“We cannot make decisions based on the wishes of a maidservant,” he retorted, seemingly at the end of his patience.
“But what will I do without her?” she wailed before feeling the room.
The widowed Manuela had served as Paula Melchor’s lady’s maid and companion since before Valentina’s birth.
Her father slumped into the chair she had vacated and removed his powdered wig. “Your mother is upset, but she’ll come to see this as a good thing. The Americas offer a new world of opportunities, and the weather in La Florida is reputed to be a lot warmer than here. Tropical, in fact. It will be an adventure. But I am afraid it leaves no time to find a replacement for your betrothed. At least not in this country.”
Every aspect of Valentina’s life in Madrid had been regimented, her future mapped out before she was born. Her mother constantly lamented the sudden death of her betrothed, a man twice her age she’d been promised to in the womb.
May God forgive her, but she viewed it as a lucky escape from a crushing boor who had no conversation. The prospect of life with Don Diego de Ximena had loomed like a jagged rock on which she would founder and sink to the depths of despair.
Now had come the chance to escape the dirty streets of Madrid, to see the wider world. Should she feel guilty that the prospect excited her?
Something her tutor had told her surfaced. “Is La Florida part of the Spanish Main?”
Her father smiled. “Sí.”
A pulse thudded in her ears. “But pirates rule the Spanish Main.”
Chapter Three
ISLA ESCONDIDA
Bahía Escondida, Cuba, Summer 1762
Santiago supposed it was an uncharacteristic overindulgence in Cuban rum that had led to the giddy feeling making his head spin. But a man was allowed to celebrate two years since his fall from grace, wasn’t he?
Sprawled at the foot of the Santa María’s mainmast, he looked up to the stars spangling the night sky. On the long voyage across the Atlantic, not a single star had appeared in the cloudy night skies. If he’d been a superstitious man, he might have seen that as an omen of things to come once they arrived in Cuba.
“I discovered two things about this far-flung outpost of Spain,” he confessed to his first mate.
Christian took a swig of rum then went back to whittling.
“Man of few words,” Santiago mumbled. “That’s what I like about you.”
In truth, there were many things he admired about Christian Williams. Thousands of slaves from British and French possessions had fled to Spanish colonies, lured by the promise of freedom and citizenship. Christian was the only one who had sought out Bahía Escondida, the pirate hideaway on Cuba’s southern coast. Santiago had trusted the taciturn black man from their first meeting. The Jamaican had never betrayed his trust even when they’d got themselves into some risky situations.
“Two things,” Christian reminded him.
Santiago closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. “First, generous as my father’s gift was, it didn’t go very far and most of it was gone by the time I arrived in La Habana.”
Speaking of his father was painful. The man he respected more than any other in the world had died shortly after Santiago’s flight. When he received the news three months after the event, he blamed himself and carried his guilt around for months. Emilio was an intelligent, capable brother who would continue the success of the family business, but Santiago seethed that he had forfeited his birthright thanks to a conniving, vengeful woman.
“Second, it’s a sad truth that a man with nothing but sorrow in his heart cannot build up a shipping empire in a foreign country from scratch with no money and one ship.”
His failure to accomplish something he’d thought would be easy had been a sharp reminder that he wasn’t the man his father had been.
“And third,” Christian said, still whittling.
Santiago chuckled, which led to a fit of hiccups. “I’ve obviously told you this story before.”
“Many times.”
Santiago eventually managed to hold up three fingers. “Third, too many rich and powerful Spaniards had taken control of the shipping industry here. They weren’t interested in allowing an upstart from Andalucía to make inroads.”
He still had the bruises to prove it, but he’d survived and decided the only way to prosper was to emulate the pirate ancestor he’d never stopped thinking about on the voyage across the Atlantic—when he wasn’t busy plotting Salomé’s demise.
Three hundred years before, Santiago Fernandez had made his fortune plundering vessels in the Bay of Biscay and the English Channel aboard his ship the Santa María, the same name as Santiago’s ship. That was a good omen.
What better way to seek revenge on the country that had betrayed him than to steal from Spanish ships carrying goods and gold to and from the colonies scattered the length and breadth of the Spanish Main.
Not only Spanish ships. Britain and France had merchantmen servicing their colonies in the Americas. The pickings could be rich.
“So you became a pirate,” Christian said with a smile. “And a bloody good one.”
Santiago drained the last of the rum and settled the empty jug on his belly. “Because I have a good crew.”
“Loyal too.”
Even in his drunken state, Santiago heard a hint of warning in his first mate’s voice. “I sense a caution.”
Christian stopped whittling. “So far we’ve managed to avoid the warships of the three nations fighting over the Americas, but, sooner or later, one of the navies will increase its efforts and win the war. We have to be careful.”
“I’m not known for being careful,” he said regretfully, recalling his father’s words. “My money’s on the Royal Navy.” He struggled to his feet with the help of the mast. “However, we can afford to sit tight here, our treasure safely hidden, thanks to you and me. We’ll pick and choose our targets.”
Christian got to his feet. “Just as well. I heard there’s a new governor on his way to Florida. New brooms like to sweep clean.”
“So we won’t go anywhere near San Agustín.”
Chapter Four
ARREST
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Christian said as they pored over the latest charts they had of an area further east than they normally roved.
Santiago was also beginning to have misgivings about the lone merchantman they’d followed for days. “I’m not comfortable in these waters, either,” he confessed. “But we have to stay away from Cuba’s northern coast now La Habana has fallen to the British.”
Christian traced a finger along the chart. “The merchantman came out of Puerto Rico with Spanish flags, so I assumed she was bound for Hispaniola, but she’s heading north.”
Santiago nodded. “It’s possible she’s going to La Florida by a more northerly route for the same reason we’re avoiding Cuban waters.”
“Which means she’s carrying valuable cargo. She’s low in the water.”
Dogging a ship for days to ascertain her speed, numbers of crew, and possible firepower was a tactic Santiago had employed many times, with great success. He shouted to Xiang in the crow’s nest. “Any sight of land?”
He knew the answer before he asked. The jovial Chinaman would have alerted them immediately. He had the eyes of an eagle and had so far lived up to the promise of his name, which he claimed meant Good Luck,
“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.”
Chapter Five
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 off 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.”
The Marauder (Pirates of Britannia Book 11) Page 2
