Authors: Kerry Newcomb
Mad Morgan (10 page)
A formation of black-and-yellow orioles erupted from the wooded slope below, swooped over the terrace, and dove and darted across the sky, past the circular drive where Hastiler's carriage waited to take
the officer back down to the blockhouse, barracks, and redoubts that guarded the approach to Kingston and protected the good citizens from the incursion of Spanish gunboats, or the errant pirate vessel that chanced an unwelcome approach.
the officer back down to the blockhouse, barracks, and redoubts that guarded the approach to Kingston and protected the good citizens from the incursion of Spanish gunboats, or the errant pirate vessel that chanced an unwelcome approach.
Protection. Now there was the galling truth. Since his appointment as governor, Sir Richard Purselley had borne the indignity of knowing that the presence of these freebooters had been the island's chief defense against an attack by Spain. By legalizing the antics of men like Morgan with letters of marque, England had assured Jamaica would remain a stronghold of British sovereignty in the heart of the Spanish Main. The Brethren had been a necessary evil, up until now. But the winds of change were blowing. The governor had received a dispatch informing him that English vessels were on the way and the island would soon be properly garrisoned. And just in time. Henry Morgan had become far too popular among the island's miscreants. Already, the freebooter considered himself above the governor's authority; and that could not be tolerated.
Hastiler and his marines were here for the good citizens of Kingston, the planters and merchants who lived in elegant limestone manors, kept shops and taverns and the very presence of “merry olde England” alive in the Caribbean. Port Royal, on the opposite side of the bay, could take care of itself. The freebooters and cutthroats who called it home needed no arm of British might to protect them. A decent Englishman went among them at his own risk. A Spaniard would fare even worse. So had it been, so would it always be. Old hatreds, like habits, died hard.
Purselley considered this state of affairs as he watched the orioles sweep up past the two-storied facade of the governor's estate and then vanish over the clay tile roof, losing themselves among the trees and gardens beyond the manor. Purselley noticed the lowering sky and considered the possibility of a storm. Not that it would curtail an evening of drunken excess. He had never known inclement weather to dampen a celebration in Port Royal. A streamer-tailed hummingbird suddenly hovered near the table, attracted by the sweet odor of wine. Its twin tail feathers were twice as long as its black-and-green body as it flashed back and forth, inspecting the governor's table. Then, with a flash of its iridescent chest feathers, the bird disappeared.
“There, sir, it's the
Jericho.
And the
Glenmorran,
” Hastiler called out. Unlike Port Royal, no one in Kingston ran down to the docks to await the buccaneer's return, although the presence of his booty-laden ships would no doubt have a keen effect on the local economies
of both ports. Now that a truce existed with Spain, the well-to-do residents of the island were fearful Morgan's antics might have placed them all in peril.
Jericho.
And the
Glenmorran,
” Hastiler called out. Unlike Port Royal, no one in Kingston ran down to the docks to await the buccaneer's return, although the presence of his booty-laden ships would no doubt have a keen effect on the local economies
of both ports. Now that a truce existed with Spain, the well-to-do residents of the island were fearful Morgan's antics might have placed them all in peril.
“Wait ⦠there's another ship,” Hastiler blurted. Purselley stood, waited anxiously as Hastiler slipped a spyglass from his coat and used it to study the brig as the vessel rounded the peninsula and headed toward the far cay. “It is a Spanish ship, the
Santa Rosa
,” the marine announced. “Captain Morgan's aboard. By heavens, it appears to be a prize ship.”
Santa Rosa
,” the marine announced. “Captain Morgan's aboard. By heavens, it appears to be a prize ship.”
“Excellent,” Purselley said. “Then Morgan has indeed committed acts of piracy against our new allies.” The governor stood and held out his glass of wine to the oncoming brig. “Well done, Henry Morgan.” Sir Richard emptied the glass then hurled it against the rail, shattering the crystal into a thousand pieces. “I have you now.”
Â
Â
Soon after the guns of the
Santa Rosa
fired their salute and announced their arrival, Elena Maria, against Consuelo's stern advice to the contrary, had appeared on deck to catch her first glimpse of the notorious haven for pirates and cutthroats. The entire tableau of wind and sky, of the island and the stormclouds, the smell of the sea, the mixture of colorsâstark white, emerald, sapphire, and aquamarineâthe excitement that swept through the crew, the coarse voices and the activity of the men as they prepared to make the final approach through the shallows toward home ⦠all of it permeated her being, thrilled her in ways she could not explain. Consuelo would have been horrified to learn Elena Maria sensed a kinship with this unruly lot. It was a secret the
criollos
intended to keep to herself.
Santa Rosa
fired their salute and announced their arrival, Elena Maria, against Consuelo's stern advice to the contrary, had appeared on deck to catch her first glimpse of the notorious haven for pirates and cutthroats. The entire tableau of wind and sky, of the island and the stormclouds, the smell of the sea, the mixture of colorsâstark white, emerald, sapphire, and aquamarineâthe excitement that swept through the crew, the coarse voices and the activity of the men as they prepared to make the final approach through the shallows toward home ⦠all of it permeated her being, thrilled her in ways she could not explain. Consuelo would have been horrified to learn Elena Maria sensed a kinship with this unruly lot. It was a secret the
criollos
intended to keep to herself.
“Look, Consuelo, what do you see?”
“Danger waters, señorita,” the half-breed replied, eyeing Nell Jolly who approached them from where she had been standing near the ship's wheel. Nell had been watching Morgan in the rigging. Every time he altered his position along the spar she would catch her breath and will him to control his boyish antics. The arrival of Doña Elena and her half-breed servant on the upper deck was a signal for Nell to abandon her place and approach the señorita.
Sir William's daughter had made a point of intruding on Elena Maria de Saucedo throughout the journey from Maracaibo, taking care to prevent Morgan from ever having the opportunity to be completely alone with the señorita. Nell Jolly suspected there was more to Don Alonso's intended bride than met the eye. Morgan was a romantic,
albeit a misdirected one. Nell intended to nip this infatuation in the bud.
albeit a misdirected one. Nell intended to nip this infatuation in the bud.
“That's Kingston, across the bay,” said Nell. “The governor's residence is next to that blockhouse on the north side of town. Sir Richard Purselley will no doubt invite you to be his guest.” Nell hoped Elena Maria would insist on being escorted to the governor's manor the minute they dropped anchor. The señorita's silence was infuriating.
If Elena Maria resented Nell's presence, she hid her feelings behind a mask of civility. She made a quick study of the tidy, well-ordered community of farms, the whitewashed houses of well-to-do merchants and the port's landed gentry, and, lastly, the hillside above Kingston with its ostentatious English manor and the blockhouse built for the English governor and his contingent of Royal Marines. The limestone walls of the manor and fort gleamed stark white against the dark, craggy backdrop of the Blue Mountains. Along Kingston's waterfront, a squat trio of merchant ships and an English fore-and-aft-rigged schooner nestled against the pier.
“Best you stay close to meâI'll see you safely to the governor,” Nell suggested.
“And miss the celebration?” The question came from overhead. The women looked up in time to see Morgan dangling from a hoist line above their heads. He relaxed his grip and dropped to the deck, assuming a complacent air about the acrobatics that had dropped him practically at their feet. “What kind of hosts would we be?” He raised his tone of voice so that his remarks carried to the Frenchman at the wheel. “The señorita has been confined aboard the
Santa Rosa
for much too long. She needs to stretch her legs. What better place than at carnival? Am I right, Monsieur Voisin?”
Santa Rosa
for much too long. She needs to stretch her legs. What better place than at carnival? Am I right, Monsieur Voisin?”
“Mais oui, mon capitaine.”
“Sir Richard will be displeased that you delayed presenting her to him,” Nell said, her eyes flashing daggers at the Frenchman for agreeing with Morgan.
“The governor is always displeased,” Voisin replied, without meeting the young woman's searing stare. He avoided her gaze, glanced up at the gray clouds building above the mountains, and willed the storm to hold off until the morning. “And besides, he knows nothing of our guest. Who's to tell him?”
“The señorita will be safer ⦔
Morgan ended her argument with a wave of his hand. “Enough, Toto. There is no safer place to be in all of Port Royal than on the arm of Henry Morgan.”
“I would see your âcarnival,' Señor,” Elena said, smiling in Nell's direction; a sea breeze ruffled the lime-green folds of her taffeta dress. “It is the least I can do, since my husband-to-be, Don Alonso, will one day hang you for the privilege of my company.”
“If that is my destiny, then I shall demand more from you than a stroll through the streets, señoritaâand die a happy man, I warrant.”
The cries of the boys and girls in their skiffs, canoes, outriggers, and johnnyboats, drifted to them on the sea breeze. “Your pardon, ladies.” Morgan trotted off to the starboard side and leaped into the shrouds. A hue and cry went up as he revealed himself to the boats below. His name rang out in the stillness. He was a hero to them, a figure of legend whom almost everyone respected, and many feared. The cheers from those youthful throats was music to his ears. Morgan laughed and swept his hand before him as if he held an imaginary hat. He bowed most graciously to the offspring of the Brethren.
“They love him,” Elena Maria observed.
“Of course,” Nell remarked.
Even as she spoke, Morgan reached into his pouch and brought out a handful of silver coins and hurled them into the air. The coins plopped into the shallows and the boys and girls dove from their boats into the crystal-clear aquamarine waters to retrieve the treasure he had sown upon the sea. He repeated the processâmuch to the delight of the young people bobbing on the surface, who dove down into the shallows in search of the gleaming pieces of eight.
“And why not?” Nell added as the young people swarmed to the starboard side of the brig, their boats crashing harmlessly into one another and glancing off the hull of the
Santa Rosa
as Morgan emptied the contents of his pouch upon the sea. “He is a river to his people.”
Santa Rosa
as Morgan emptied the contents of his pouch upon the sea. “He is a river to his people.”
“H
eaven save us,” Consuelo muttered. But heaven had no place in Port Royal. “Doña Elena!” she shouted, trying to keep up with the kidnapped bride-to-be. But her cry was drowned out in a sea of voices.
eaven save us,” Consuelo muttered. But heaven had no place in Port Royal. “Doña Elena!” she shouted, trying to keep up with the kidnapped bride-to-be. But her cry was drowned out in a sea of voices.
Shops and taverns and gambling dens and inns crowded the peninsula. Bacchus ruled the streets. Elena Maria had never seen such a diversity of people crammed into such a small area as the pirate lair. Women of every shape and hueâMaroons, mulattos, women from Dublin and Burma and Malaysia and Normandyâwere draped in silks and satins, their rouged cheeks and curious ways a mockery of the aristocrats they pretended to be. The streets teemed with swaggering scalawags attired in the finest garments money couldn't buy: fine linens from the Orient, intricately stitched waistcoats, shirts and silk breeches fit for nobilityâand no doubt stolen from the same. A dozen dialects filled the airâand music, shouting, haggling over bartered goods ⦠Someone danced, someone argued, someone fought and cursed and died. Always more and more, always too much of sight and sound and smell: woodsmoke and tobacco and frying meat and swilled rum and liberally sprinkled perfumes stolen from the locked trunks of irate Spanish ladies. Elena's senses could not handle it all. It made her dizzy.
Half a dozen brigands jostled past. They were a salty lot, half-drunk and glad to be ashore, although envious of the recent arrivals. First
came a pair of rawboned Irishmen fit for brawling and debauchery. Their captain followed along, behind the Irish seamen. This gentleman rogue wore a calico waistcoat and velvet breeches, walked arm in arm with a coarse-looking, heavyset woman in coat and breeches and half-opened shirt; the mounds of her breasts threatened to escape the confines of her bodice, bulged over the pair of pistols tucked in her belt. These hell-bound brigands jostled and shoved past the half-breed woman, almost knocking her off her feet. Consuelo heard the couple addressed as “Calico Jack” and “Anne Bonney” by the men who followed them. She knew the names, for the pair were infamous throughout the Spanish Main.
came a pair of rawboned Irishmen fit for brawling and debauchery. Their captain followed along, behind the Irish seamen. This gentleman rogue wore a calico waistcoat and velvet breeches, walked arm in arm with a coarse-looking, heavyset woman in coat and breeches and half-opened shirt; the mounds of her breasts threatened to escape the confines of her bodice, bulged over the pair of pistols tucked in her belt. These hell-bound brigands jostled and shoved past the half-breed woman, almost knocking her off her feet. Consuelo heard the couple addressed as “Calico Jack” and “Anne Bonney” by the men who followed them. She knew the names, for the pair were infamous throughout the Spanish Main.
Anne Bonney kept up a bold chorus, which she sang in Gaelic at the top of her lungs. Calico Jack was a man of average height, but lofty ambitions. The dashing, debonair pirate captain had never met a church coffer he didn't love to pilfer. Bonney, and the rest of Calico's crew, were rogues to be reckoned with, and no man offered to block their passage as they headed for the great bonfire by the signal bell on the tip of the peninsula. Suddenly Calico Jack altered his course, turned, and grabbed Consuelo and swung her about in his arms while the gray-haired woman yelped her protest. Another of his companions cut in and danced a reel with the unwilling half-breed woman. Then Anne Bonney took her turn, grabbing the old woman by the arms and spinning her about until the servant lost her balance and stumbled.
“Come, come, you old hen, where's that pretty little chick you serve?” asked Jack.
“The señorita's a sweet hatchling, all right. But beware her talons,” offered his paramour. Anne Bonney drew a cutlass from her belt and sawed the air with its yard of cold steel. “Captain LeBishop didn't keep his distance, and look what happened to him.”
The two Irishmen in the lead erupted into laughter: a mean-spirited, coarse display at the old woman's expense.
“Come along, you horny bastard,” said Anne Bonney, shifting the blade she held until the point touched Jack's coat, over his heart. “I warrant I am woman enough for you.” Bonney was a thickset woman with blunt features and a gruff disposition who, despite her affection for Calico Jack, had been known to entertain a lady or two in her boudoir whenever Jack lay drunk and unable to service her needs.
“Now, my love, my heart beats true, and only for you,” Jack said.
“Be careful how you cast your net or it won't beat at all.”
Calico Jack patted the blade aside and leaned into the woman,
grabbed her about the waist and fondled one of her breasts. Then he laughed and patted the seat of her baggy breeches and continued on down the street. One had the impression her threats excited him more than kept him in line. By the time Jack and his mistress had tired of their antics and gone merrily on their way, Morgan and Elena Maria were well out of sight.
grabbed her about the waist and fondled one of her breasts. Then he laughed and patted the seat of her baggy breeches and continued on down the street. One had the impression her threats excited him more than kept him in line. By the time Jack and his mistress had tired of their antics and gone merrily on their way, Morgan and Elena Maria were well out of sight.
Consuelo sighed with relief and sagged against a smoke-filled stall whose owner was selling bammy and fried fish to passersby. The proprietorâa balding
boucanier
with gold rings in his ears, a face as wrinkled as an old war map, close-set eyes, and a forehead that crinkled when he smiledâhanded the smallboned woman one of the delicacies from his grill, a deep-fried, pancake-shaped slab of cassava bread folded around a chunk of fried fish.
boucanier
with gold rings in his ears, a face as wrinkled as an old war map, close-set eyes, and a forehead that crinkled when he smiledâhanded the smallboned woman one of the delicacies from his grill, a deep-fried, pancake-shaped slab of cassava bread folded around a chunk of fried fish.
“Ain't no bammy better than mine,” the old man cackled. Then, as an afterthought, added, “Calico Jack and Anne Bonney are a bad lot, and you best give them a wide berth.”
Consuelo had already come to that conclusion on her own.
He gestured for her to eat, and Consuelo, unable to think of anything better to do, nodded her thanks and devoured the meal with gusto. Before she had finished, the stallkeeper produced a flask of sorrel and, afterward, a clay pipe packed with ganja. Consuelo knew she should be trying to catch up to her mistress, but after cup or two of sorrel and a few puffs on the stallkeeper's pipe, Consuelo had to struggle to remember just what it was she had been so concerned about.
The ganja quickly took effect, although before the drug took complete control, she learned her benefactor's name was Harry. And Harry had been a rake and rover for many a year until the seas became too rough and his bones too bruised. But the old relic still had some life left in him and he was full of suggestions as to how he might give Doña Elena's servant a “proper welcome” to Jamaica.
Â
Â
The Brethren of the Black Flag gathered on the tip of the peninsula, oblivious to the threatening elements. The signal bell summoned one and all for the Grand Reckoningâas it was now, had been, and always would be. This was the night of homecoming after a raid, when the ships returned with their plunder. It was the moment each man lived for. And not just the crews who sailed with Morgan or the Black Clericâfriends and rivals, wives and whores, and bastard children gathered for the lighting of the council pyre and the distribution of the plunder. Here with the black sea on three sides of them, here
beneath the rumbling stormclouds that blotted out the moon, here with fire and sword, the crews were dissolved, quarrels resolved, and the lists detailing the spoils of Maracaibo were produced. After settling each man's claim, the crews of the
Glenmorran
and the
Jericho
would be dispatched to the warehouses where the quartermasters would distribute each man's rightful share.
beneath the rumbling stormclouds that blotted out the moon, here with fire and sword, the crews were dissolved, quarrels resolved, and the lists detailing the spoils of Maracaibo were produced. After settling each man's claim, the crews of the
Glenmorran
and the
Jericho
would be dispatched to the warehouses where the quartermasters would distribute each man's rightful share.
Henry Morgan looked the part now, in his sapphire-blue velvet jacket with shiny brass buttons, a silk shirt the color of clotted cream, and rust-colored breeches. His long brown hair was concealed beneath a knotted scarlet scarf. The broad black belt around his waist bristled with a brace of pistols and a double-edged dagger. He paced around the bonfire, cajoling with the populace, bestowing a trinket or two upon the older women, and indulging in some good-natured bragging about his exploits, for this was at least part of the reason so many of the Brethren had come to the shore: for the drama of it all.
Thomas LeBishop did not care a whit for drama. The longer Morgan took to prowl the beach, the more impatient his rival became. The Black Cleric finished off the brandy and then looked around at his crew as if suspecting them of holding out on him. The Black Cleric was a figure of gloom and smoldering resentment in his preacher's garb; his scarred cheek added a note of sinister appeal to his appearance, as if the pirate had been blasted by the heavenly powers he so often invoked for his own vile ends. LeBishop rocked unsteadily on his feet. He swayed, shook his head, tried to concentrate on the proceedings. The liquor he had consumed dulled his senses. He blinked and rubbed his dull blue eyes, and tried to suppress the effects of all he had consumed.
He surveyed the crowd that had come to the Great Reckoning, his bleak gaze swept over the familiar firelit faces of the cutthroats and freebooters. They were a salty lot, every man jack of them had a date with the gallows in England or France, Spain or the Colonies.
His own crew was nervous. They had seen him like this before, and slowly began to drift away by twos and threes. Only Tregoning, that able seaman and a clever assassin in his own right, remained at his captain's side. The Cornishman recognized the storm stewing in LeBishop's soul. It was clear as the rumbling overhead. He didn't envy the object of LeBishop's wrath. No man was a match for the Black Clericâwith blade or pistol, drunk or sober, he was the Grim Reaper.
Tregoning noticed that LeBishop had fixed his sights on the captive
señorita standing among the crowd, flanked by Israel Goodenough and the African, Rafiki Kogi. Suddenly the Black Cleric stepped back into the crowd, melting among them like a living shadow. Tregoning watched LeBishop maneuver his way through the throng and come up behind Morgan's men. There was going to be trouble. Tregoning could hardly wait.
señorita standing among the crowd, flanked by Israel Goodenough and the African, Rafiki Kogi. Suddenly the Black Cleric stepped back into the crowd, melting among them like a living shadow. Tregoning watched LeBishop maneuver his way through the throng and come up behind Morgan's men. There was going to be trouble. Tregoning could hardly wait.
Every Great Reckoning began in the same fashion: with the reading of the Articlesâfor such a reading had begun the journey and it was customary that the same Articles should end it. Morgan paced the cleared circle around the bonfire, the strong cut of his countenance etched in the fire light. Flames leaped and danced against the night, timber split and cracked and exploded into flame and raged against the approaching storm. Embers were sucked skyward in an updraft to compete with the shimmering shades of blue lightning. Bolts of electricity glimmered and rippled along the clouds, then split the sky with a thunderous crash, and repeated themselves until it seemed as if devils were dueling behind those terrible battlements of black wind and water vapor.
“These are the Articles. Any man who places his mark upon this paper sails under these same laws,” said Morgan. He glanced around at the faces turned toward him.
“Read on, dearie. Then come and have a romp,” a comely wench called out. “Your friends have missed you.” She cupped her enormous breasts, their pink crowns barely concealed by her low-slung bodice. She grinned and tossed her head like a sassy filly attracting her stud.
Morgan grinned as the crowd laughed at his expense. “Well now, Sadie Palantine, I need but one pillow. Who is the other for?”
“Sir William Jolly,” Sadie retorted. “If the poor sod could only manage to find his way. At his age he needs more than a map to find my treasures.” A pack of ten-year-old boys, like angels with dirty faces, crawled to the fore. Wide-eyed and anxious to be a part of a forbidden world, they peered out from behind the frock coats and aprons of the adult men and women just as Sadie Palantine lifted the magenta hem of her dress and flashed a glimpse of her alabaster thighs in Sir William's direction. The crowd roared its approval.
The physician coughed and cleared his throat and refused to dignify her remarks with a comment. He remained seated at a table, a ledger before him. He looked up on hearing his name, then realized who was doing the talking and returned to his lists and his ciphering.
Jolly knew any gibe spoken by the likes of Madame Palantine was bound to cost him a measure of his dignity.
Jolly knew any gibe spoken by the likes of Madame Palantine was bound to cost him a measure of his dignity.
Morgan glanced over at Elena Maria, who appeared somewhat awed by the press of humanity that had followed the Welsh buccaneer to the Reckoning. It was obvious to her that here in Port Royal, there was no ambivalence toward Henry Morgan: he had his enemies; she could tell them by the way they skulked on the fringesâmen like the Black Cleric and his cronies, whose eyes burned with a dark jealousy, whose expressions betrayed the malice in their hearts.
Come to think of it, where
was
LeBishop?
was
LeBishop?
She could not locate him. But she knew he was watching her. She felt his touch of evil tingle along the back of her neck. Unsettled, the señorita returned her attention to the crowd around her. Henry Morgan was held in high esteem among most of these cutthroats and freebooters: men of every color and creed, freed slaves, thieves, fugitives, deserters, everything from the detritus of society to ne'er-do-well aristocrats, and all of them standing equal around the fire, equal before the other Brethren and by the Articles to which they swore.
In a way it was exhilarating. Elena Maria had never experienced such a gathering of free souls. These men and women, outcasts of the world, had created their own society devoid of caste and birthrights, where one man or woman was the equal of any other. They rose and fell on their merits, by their wits, on the strength of their swords, by trick or trade. If her own world were like this, she would have no need of Don Alonso or his place in court.
Too bad.
She could not imagine such rabble being able to resist the might of Spain. No doubt they were destined to wear out their welcome among the English as well. What monarchy could afford to allow such freedoms to go unchecked?
Elena Maria looked up at the sky as the lightning shimmered along the base of the clouds and wondered how long the elements would hold themselves at bay. She had brought nothing to protect herself from the rain and did not want to consider what might happen if the clouds finally unleashed their downpour. Her dress was cut from bolts of pale green Indian cotton, soft and supple and trimmed with French lace about the bodice which barely clung to her ample bosom. Heaven help her in a cloudburst. Of course the other women would fare no better, and many of them, although harlots and tavern wenches, were more finely dressed than she, in unpatterned taffetas,
silks, and satins, and velvet cloths embroidered with spangles and lace.
silks, and satins, and velvet cloths embroidered with spangles and lace.
Other books
Entropy (The Countenance Trilogy 3) by Moore, Addison
Night at the Vulcan by Ngaio Marsh
The Virgin at Goodrich Hall by Danielle Lisle
Angels by Marian Keyes
Dark Angels by Koen, Karleen
Charlotte Street by Danny Wallace
Before Hadley by J. Nathan
Kismet by AE Woodward
Bright Before Us by Katie Arnold-Ratliff
El pendulo de Dios by Jordi Diez