.”
“No fear of that, my friend,” he replied. “I have no intention of emulating our dear governor, until I am old and grey.”
He privately hoped that day would never dawn. He was proud of his shoulder-length, black hair. In some ridiculous way, as long as it stayed that color, he was still a Spaniard, a nobleman from a land with a far more advanced culture than the Americas.
Christian winked, running a hand over his wiry black curls. “Would I look more like a gentleman if I grew my hair long and tied it back at the nape like yours?”
Santiago laughed. “I’m afraid it will take more than that.”
Christian grinned. “A rose-colored velvet suit similar to the one you’re wearing, perhaps?”
Smiling, Santiago shook his head. “Pink isn’t your color.”
His first mate grimaced. “Who are you trying to impress with this macaroni outfit?”
Santiago inhaled deeply. “Let me explain fashion to you. Macaronis perch tiny hats on top of enormous wigs, whereas my tricorn sits perfectly atop my own hair.”
“But the feather is outrageous,” Christian exclaimed.
“That’s the point,” Santiago replied. “It will draw attention.” He pointed a toe. “Furthermore, macaronis wear tiny pumps, whereas I am shod in buckled shoes of the finest leather.”
“Stolen from a Spanish merchantman,” Christian interjected.
Santiago ignored him. “Macaronis wear short, tight trousers, whereas mine are of the appropriate knee length and fitted comfortably to my frame.”
Christian made a show of examining his fingernails. “By the French tailor we kidnapped.”
“And set free once he’d completed my wardrobe,” Santiago countered. He was about to add macaronis wore silk stockings, but since his own hose were made of silk, he thought better of it. “Lastly, macaronis are effeminate.”
Christian wagged his head from side to side. “Well, such an accusation could never be leveled at you, Captain. The señoritas would rush to your defense. Perhaps you intend to sweep some lady off her feet.”
Santiago shrugged. He’d sworn off women since tangling with Salomé Velázquez. “It’s unlikely there’ll be women present at the ceremony.”
“I heard Melchor has a beautiful daughter.”
Santiago wasn’t interested. “It’s difficult to estimate the governor’s age. Any offspring he has could be ten—too young—or thirty—much too old.
“And she doubtless has an equally ugly dueña who will make sure she doesn’t attend. I want Melchor to realize he isn’t dealing with a nobody, but with Don Santiago Fernando Velázquez de Vallirana y La Granada. I venture to guess the governor is from a family of lesser rank. If we are to plunder British ships, I want a share of the spoils.”
Christian shook his head. “Is it not enough we escaped the noose?”
“What good is life if we do not live it to the full, my Jamaican friend?”
He eyed his first mate’s attire. The shirt was clean, the trousers acceptable, the boots scuffed. “I suppose that’s what you’re wearing?”
“I’m coming with you?”
“Of course. I need a witness.”
Heat
Manuela continued to scowl, even when they entered the Great Room of the Casa de Gobierno and discovered Valentina wasn’t the only female in attendance at the formal ceremony. They might have known the pock-faced wife of the Vice-Governor would be at her husband’s side. Both stood with spines rigid, their demeanor oozing displeasure.
The pose wasn’t unusual for Ivanna Luna de Montserrat. Valentina never felt comfortable in the unpleasant woman’s presence. It rendered the wait for her father’s arrival with the pirate all the more nerve-wracking.
It had come as a surprise to discover upon their arrival in San Agustín that the Vice-Governor and his wife were Cataláns, though her father had said nothing. However, every Castilian knew of Cataluña’s long fight to be independent of Spain. It was hard to believe a Bourbon monarch would appoint a Catalán to an important position in the colonies, especially in a time of war.
Still, she supposed Montserrat must have earned the honor.
A dozen or so government officials and functionaries rounded out the gathering, conversing in hushed murmurs.
A sweating clerk, his tongue wedged between his lips, was laboriously penning something on a piece of parchment and every scratch of the nib grated on her nerves. Perspiration trickled down her spine in the oppressive heat.
She should have respectfully explained to her father the reasons she couldn’t attend, but had in the end felt duty-bound to be there for him. There was little doubt in her mind that Maximiliano de Montserrat coveted the position of Governor. She suspected her father was aware of the Montserrats’ malevolence. The man’s dark, sunken eyes put her in mind of the raccoons that frequented the rubbish dumps in this part of the world.
Señor Maximiliano Mapache. Bold and crafty.
She closed her eyes and conjured an image of Montserrat with a ringed tail that made her want to giggle. However, it was her responsibility to be her father’s sophisticated hostess—his aide-de-camp, so to speak, his comrade-in-arms. She’d felt his loneliness and isolation since her mother’s untimely death.
She fisted her hands at her sides, determined to behave with decorum as befitted the occasion.
That was a laughable idea. What could be less noble than granting a pirate permission to plunder with impunity?
Ivanna Luna’s black lace fan flicked back and forth, the bone veins clicking noisily. Her efforts were ineffective in chasing away the beads of sweat decorating the not-so-faint mustache on her upper lip.
Valentina cringed when the door hinges screeched. She would never get used to the humidity rusting everything. Two footmen entered and stood to attention by the open door.
She proudly squared her shoulders when her father strolled into the chamber. Montserrat and others may disagree with his decisions, but she was aware of his determination to do everything in his power to defeat the British.
The clerk laid aside his quill, came to his feet and bowed.
Pirates of Britannia Box Set Page 20
