Pirates of Britannia Box Set

by Devlin, Barbara

  Dressed in her finest black silk dress and wearing a black lace mantilla, Valentina stood beside her father in the garden of the home she’d grown to love. The familiar, soothing aromas strengthened her resolve to control her fear. Local people crowded between the beds of flowers behind them—Floridanos of every color, as well as indigenous natives from nearby Franciscan missions. Though they waited in silence to learn their fate, it was clear many were close to the breaking point.

  Valentina was determined to emulate her father’s noble stance. Looking dignified after she’d helped straighten his wig, he had insisted they wait for the British to come to them.

  They’d burned all the important government documents and Alessandro had done his best to dowse the flames afterwards, but charred bits of paper floated here and there and the telltale odor of smoke sat in the still air.

  It seemed the Fates had decided this humiliating surrender would take place on the hottest day of the year. She would remember July 21st 1763 as long as she lived—if she survived the first test of courage she’d ever faced.

  Every vessel normally docked in the harbor had fled before the arrival of the Royal Navy armada now at anchor in the bay.

  She lifted her gaze to the open sea beyond the ships. Somewhere to the south lay Cuba. Her father hoped to persuade the British to allow him to arrange transportation to the island for the local population. But there were no guarantees, and still no instructions from the government in Madrid.

  She inhaled deeply as she watched a Royal Navy launch come ashore. The excessive gold embroidery on the blue frock coats bore testimony to the rank of the men aboard.

  Three accepted the assistance of a seaman to debark the launch, obviously anxious not to get their boots wet. They straightened their tunics and adjusted their tricorn hats before proceeding up the slope towards the house.

  Valentina was suddenly reminded of Santiago’s extraordinary feather. He and his crew had probably fallen victim to the British fleet. The notion made her angry. She was facing the loss of her home, her freedom and possibly her life. A future with Santiago Velázquez had held the promise of adventure and joy. She’d had but a fleeting taste of what might have been and that was the most poignant loss of all.

  Hatred for the Englishman who led the invaders up the garden path seethed in her veins before he introduced himself. “Major John Hedges,” he declared in a sing-song voice, without removing his hat. “The ranking representative of His Majesty King George III.”

  Her disdain grew when his eyes wandered briefly to her breasts, but he quickly turned his attention back to the men.

  Pride surged when her father did not bow. “Don Felíx Melchor de Alcobendas y Guadarrama, Governor of La Florida through the grace of His Sacred Majesty King Carlos III.”

  Hedges opened his thin lips to respond, but her father carried on. “Permit me to introduce His Excellency Don Maximiliano Montserrat, Vice-Governor through the grace of His Sacred Majesty King Carlos III…”

  Hedges frowned when Montserrat clicked his heels together and bowed his head for a fleeting second, but said nothing. It was the first sign of backbone she’d ever seen the Raccoon display.

  “…And my daughter Lady Valentina Elena Melchor de Alcobendas y Guadarrama.”

  Following her father’s lead, she did not curtsey, opting instead to stick her nose in the air as if bothered by a bad smell.

  Hedges was left with little doubt he was dealing with important members of the nobility, representatives of the Spanish Crown, and his cough of hesitation as he removed his tricorn betrayed it. His powdered white wig stood in sharp contrast to the memory of Santiago’s lustrous hair. The major reached for Valentina’s hand and brushed a kiss on her knuckles. “Lady Valentina,” he muttered, his eyes full of lust when he raised them once more to her breasts.

  Her belly churned, but she resisted the temptation to wipe the back of her hand on her skirts. The urge to exclaim that she’d derived more pleasure from the kiss of a pirate was also powerful, but there was nothing to be gained in antagonizing this man.

  A second British officer handed a furled and beribboned document to Hedges, who tapped it against his palm. “I have here a copy of the terms of the Treaty of Paris, signed in February of this year, wherein your government ceded Florida to Britain in exchange for the return of Havana. All that is required to complete the transfer is your signature.”

  Her father made no effort to take the document. “I confess, Major Hedges, you have me at a disadvantage. Lamentably, I have not yet received word from Madrid regarding these particulars, and I’m afraid my signature is not all that is required.”

  Santiago coaxed the Santa María south, hugging the shoreline. He deemed it safer to continue flying the colors of the British-owned HBC. The ship wove in and out of the many bays and inlets along the coast of Georgia until they reached La Florida and the relative safety of the mouth of the Río San Juan. They dropped anchor and loaded what rations they could spare into the skiff. Xiang rowed his captain and first mate to shore.

  Santiago had made a point of maintaining good relations with the native people of La Florida, but his contacts were further south. However, he spoke a few words of Timucuan and hoped he would be able to communicate with the bedraggled handful of elderly men from the village of Alicamani who came down to the shore to greet their landing party.

  Haggard, leathery faces bore testimony to the ravages of smallpox, but at least they had survived the disease that had wiped out most of their race. Hunger haunted their gazes and Santiago wished he had more to give than meager ship’s rations.

  It was a lamentable truth that since Spaniards had come to the Americas, the native people had suffered greatly, but he knew enough to respect their fierce pride.

  “Timucuan?” he asked, bowing politely, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

  “Saturiwa,” came the reply, “but your Franciscans taught us Spanish. I am Athore.”

  Santiago proffered his hand in friendship. “Capitán Santiago Velázquez.”

  “The pirate.”

  It would be a mistake to patronize this savvy elder who had immediately recognized he was dealing with Spaniards, despite the false flags. And how had he known Santiago was a pirate? His reputation evidently preceded him.

  Evidently sensing his confusion, the chief smiled a toothless grin and accepted the handshake. “News travels among our people. Few whites share their wealth with men of a different color,” he explained. “Come to the village.”

  “I do not have wealth to share with you today. Just…”

  Athore shook his head. “Whatever you wish to give will be enough.”

  They followed in the wake of the elders, Xiang and Christian carrying the victuals. A few gaunt-faced women watched with hooded eyes as they entered the village. It was difficult to tell their ages; they looked ancient but were probably younger than the men. No children appeared.

  They stowed the supplies where one of the elders indicated, but no one made a move to touch them.

  “You bring news,” Athore said once they were all seated cross-legged in a circle under a canopy of palm fronds that offered some shade from the brutal sun. “We have seen the ships.”

  “My country has lost the war,” Santiago confirmed. “The British have taken over La Florida. It no longer belongs to Spain.”

  He wished the words unsaid as soon as they were out of his mouth. Athore’s people had welcomed Europeans, first the French, then the Spanish, only to see their right to the land stolen, their resources raped and plundered by the colonial powers for two hundred years, the flower of their youth decimated by disease.

  Something akin to resigned disdain flickered in his host’s eyes, but Santiago knew he would not instigate an argument with guests. He was no doubt contemplating the new reality his people would soon face.

  “Now you must learn to speak English,” Santiago advised with a wry smile.

  Athore got to his feet and waited until his guests were
also standing. “We will master the words, but I learned long ago that Europeans speak a different language we will never understand. Now you must make good your escape to Cuba.”

  Santiago nodded. “Sí, but first we plan to see if we can rescue any of the diplomats who may still be in San Agustín.”

  Athore arched a brow. “You go by way of Mosé. It will be dangerous, but you must follow your heart.”

  Santiago had the strange feeling from the twinkle in the old man’s eye that he knew exactly what was in his heart.

  They shook hands, prepared to return to the ship, but Athore didn’t release his gnarled grip. “The hat,” he said shyly.

  Santiago followed his gaze. He’d forgotten Christian still wore the top hat.

  The first mate doffed his headwear and held it out with both hands to the chief. “May I present you with this token of esteem,” he said.

  Grinning broadly, Athore accepted and carefully wedged the felt hat over his thick grey hair.

  It was a spark that brought the whole village to life. The women waddled over, babbling their excitement. The other elders smiled and bowed, congratulating their chief on his new adornment. Athore took hold of the ends of his long braids and strutted back and forth.

  Santiago and his crewmen took their leave and climbed aboard the skiff. As Xiang rowed them back to the ship Christian ran a hand over his tight curls. “How do you think they’ll fare?” he asked.

  Santiago wished he felt more optimistic, but no children had appeared throughout their visit. “They are doomed,” he replied.

  Flight

  Valentina wasn’t privy to the discussions her father held with Major Hedges in the Castillo. She paced back and forth, expecting the worst. What would become of her if the British executed her beloved father?

  There was no mistaking the exhaustion that lined his face when he returned to the house several hours later. Her knees almost buckled with relief when she saw him. Like most Spaniards of noble birth, they’d never been given to public displays of family affection, but she threw herself at him as he came in the door.

  “It’s done,” he said, stroking her back as she sobbed. “I have surrendered the keys to the Castillo and signed the documents. We are now guests of the British government.”

  She dried her tears on the hem of the simple muslin frock she’d donned and handed him a tumbler of water, the knot in her stomach tightening. “But surely they don’t intend to make us stay.”

  He took off his wig and guzzled the water, then wiped a dusty sleeve across his mouth. She had never seen him look so disheveled, but his reply gave her hope. “I negotiated an agreement that any of the local people who want to go to Cuba will be granted permission.”

  He sat heavily in one of the wooden chairs in the dining room. “It was a proviso of the treaty in any case. Hedges evidently expected me to be illiterate,” he muttered derisively.

  A multitude of questions still swirled in her mind. “Hundreds will want to go, especially the blacks. Staying here means losing their hard-won freedom. They’ll refuse to board British ships.”

  “Hedges won’t provide ships; he’ll allow Spanish vessels from Cuba to be used for the exodus. Apparently, there is a small flotilla already on the way from La Habana. It seems everyone was apprised of developments except me. Is it surprising we lost the war?”

  She cupped his tired face in her hands. “I am so very proud of you, Papa.”

  He took her hand and kissed her palm. “And I am glad you’re here, Querida. I feel better now I know we’ll be evacuated to Cuba. However, we must all leave from Mosé. Hedges won’t allow Spanish vessels into the harbor. Montserrat has gone into the village to get the migration underway.”

  Her heart lurched. Her father had overseen the cutting down of much of the dense forest between San Agustín and Mosé to deter attacks by pro-British natives from Georgia, but it would still be a daunting journey.

  Christian chuckled as he and Santiago strode into the fortress at Mosé. “How does it feel now to be in the minority?”

  Santiago was aware the stockade was manned by runaway black slaves granted freedom and Spanish citizenship. In return they served in the militia defending La Florida’s northern reaches. However, he had to admit it was an odd feeling to be the only white-skinned person in sight. “I expect you’ll rush to my defense if needs be,” he jested in reply.

  Christian laughed. “Only if you promise to give me another beaver hat.”

  “De acuerdo,” he agreed, distracted by the frenzied activity going on around them. “Looks like they’ve heard the news.”

  “Where’s your commander?” Christian asked a soldier hurrying by.

  They proceeded unchallenged in the direction indicated and soon encountered a giant issuing orders to seemingly no one in particular. He glared at them, a hint of panic in his bloodshot eyes. “How many can you take?” he asked gruffly.

  It was as if a spell had been cast. A hush fell as every expectant eye turned to Santiago and his first mate, awaiting a response.

  “Careful,” Christian murmured.

  Santiago played for time. “I am Don Santiago Velázquez de Vallirana y La Granada. Your name, señor?” he asked in near-perfect Castilian Spanish.

  “Jacobs. How many?”

  At least the giant hadn’t recognized his name, but if he came to suspect Santiago’s primary intent was to rescue white diplomats from San Agustín, rather than transport black soldiers, he might commandeer their ship. “Probably a dozen or so,” he replied.

  Jacobs immediately began selecting one soldier after another.

  Santiago held up a hand. “That will have to wait. I am authorized by the Spanish government to ascertain if the British have abided by the terms of the treaty and agreed to the evacuation of all the citizens of San Agustín.”

  “No matter their color,” Christian added solemnly, giving weight to the lie.

  Santiago hoped he still looked sufficiently like a Spanish nobleman to convince Jacobs as the man eyed him. He hurried on to stifle any doubts. “What’s the lay of the land to the south?”

  Apparently, his tone of voice and Christian’s remark persuaded the black man. “There’s a flotilla en route from Cuba, but they’re forbidden to dock in San Agustín. The trek north is underway.”

  Santiago’s hopes rose. “They’re coming here?”

  “Hundreds,” Jacobs admitted resignedly.

  There was no way of knowing if Valentina would be among the evacuees. It was likely her father had already shipped her off to Cuba. The rational course of action would be to take as many of the Fort Mosé militia as he could and flee south.

  But his heart whispered otherwise. “With your permission, Jacobs, we’ll stand by here for a day or two.”

  “Offshore,” he added under his breath.

  Mosé was a scant five miles from San Agustín, but Valentina feared for Alessandro. The elderly gardener might not survive the trek through the treacherous, snake-infested wasteland of scrub. Jagged tree stumps lurked beneath the greedy undergrowth already reasserting its claim on the land.

  She didn’t know his precise age, but he’d been born in La Florida and was now being forced to leave behind everything he’d ever known. His pride had led him to refuse her offer of a ride. She slowed her horse’s pace to keep an eye on him as he trudged along with other villagers to an uncertain future.

  Before leaving the village, they’d stood together in the tiny cemetery and shared a bouquet of blooms from his garden. He’d lain his atop the grave of his wife and two of his children; Valentina’s had wilted in her grip as she knelt by her mother’s grave, unable to stem the tears.

  Her father rode at the head of the exodus, Montserrat at his side. Strangely, she felt she belonged in the midst of the desperate throng.

  There were few trees left to offer shade from the merciless sun. Swarms of mosquitoes came in waves, then blessedly disappeared to be replaced by horseflies. The hours dragged by; people who fell
by the wayside were either helped back to their feet by friends and relatives, or mourned where they dropped.

  Letting her horse pick his own way through the dangerous terrain, Valentina drifted into a dream world. She was safe in Santiago’s arms, sifting her fingers through his thick hair, staring into his brown eyes, taking comfort from his deep voice reassuring her all would be well.

  A wail jolted her back to reality. She slid from the horse when she saw Alessandro lying on the ground. His neighbors moved way as she knelt beside him and took his bony hand. “You can make it. We’ll get you on the horse,” she promised.

  He shook his head. “Leave me, chica. I want to die in my homeland.”

  His breathing became labored, then quickly deteriorated to an eerie rattle. She choked on a sob when the rattle ceased, and he whispered, “Bloom where you’re planted, Valentina.”

  Someone must have helped her rise as his life ebbed away. Next thing she knew she was back on her horse, still on the march to Hell.

  She tried to resurrect the happy dream, but it was useless. The pirate captain was either at the bottom of the sea or he’d made good his escape to Cuba.

  Almost There

  Stripped to the waist in the infernal heat, Santiago paced the deck, aware of Christian’s eyes on him. They’d pulled further offshore to deter any thoughts Jacobs might be entertaining about commandeering the ship. The stockade had a couple of ancient cannon, but he doubted the giant would open fire on a vessel that was so far the only means of escape.

  He scanned the horizon.

  “No sign of them yet,” Christian reassured, “and Xiang will let us know the moment he sees them.”