The Marauder (Pirates of Britannia Book 11)

by Anna Markland

  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.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  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 pli
ght. 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.”

  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 flow
er 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.