“They’re out of our reach in Jamaica.”
Santiago preferred not to acknowledge that possibility. For two days, they hadn’t encountered a single ship. It was as if all the combatants knew the war was over and had sent their fleets to friendly ports. Which meant Kingston harbor would probably be crammed with Royal Navy ships.
He inhaled deeply as the Santa María sailed into what he considered one of the most beautiful bays in the whole Atlantic. The shallow waters teeming with dolphins were of a turquoise color he’d seen nowhere else. He would bring Valentina here when…
“Raccoon Cay, dead ahead,” Izar shouted.
Santiago gritted his teeth. It was a sharp reminder of the treacherous dog he intended to kill. “I doubt my navigator chose this particular little island on purpose,” he assured the puzzled Melchor with a wry smile.
“Nevertheless, let us consider it a good omen,” the diplomat replied.
They dropped anchor in the shelter of the cay. Santiago called Izar and Melchor to his cabin where they pored over the charts they had of the area.
The cabin soon reeked of smoke from Izar’s pipe clenched firmly between his teeth. Melchor began to cough, drowning out the navigator’s words. Santiago’s eyes watered to a degree he could barely see the charts. “Can you dispense with the pipe, Izar?” he finally asked.
The Basque frowned. “My pipe?”
“Sí,” Melchor rasped, waving his hand back and forth like a fan. “Too much smoke.”
Izar took the pipe out of his mouth, rapped it on the desk and swept the resulting detritus onto the floor with his hand. “Why didn’t you say so before?” he said, clearly annoyed.
Hoping the hot tobacco didn’t flame to life on the planking, Santiago brought their attention back to the charts. He ran his finger from the eastern tip of Cuba to the western shore of Saint-Domingue. “It’s a distance of roughly sixty miles, but I’ll wager the British will want to sail close to the middle of the channel. If there are any French or Spanish vessels still patrolling, they’ll stick close to shore. What say you, Izar?”
The Basque stared blankly at the charts, scratching his head. “I cannot seem to think without my pipe.”
Melchor rolled his eyes.
Santiago picked up the pipe and thrust it at his navigator. “Just put it in your mouth then.”
Izar clamped his teeth on the clay stem, and brightened instantly. “That’s better. You’re right, but it’s a moot point if they’ve already reached Kingston. On the other hand, they may have called into Nassau, which means they are behind us.”
“Only one thing for it then,” Santiago declared. “King George II will sail to Jamaica.”
Valentina was relieved to leave Nassau after two days in the foul-smelling port, though it meant the voyage to Jamaica was once again underway. Out on deck, she inhaled the warm sea breeze, intrigued by the turquoise color of the Bahamian waters.
On their second day in Nassau, she’d seen Montserrat leave the ship, but had no idea if he’d returned. On the one hand, she hoped not, but the notion of playing the rivals off against each other was the only plan she’d come up with so far. She acknowledged ruefully it wasn’t much of a plan. Maitland held the upper hand and would win any confrontation. Then she’d still be in his clutches.
Unless the men killed each other.
Her stomach churned at the extreme unlikelihood—a measure of her growing panic.
She hadn’t seen Santiago’s man since the first day in Nassau. If she could just get a glimpse of those reassuring eyes…another sign of her desperation.
She wasn’t conversant with the exact geography of the island territories south of La Florida, but knew that Cuba wasn’t far from Jamaica. Perhaps she could jump overboard and swim to the Spanish island if she caught sight of the shoreline. But how to be certain it was Cuba? She’d never learned to swim, but it was her only hope of escape. Better to drown than live a life of degradation as Maitland’s amante.
Xiang’s keen eyesight would alert Santiago to the nationality of any nearby ships.
The crew could likely run up various flags and change his ship’s identity in their sleep.
Nevertheless, nervous anticipation plagued him as the Santa María left the Atlantic. They entered the Windward Passage decked out in Spanish colors, hugging the heavily treed Cuban coastline.
It was imperative this venture succeed. The lives of two people dear to him depended on it. Every other escapade had been an adventure, a lark, a way to thumb his nose at authority.
This was life or death. Valentina’s pride might lead her to do something rash if she thought there was no hope of rescue. Christian would risk everything to regain his freedom.
Santiago decided not to attempt a direct crossing to Jamaica from the south coast of Cuba. The Royal Navy was more likely to be patrolling that stretch. As soon as Izar gave the nod, they hoisted the topsails and increased speed, making a run for it south-east across the open waters of the Caribbean to the isolated westernmost tip of Saint-Domingue. Vessels usually abounded in these waters, but his hunch that most of France’s Caribbean fleet had retreated to the capital of Cap Français seemed to be paying off.
They spent the night at anchor off the coast of Saint-Domingue and set off at dawn as the King George II. They were more than halfway to Jamaica when they were challenged by a British frigate.
Once again, Robertson’s authentic brogue and abrasive manner convinced the Royal Navy captain to allow them to proceed into Kingston harbor.
Chapter Twenty-Two
TENSIONS RISE
The Lively encountered only a handful of British ships, none of them naval vessels, which led Valentina to believe the remote islands they were passing were still part of the Bahamas. The ship came close to several of the islands on its zigzag course, but they looked deserted and barren. There was no point risking her life in the water only to end up in enemy territory or alone on an island.
The further south they sailed, the hotter it became; the gritty wind felt like it had blown across a desert before filling the sails. She spent most of the daylight hours on deck to escape the airless cabin rendered all the more uncomfortable by the large window.
The moans and cries from the hold had ceased, and Valentina feared some of the captives might have succumbed to the heat. It was a small consolation that water was lowered down to them on a regular basis. She harangued Maitland about their inhumane treatment at every opportunity when they dined together, but he merely smiled indulgently and changed the topic of conversation.
Santiago concealed his amusement when a Royal Navy launch escorted King George II to a vacant moorage in Kingston’s sheltered harbor.
Robertson surpassed himself in his role as captain, doffing his top hat to the British sailors as they rowed away.
It came as a relief that they hadn’t spotted HMS Lively among the ships riding at anchor. However, lingering in Kingston might put them on a collision course with the British ship if it was still on the way to Jamaica.
“We must sail back to Cuba as soon as possible to lie in wait in Guantanamo Bay,” Santiago told Melchor.
He saw no point in hiding the truth of his pirating ways and Valentina’s father wasn’t a seafaring man. “We’ve used the tactic many times, staying upwind of ships we’ve plundered, thus preventing our prey from turning to meet the challenge.”
“However,” Melchor replied, “HMS Lively carries far more firepower than the merchantmen you’ve preyed upon.”
“Verdad, but it’s unlikely she has heavy cannon in the stern, and the flimsy structure around the large windows of the officers’ cabins makes her vulnerable to an attack from behind.”
Melchor mopped his brow. “She won’t be expecting an attack now the war is over. You can take her by surprise and rake the stern with cannon fire.”
Santiago explained further. “Hopefully, we can aim a shot that will fly the length of the decks and cause enough panic the ship will be unable to turn aga
inst the wind in time to broadside us with her guns.”
“But what if Valentina is in one of the cabins? And slaves are normally chained in the hold. You might kill or maim the very people we are trying to save.”
They spent several hours with Izar trying to devise a plan to rescue Valentina and Christian. It became a frustrating exercise, made all the more urgent by the reality of a storm already causing the King George II to pitch and roll.
Santiago made a decision. “We have to get underway. I don’t want to be pinned down in Jamaica.”
Izar nodded. “According to the weather glass, it’s going to get much worse.”
“At least the conditions will keep the Royal Navy busy and hopefully they won’t pay attention to our departure.”
“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.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
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.
The Marauder (Pirates of Britannia Book 11) Page 10
