Pirates of Britannia Box Set

by Devlin, Barbara

  “It’s settled then?” Melchor asked. “Can we outrun the storm and make it to Cuba?”

  “Let’s hope so,” Santiago replied. “Alert the crew, Izar. We’re in for a rough ride.”

  Hurricane

  Valentina had lost track of how many days they’d been at sea when she awoke to find the ship pitching and rolling. The cabin was still in darkness, and she had to cling to the wooden railing of the bunk to avoid being thrown to the floor.

  A tap at the door heralded Maitland’s arrival. He braced himself in the doorway. “As you’ve realized, my dear, there’s a violent storm brewing, and I prefer not to enter Spanish waters under such conditions. We’ll ride the storm out on Inagua. It’s uninhabited, but there’s an adequate cove there.”

  She’d often watched storms from the safety of her home in San Agustín and been awed by the power of the wind and waves. Being confined in the cabin was making her nauseous. “Once day breaks and we’ve found shelter, can I come up on deck?”

  He chuckled. “It’s long past dawn.”

  “But it’s dark outside.”

  “And as long as it remains so, you’ll stay safely in the cabin.”

  Suddenly, he lurched forward and sprawled on the floor.

  Valentina thought he’d simply lost his balance. Gooseflesh raced up her spine when Montserrat strode in after him, holding a pistol leveled at her.

  “Change course now, or I’ll blow her head off,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

  Scowling, Maitland sat up. “Change course to where? We’ll seek shelter for a day or two, then proceed to Jamaica when the storm has passed.”

  Montserrat moved to put the pistol against Valentina’s temple. “No delays; we are heading straight to Jamaica. Today.”

  Maitland got to his feet with some difficulty. “If we sail on, there’s a better than average chance we’ll be blown ashore in Cuba, or even Saint-Domingue.”

  “Nevertheless,” Montserrat insisted, beckoning Maitland with the pistol before gesturing to her. “Take Valentina on deck as well. I will kill her if you don’t instruct the crew to sail on.”

  Valentina had never considered Montserrat a reasonable man. Now a hint of lunacy gleamed in his sunken eyes.

  “You go first up the steps,” he told the Englishman when they exited the cabin, “then my precious Valentina. One false move, and she’s dead.”

  She clutched the railing, barely able to make her trembling legs work as they climbed the companionway. The violent rolling of the ship might cause the gun pressed against her spine to go off accidentally.

  The wind had whipped the rain into a horizontal sheet and she was soon soaked to the skin.

  Maitland braced himself against the pedestal of the ship’s wheel, and grabbed the handholds, aiding the panicked helmsman. She fisted her hands in the folds of his jacket, certain the wind would blow her overboard.

  He began to issue orders to his crew. Several subordinate officers struggled to the upper deck and gathered around, scowling their disbelief at the command to sail into the storm, but Montserrat warned them off. “Do as he says or the woman dies,” he shouted over the howling wind.

  “She won’t have the strength to hold on, you fool, if you don’t tie her to something,” Maitland bellowed in reply.

  With one arm hooked around the rigging, Montserrat pointed the pistol at a sailor. “You, get a rope and lash her to the railing.”

  Within minutes she sat with her back to the railing, a flimsy rope coiled around her torso and upper arms. The danger from being swept into the giant waves was lessened, but the driving rain made it impossible to see.

  Trapped in a nightmare, she had no notion of how long they tossed on the waves. The ship crested roaring giant swells, then dropped into eerily quiet valleys surrounded by walls of black water. The sails ballooned, then flapped noisily as the storm swirled around them. If the ship sank, she’d go down with it—

  —as would the captives manacled in the hold. “For pity’s sake,” she shouted hoarsely to Maitland. “Unchain the slaves. At least give them a chance.”

  “No,” Montserrat yelled, his pistol still leveled at her.

  “We need every man,” Maitland replied, his jaw clenched as he and the helmsman struggled to keep the vessel on an even keel. “Unless you want us to end up on the rocks.”

  To her relief, Montserrat nodded after some hesitation. He was shivering, perhaps having second thoughts about the foolhardiness of his actions. But it was too late. She was sure even Maitland had no notion where they were. He’d long since lost his hat and powdered wig to the hurricane. There was no mistaking the alarm that twisted his handsome face. She’d wager he was regretting getting involved with Montserrat.

  When the wind tore one of the topsails off completely, she shrieked and began to chant the prayer learned at her mother’s knee. Ave María, gratia plena…

  “Strike the sails,” Maitland screamed. “It’s our only chance.”

  Suddenly, Santiago’s dark-skinned friend was down on one knee beside her. “Keep your eyes on me,” he rasped. “And be ready to do as I say.”

  Before her numbed brain could form a coherent reply, he was gone, helping to wrestle down the remaining sails.

  She fixed her gaze on the man who represented her only hope, determined not to lose sight of him as the maelstrom took the ship and tossed it like a cork.

  Santiago had ordered the Spanish colors hoisted and the false nameplate removed shortly after leaving Kingston. However, as he and Izar strained to control the Santa María’s wheel he had to reluctantly acknowledge the flags had probably long since been lost to the wind.

  They’d struck the sails after an hour battling the hurricane and finally been forced to trust their fate to the wind and the tides.

  The hunt for HMS Lively had turned into a struggle for survival.

  It was likely the English captain had sought shelter in one of the many cays along the Bahamian Banks. Trusting that Valentina and Christian weren’t at the mercy of the vicious storm brought Santiago some consolation.

  He no longer had any idea where they were, nor what time of day it was. The dependable northeasterly trade winds had been whipped into a roiling cauldron of driving rain and black seas. He’d weathered some challenging storms in the Bay of Biscay during his years sailing for his father, but this…

  “Pray for me, Valentina,” he muttered under his breath.

  Melchor insisted on staying on deck. Santiago didn’t blame him for not wanting to remain below, and he was helping the crew in any way he could. Now he sat soaked to the skin, lashed to the mainmast with several other men.

  Only Xiang refused to abandon his post. Santiago couldn’t see him and hoped he hadn’t been blown into the waves. He doubted he’d even hear anything over the howling wind. If the Santa María was anywhere near land, she’d probably be driven onto rocks before they realized it.

  “I suppose I always thought I’d die at sea,” he shouted to Izar.

  His navigator bit down on the pipe still, incredibly, wedged between his teeth. “Me too, but I’m not planning on dying this day.”

  Xiang’s hoarse shout drifted on the wind. “Scondi…”

  Izar gaped in disbelief, nigh on dropping his pipe. “Can’t be, surely?”

  “Escondido, ho,” Xiang shouted again.

  Santiago hadn’t made the sign of his Savior across his body since his flight from Spain, but he made it now, several times, repeating his thanks to the Lord God Almighty over and over. What else other than divine intervention could have brought them safely to the very bay where his treasure lay hidden?

  All they had to do now was navigate the narrow channel at the bay’s opening.

  “Leave it to me,” Izar said confidently.

  Valentina wrapped her arms around her legs and tucked her head in a futile attempt to block out the screech of the wind and the whine of the ship’s timbers. She suspected the loud thundering sounds from below decks meant that cannon
had broken loose. If the flimsy railing to which she was tied gave way, she was a dead woman.

  She had no idea if Maitland was still at the wheel and had lost sight of Santiago’s crewman. Montserrat might have been swept overboard for all she knew.

  With every icy wave that crashed over the deck, she clenched her chattering teeth and braced her frozen body for the impact she was sure would come.

  There were only two possible outcomes; the Lively was destined to break in two and sink, or she would founder on jagged rocks. There was no hope. Terror gave way to a numb acceptance.

  She felt nothing.

  “Pray for me, Santi,” she whispered as the ship shuddered. Timbers crashed, men screamed, cold water poured everywhere. The railing broke away and she was swept along the deck, past bodies, kegs, splintered pieces of the mast, a squealing piglet.

  She didn’t know if pigs could swim, and what…

  The rope binding her to the railing was torn away. “Let go,” a deep voice said close to her ear. “Kick.”

  Try as she might, she couldn’t prize her frozen fingers off what was left of the railing.

  “I’ve got you, let go.”

  There was no point fighting the inevitable. She was fated to drown. Filling her lungs one last time, she surrendered to the strong arm clamped around her body.

  Armageddon

  At anchor in the sheltered Bahía Escondida, the Santa María rode the swells as if she knew she’d come home. Once the skies brightened somewhat and the torrential rain dwindled to a tolerable drizzle, Santiago and his crew embarked on a survey of the damage wrought by the storm.

  “I’m anxious to set sail as soon as the wind abates,” he told Izar. “We have to find HMS Lively.”

  “Might not be so easy,” the navigator replied, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “We need repairs to the sails and rigging. We’ll have to pump water out of the hold, and several men have broken bones, sore heads and so on.”

  Santiago tried and failed to fathom how Izar had managed to hold on to his pipe and keep his tobacco dry through the hurricane. Unwilling to calmly accept the inevitable delays, he walked away from his navigator and joined Melchor on the fore-deck.

  Valentina’s father had been staring out to sea, but he turned to greet Santiago. “You’re familiar with this bay.”

  “Sí,” he replied. “We have hidden in these coves many times, along with other pirates. I’m surprised there aren’t more of them here.”

  “You know as well as I do, Capitán Velázquez, it was Divine Providence brought us safely to this very place.”

  Santiago admitted inwardly he had no other explanation for the miracle, but an inner voice advised caution. “I acknowledge the hand of Dios in our deliverance.”

  Melchor arched a brow. “There must be a hundred bays along the Cuban coastline, yet this is the one where something precious to you lies hidden.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Am I wrong?”

  There was no point hiding the truth if this perceptive man was to be his father-by-marriage. “No, you’ve guessed correctly.”

  “So what is your intention now?” Melchor asked bluntly.

  “Bueno, we could waste time retrieving the spoils, or we can pursue the real treasure—your daughter and my friend. Wealth means nothing to me compared to their safety.”

  Melchor laughed. “I believe you. However, you already know that it will be impossible for you and Valentina to prosper in Cuba without wealth. I, alas, have nothing to offer by way of a dowry, unless you are interested in lands in España, which I doubt.”

  “There was a time I itched to return to Spain, but now the New World is more appealing.”

  “Valentina feels the same way,” Melchor admitted wistfully. “She loved La Florida.”

  Santiago leaned against the ship’s wheel and watched Izar issuing orders, getting the crew organized to make the Santa María seaworthy again. The Basque had stepped into Christian’s shoes without hesitation. A good man. His crew were all good men who’d served him loyally and deserved the shares of the spoils they’d received.

  What would become of them when he married Valentina? Indeed, what would become of him? The hazards inherent in piracy had increased with the growing British presence along the Spanish Main. He couldn’t expect Valentina to be a pirate’s wife. Her father was right. If the treasure remained hidden, it was of no use to anyone.

  He clamped a hand on Melchor’s shoulder. “Let’s find some shovels.”

  Valentina awoke with a raging thirst. She didn’t think she’d said anything out loud but someone lifted her head. Liquid entered her mouth. Watery, but not water. Sweeter. She gulped too fast and began to cough; her ribs protested.

  “Easy,” a soft voice said. “It’s coconut milk.”

  She blinked and looked up into the smiling face of Santiago’s crewman hunkered down beside her, a pistol tucked in the waistband of tattered torusers. She nodded and accepted more of the fluid. “You saved my life,” she rasped.

  “I would have drowned if they hadn’t released us from the hold, and I suspect that was your doing. I’m Christian Williams, by the way.”

  She raised herself up on her elbows. “I recognized you as one of Santiago’s men. Where are we, Señor Williams?”

  “I’m not absolutely sure, though the palm trees along the beach are native to Cuba. The lay of the land looks vaguely familiar. The south coast, I think. Once the sun goes down, I’ll get my bearings from the stars. Now you’re awake, we can try to find help.”

  It was reassuring they might have washed up on Spanish territory, but that didn’t guarantee freedom from the men who’d abducted her. “Are there other survivors?” she asked as Christian helped her sit up.

  “All the Jamaicans, thanks to you. There’s no sign of Montserrat. A cabin boy survived, but the English captain is the only officer still alive, and he’s badly injured.”

  Relief surged that Collins lived. “We were swept overboard. Maybe there are others still with the ship.”

  He shook his head. “The Lively isn’t so lively any more.”

  She followed his gaze along the beach, unable to recognize the blackened wreck that lay at an odd angle, half buried in the sand. The masts were gone, the windows of the cabins in the stern shattered. Cannon hung precariously from some of the gun-ports whose doors had been ripped off. Splintered wood was strewn the length of the sands.

  Trembling at the destruction the awesome power of nature had wrought, Valentina stared in disbelief that she had somehow survived Armageddon. She gradually became aware of Collins kneeling nearby beside a man lying in the shade of a rocky overhang. “Maitland?” she asked.

  “Yes, but he won’t want you to see him.”

  The English captain had wronged her, but it appeared he had paid dearly for his sins. Her religion preached forgiveness. “Nevertheless, I must do what I can,” she replied.

  She struggled to her feet with Christian’s help, swaying uncertainly. “I’m a little light-headed,” she confessed, gripping his arm. “And my ribs are sore.”

  He chuckled. “My fault. I was determined not to let you drown.”

  They made their way slowly to where Maitland lay. Valentina’s heart broke when Collins looked up at her then went back to arranging the torn uniform jacket over his captain’s legs. She had a feeling the lad had retreated into himself, just staring but not really seeing. When she saw Maitland’s wounds, she understood why.

  Falling to her knees at his side, she admitted having no notion of how to help him. It was doubtful Maitland could even feel his legs. His open shirt revealed a ghastly belly wound, oozing blood. Fighting nausea, she looked up at Christian.

  “Skewered by a marlinspike,” he said softly.

  She didn’t know what a marlinspike was but could only surmise from the damage it was something long and sharp.

  Maitland blinked, smiling when he saw her. “Valentina,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. The effort brought on a fit of wheezing that c
ontorted his ashen face in agony.

  “Do not try to speak,” she replied.

  He grasped her hand in a surprisingly strong grip, his smile twisted into a grimace. “You won’t see your little house in Jamaica.”

  “That’s not important. We will seek help, and…”

  He shook his head. “No, my dear, I’m done for. My ship is lost, my honor gone. At least it appears Montserrat has drowned.”

  As his grip loosened she took hold of his hand in both hers, knowing he spoke the truth. “What can I do to make you more comfortable?”

  “Give me a pistol.”

  The blood in her veins turned to ice. She looked to Christian for guidance.

  He hesitated for long minutes before handing his pistol to Maitland. “There’s only one ball.”

  “That’s all I’ll need,” the dying man replied.

  Satisfied the Santa María’s skiffs had both survived intact, Santiago selected Xiang and Izar to accompany him and Melchor in one of them. “I’m leaving the other here, just in case we don’t return,” he told Robertson. “You’re in charge in my absence.”

  The Scotsman saluted. “Aye.”

  Xiang climbed in and took up an oar.

  “Wait,” Melchor shouted. “What about the shovels?”

  Santiago chuckled. “Trust me. We won’t need them.”

  “But if we are digging for…”

  Santiago cut him off with a frown. “Who said anything about digging?”

  Melchor grasped the side of the skiff as the little boat encountered choppier waters. “So where are we going?”

  Santiago scratched the stubble under his chin, longing for a shave. “If memory serves, it’s not the next cove, but the one after that.”

  “If memory serves? You mean you’re not sure?”

  “It’s been a while. I was delayed in San Agustín.”

  Xiang laughed. “Ha, ha. Delayed. Good yoke.”

  Izar might have been smiling, but it was difficult to tell since he still sucked on his pipe despite having two hands on the oar.