Pirates of Britannia Box Set

by Devlin, Barbara

Santiago grabbed his telescope, glad of having something to do after two hours of nothing but wind and waves.

  “He’s right,” he shouted to Christian when the ship on the horizon came into focus. “French man-o-war. Hoist the Spanish flags. Rápido. Uncover the nameplates.”

  Frenzied shouting and activity ensued as flags and pennants were hauled down and men grabbed hammers.

  Santiago paced. His crew had carried out this same deception many times. Their ability to change his ship’s nationality quickly didn’t worry him. He simply hadn’t anticipated a French ship so far south. Melchor had said nothing about the possibility, which probably meant he wasn’t aware of it either. It wasn’t surprising Spain was losing the war when the French navy, her supposed ally, wandered at will.

  Christian re-emerged, arms full of the new colors, and calmly issued commands to the men who took them from him.

  “What irony if we are blown out of the water by an allied vessel,” Santiago told his First Mate. “So much for our Scottish captain. Get my hat and keep a steady pace. But be ready to come about and run.”

  Long minutes later, hat in hand, he stood with legs braced on the fore-deck, hoping the French captain hadn’t observed the quick exchange of flags. The vessel was coming on fast, too fast to unleash its firepower on Santiago’s ship. Indeed, her gun ports remained closed.

  Timbers creaked, sails flapped, but nary a man spoke as the Frenchman drew ever closer.

  The spindrift on Santiago’s face helped calm his nerves when he finally made out the vessel’s name. He thought the Victoire intended to pass without challenge, but she suddenly slowed and changed course to intercept them.

  Overkill

  Santiago wedged his tricorn firmly on his head and straightened his coat as the two vessels slowed and came abreast. He refrained from issuing muster orders; the men knew enough to be ready in case the approaching ship guessed their true identity. He intended to behave like a captain, unlike the Frenchman who was waving wildly, making circles in the air with his finger.

  “What’s he saying?” Christian asked.

  Santiago shook his head. “Too far away to hear.”

  Then the voice came on the wind. “C’est fini.”

  “He says it’s over,” Santiago explained, though he’d no idea what the man meant. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Fini?” he shouted.

  “Oui. Paris. Traité.”

  “Crazy Frenchman. He’s lost his mind if he thinks he’s bound for Paris,” Christian exclaimed. “It’s a long way from here.”

  The Victoire was picking up speed again, heading south. Her captain pointed north. “Anglais,” he shouted, shaking his head.

  Santiago watched as the ship pulled away. “She’s running from the English,” he remarked, peering up at Xiang. “What do you see?” he bellowed.

  “Nothing.”

  Santiago drummed his fingernails on the ship’s rail for another hour.

  Suddenly, the Chinaman swore loudly in his own language, gesticulating wildly. “Lot o’ sheeps. Blitish.”

  “Mierda,” Santiago hissed, cursing that he hadn’t paid heed to his intuition as his telescope picked out a half dozen British warships on the horizon. “That’s why Frenchie was fleeing. He wants to keep his vessel out of enemy hands.”

  It was unlikely the Santa María could outrun the Royal Navy, and Santiago had never been one to turn tail and scarper. “Get the other flags back up.”

  Pandemonium erupted again as men scurried to obey.

  “Something’s wrong,” he told Christian when he returned with the fake flags. “I expected some patrols, but this appears to be an armada headed for San Agustín, which means…”

  “The war’s over,” his First Mate replied. “That’s what Frenchie meant.”

  Santiago’s heart lurched. “If the British have won, they will lay claim to La Florida, if they haven’t already.”

  “The Frenchman didn’t act like a victor. No use going back to La Florida in that case,” Christian said. “Better we make for Cuba.”

  Santiago nodded. “Sí. Eventually. Right now, our only chance is to bluff our way through the armada,” he replied, knowing in his heart that, if they survived, he’d return to San Agustín to rescue Valentina.

  Valentina lay down her embroidery and came to her feet.

  “That’s the reason I prefer we do our sewing indoors,” Manuela complained. “Too many distractions out here on the verandah. And the cloying smell from the flowers. It’s overpowering.”

  Valentina toyed with the idea of trying to convince her chaperone of the delights to be found in the wonders around them, but the woman was probably a lost cause, happy in her misery. In any case, she was interested in the French ship that had entered the strait, then dropped anchor instead of coming into port as usual.

  “They’ve launched a rowboat,” she told her dueña who simply grunted in reply.

  “Looks like just two men are coming ashore, but the ship’s sails are still…”

  She startled when the sound of a downstairs door slamming preceded the appearance of her father, shrugging on his coat as he strode hurriedly down the pathway toward the dock, his wig slightly askew. Montserrat padded along in his wake.

  Earlier in the day, her papa had hinted at an imminent defeat. She’d had a feeling then there was something he wasn’t telling her. Now she was certain of it.

  Gripping the railing, deafened by the pulse in her ears, she watched her father and Montserrat conversing with the men from the ship.

  “Get on with your sewing,” Manuela admonished. “You spend too much time worrying about affairs that don’t concern you.”

  Anger constricted Valentina’s throat. She picked up the sampler and threw it over the railing. “Silly old woman,” she exclaimed, struggling to control her fear. “We have lost the war.”

  Manuela’s astonished gaze was too much. Tears threatened. Valentina looked down into the garden, straight into the eyes of her dear papa.

  “Come down quickly, Niña,” he said softly. “You’re leaving on the French ship.”

  King George II maintained a steady speed as she approached the oncoming armada. Santiago didn’t worry about the authenticity of his Hudson’s Bay Company flags and pennants. They’d been stolen from a Company ship plundered in English waters by a French privateer, then sold on through various hands before coming into Santiago’s possession. The trade in foreign flags was a brisk one.

  His concern was that few HBC ships plied the southern waters on this side of the Atlantic. He decided it was time to make use of another important purchase he’d made when he’d bought the flags. “Get two of the beaver top hats,” he told Christian. “Give one to Robertson.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “For you. Unless you want to be taken back to Jamaica…in chains.”

  A few minutes later, Christian returned, the felt top hat of a gentleman perched jauntily on his tight black curls.

  Looking nervous, Robertson took the second hat and jammed it on his head.

  “Don’t worry,” Santiago reassured him, hoping his voice didn’t betray his own uncertainty, “I’ll be nearby telling you what to say.”

  Most of the English ships gave them a wide berth, the crews gawking at the black man with the top hat.

  “With any luck, they’ll consider us too insignificant to…”

  “Heave to in the name of His Majesty, King George the Third.”

  Santiago’s spirits plummeted. He immediately nodded the command to obey and gripped the rigging as his ship slowed. “A forlorn hope,” he rasped to Robertson.

  He looked across the narrow strip of water separating his ship and the ninety cannons protruding from the gun-ports of HMS Blenheim. A single well-aimed shot from just one of those guns would be sufficient to send the Santa María to a watery grave. The unnecessary display of awesome firepower gave him an indication of the kind of enemy he was dealing with. It renewed his hope. “Overkill, wouldn’t yo
u agree?” he muttered.

  Narrow Escape

  Manuela seemed rooted to the spot, but Valentina had no time to worry about that. She rushed downstairs, almost colliding with her father as he came in the door.

  “The captain of the Victoire is prepared to take all our ladies to Cuba,” he began. “Montserrat has gone to get his wife. Where is Manuela?”

  She cringed at the memory of her dueña’s stern demeanor during the long voyage from Spain. The prospect of spending more than five minutes aboard ship with the woman and the Raccoon’s hateful wife was too much. “My duty is to remain here with you,” she declared, feeling better once the words were out of her mouth.

  He tucked errant strands of thinning hair under his powdered wig. “Please, Querida, the Royal Navy is on its way. It appears our government has ceded La Florida to the British in exchange for the return of La Habana. Demonio! I learn this from a Frenchman and not my own government. They apparently require my signature to make it official. The situation is so confused, I would feel better knowing you were far away from here when they arrive.”

  “But I don’t want to go to Cuba without you,” she pleaded.

  He took hold of her hands. “I will join you there as soon as I can, God willing.”

  She shook her head. It seemed wrong to leave him. The British would not provide transportation to Cuba. They might even imprison him. The chaperone’s heavy footfalls echoed on the wooden stairs. “Manuela can go. I am staying here.” She rolled her eyes when a red-faced Señora Montserrat bustled in with her husband.

  “Nonsense,” Ivanna Luna exclaimed. “You’re coming with us.”

  The narrow hallway filled with angry voices as everyone began arguing at once.

  Valentina had always allowed other people to make decisions for her. It was time to take control of her own life. “Basta! Enough!” Ignoring the trembling in her knees, she fisted her hands in her skirt when stunned silence greeted the loud outburst. “I am staying here,” she repeated.

  Sensing her father’s internal struggle as he narrowed his eyes, she inhaled deeply when he declared. “Very well. The rest of you, to the Victoire.”

  Santiago eyed the English captain in the blue frock coat who stood ramrod straight on the fore-deck of HMS Blenheim, a sailor holding a loud-hailer at his side.

  “I dinna recall ever seeing so much embroidery on a uniform,” Robertson croaked.

  “Courage,” Santiago replied. “His arrogance can work in our favor.”

  “Aye,” came the doubtful reply.

  The demands began, echoing eerily across the water. “Home port?”

  “Montreal,” Robertson replied after prompting from Santiago.

  “Destination?”

  “Savannah. Picking up silk and indigo.”

  The sailor looked to his captain for instructions, then, “You’re off course.”

  “We’re nay in familiar waters.”

  Quick thinking, Robertson.

  “What are you carrying?”

  “Tell him the French stole our cargo,” Santiago instructed.

  “Looted by yon thieving Frenchies,” Robertson shouted. “What can ye expect?”

  Apparently exasperated, the captain seized the loud-hailer from his crewman. “Are you a Scot, sir?”

  Santiago recognized the affected nasally intonation characteristic of a wealthy English aristocrat, but he didn’t have time to pass on a reply before Robertson yelled back, “Aye, what’s it to ye?”

  It seemed old resentments died hard and the Scot already had the measure of the bristling Englishman who was clearly nonplussed.

  “Before he asks,” Santiago instructed, “volunteer the information that we were carrying the finest quality top hats for gentlemen in the colony of Georgia.”

  “When ye catch up to yon Frenchie, ye’ll find posh top ’ats that were destined for yer colonial hobnobs,” Robertson shouted, patting the top of his hat. “Or should I say, if ye catch him.”

  Santiago chuckled when the English sailor struggled to hide his amusement at his commanding officer’s obvious annoyance.

  “We don’t have time to bother with commercial shipping,” came the indignant retort. “We’re bound for Florida.”

  “Spanish territory?” Robertson asked.

  “The Spanish have ceded it to us.”

  “The war’s over then?”

  “We have been victorious and given up the cesspit of Havana in exchange for Florida.”

  Santiago’s gut instinct that the pompous Englishman would boast of the victory was proving to be well-founded. The news about La Habana was reassuring, but Valentina and many fellow Spaniards were trapped in San Agustín.

  Robertson turned to the crew. “Let’s ’ear three cheers for our victory and the bravery of our glorious Royal Navy, lads. Hip hip…”

  “Hurrah!” came the response.

  Even Christian raised his top hat three times as the cheers resounded.

  Santiago joined in the cheering, but his throat seemed to be too dry to make much sound. He breathed more easily when the English captain doffed his tricorn and bowed slightly in acknowledgement.

  Robertson had definitely earned extra rations!

  Santiago relaxed his grip on the rigging, but his optimism was short-lived.

  “Who is the negro?”

  He should have expected this question, but again Robertson preempted his instructions, obviously as insulted as the simmering Christian. “Ye’re speaking o’ Laird Christopher Williams, senior partner in the Hudson’s Bay Company, and owner o’ this vessel. I’ll advise ye to be more respectful, laddie.”

  Santiago risked a glance at Christian who had squared his shoulders and thrust out his chin in a very lordly manner. The notion of a black man rising to a partnership in the white-dominated HBC was ludicrous, but…

  The English captain settled his tricorn back on his head and passed the loud-hailer back to his crewman.

  “Sail on.”

  The disembodied words were the sweetest Santiago had ever heard.

  Ivanna Luna disappeared into the bowels of the Victoire after climbing the swinging rope ladder with some difficulty. Valentina could well imagine the haughty woman’s blustering indignation at the very idea of a French sailor putting his hand on her bottom! The captain would be lucky if she didn’t commandeer his cabin.

  Manuela had to be carried up the ladder, still sobbing after an unexpectedly difficult parting on the shore. Valentina was surprised to discover she was truly sorry to see the old woman go, and it was obvious the dueña was heartbroken at their parting.

  Her father put an arm around her shoulders as they watched the French vessel weigh anchor and resume the voyage south to Cuba. “She loves you,” he said hoarsely.

  Fighting back tears, Valentina returned the wave of the woman in black leaning heavily on the ship’s railing, supported by a sailor. “I didn’t realize how much,” she replied. “We might never meet again, and I’ve always treated her so coldly.”

  He sighed. “No time for regrets now. We must prepare for the imminent arrival of the Royal Navy.”

  “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  He kissed her forehead. “Your courage in remaining here has already helped. Your mama would be proud—angry with me for allowing you to stay, but proud.”

  Valentina tucked his words away in her heart as they walked back to the house in silence.

  When they reached the door, he said, “Get Alessandro to start a bonfire in the garden. We’ve papers to burn.”

  Backbone

  King George II dropped anchor in an isolated cove near the mouth of the Río Savannah.

  “How far up-river is the port?” Santiago asked his navigator, peering through the persistent drizzle.

  Izar sucked on his pipe. “Twenty miles, give or take.”

  Santiago wrinkled his nose against the acrid smell of the smoke that had settled like a cloud around the Basque’s head. “If we proceed to Savannah, we’re
likely to encounter more British challenges, although it’s possible they’ll be distracted by victory celebrations.”

  “If we dock and claim to be there to load silk,” Christian offered, “we’ll have some fast talking to do when no cargo appears.”

  Santiago shrugged. “We could explain it on a delay, or the weather if this rain keeps up, but when we turn around and leave…”

  “To go where?” Christian asked pointedly.

  Santiago had never lied to his crew, and the perceptive Jamaican would perceive a lie in any case. “Back to La Florida.”

  The rain stopped as quickly as it had begun and steam soon rose from the decks as the tropical sun put in an appearance. Izar blew out another plume of smoke, coughed up a gob of phlegm and spat it out. “Suicide. The British have probably already destroyed San Agustín.”

  Christian shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. They’ve apparently won the war and gained possession of La Florida. The Castillo is a valuable defense asset—almost indestructible. Why waste ammunition reducing it to rubble?”

  Santiago walked away from the bothersome smoke that seemed to be clouding his thinking. The rational, safe thing to do would be to give La Florida a wide berth and hurry back to Cuba. The entire island was again in Spanish hands, and the treasure…

  But Valentina was in San Agustín. “The question is, what will the British do with the Spanish inhabitants?”

  Christian raised an eyebrow. “Especially the government officials.”

  A thousand conflicting thoughts whirled in Santiago’s head. “If a treaty has been signed, as the French captain claimed, it hopefully contains provision for safe passage.”

  Robertson sniggered. “And ye expect an Englishmon to abide by an agreement?”

  There were too many unknowns over which they had no control, but one thing Santiago knew for sure. He’d never forgive himself if Valentina lost her life, or, worse still, her freedom, because he ignored her plight. Most officers of the Royal Navy were honorable men, but chaos was bound to result from the British takeover. Men of malicious intent thrived on chaos. It wasn’t uncommon for young women to disappear when they found themselves at the mercy of unscrupulous criminals. The notion of Valentina being sold off in some filthy slave market made his belly roil. “We’ll head for Fort Mosé just north of San Agustín and reconnoitre.”