"Cap'n, care to come forward an' have a look?" Mewes was pointing at the dark green hump that had just appeared on the horizon. "That looks to be her, if I'm not amiss."Winston turned to study the sea ahead of them. Just above the surface of the sea was the tip of a large hump, deep green like a leatherback turtle."Aye. Maybe youd best order all hands to station for the afternoon watch, John." He reached back and kissed Katherine lightly. "Katy, the rest of this little tale will have to wait. We've got to get ready now. In truth, I don't exactly know how pleased my old friend Jacques is going to be seeing me again after all these years."As she watched him head down the companionway, she felt a curious mixture of excitement and unease. Now, all at once, she was wondering if she really did want to know what Hugh had been like back then. Perhaps, she told herself, there are some things better just forgotten."Bon soir, Capitaine." A young man carrying a candle-lantern was standing at the water's edge to greet their longboat as Winston, John Mewes, and Atiba, backed by five seamen with flintlocks, rowed in to the shallows. "Tibaut de Fontenay,a votre service, Messieurs. We spotted your mast lights from up at the Forte. Since you seemed to know the reefs, we assumed you had been here before. So you are welcome."He appeared to be in his early twenties and was attired lavishly—a plumed hat topped his long curls, his long velvet waistcoat was parted rakishly to display an immaculate white cravat, and high, glistening boots shaped his calves. The dull glow of the lantern illuminated an almost obsequious grin.Around them the dark outlines of a dozen frigates nodded in the light swell, while lines of foam, sparkling in the moonlight, chased up the shore. TheDefiancehad been the last vessel to navigate Basse Terre's narrow channel of reefs before the quick Caribbean dusk descended."The name is Winston. Master of theDefiance. " He slid over the gunwale of the longboat and waded through the light surf. "Late of Barbados and Nevis.""Bienvenue." The man examined him briefly, then smiled again as he extended his hand and quickly shifted to heavily- accented English. "Your affairs,Capitaine, are of course no concern to us here. Any man who comes in peace is welcome at La Tortue, in the name of His Majesty, King Louis Quatorze of France.""What the devil!" Winston drew back his hand and stared up at the lantern-lit assemblage of taverns along the shore. "Tortuga is French now?""Mais oui, for the better part of a year. Thegouverneurof St. Christophe—the French side—found it necessary to dispatch armed frigates and take this island under his authority. The Anglaisengagesplanting here were sent on their way; they are fortunate we did not do worse. But ships of all nations are always invited to trade for our fine hides, brasil wood for making dye, and the most succulentviande fumeeyou will taste this side of Paris." He bowed lightly, debonairly. "Or Londres. We also have a wide assortment of items in Spanish gold for sale here—and we have just received a shipload of lovely mademoiselles from Marseilles to replace the diseased English whores who had come near to ruining this port's reputation.""We don't need any provisions, and we don't have time for any entertainment this stop. TheDefianceis just passing through, bound for the Windward Passage. I'd thought to put in for tonight and have a brandy with an old friend. Jacques le Basque. Know if he's around?""My master?" The man quickly raised his lantern to scrutinize Winston's face. "He does not normally receive visitors at the Forte, but you may send him your regards through me. I will be happy to tell him a Capitaine Winston ...""What in hell are you talking about? What 'fort' is that?""Forte de la Roche, 'the fort on the rock,' up there." He turned to point through the dark. On a hill overlooking the harbor a row of torches blazed, illuminating a battery of eighteen- pound culverin set above a high stone breastwork."When was that built? It wasn't here before.""Only last year, Capitaine. Part of our new fortifications. It is the residence of ourcommandant de place."Yourcommandant. . ." Winston stopped dead still. "You've got a governor here now?""Oui." He smiled. "In fact, you are fortunate. He is none other than your friend Jacques. He was appointed to the post last year by the Chevalier de Poncy of St. Christophe, administrator of all our French settlements in the Caribbean." He examined the men in the longboat, his glance anxiously lingering on Atiba, who had a shiny new cutlass secured at his waist. "May I take it you knew Jacques well?""I knew him well enough in the old days, back before he arranged to have himself appointed governor. But then I see times have changed.""Many things have changed here, Capitaine.""I'll say they have." Winston signaled for Atiba to climb out of the longboat. "But my friend and I are going up to this 'Forte' and pay a visit to Commandant le Basque, and you can save your messages and diplomatic papers. He knows who I am."De Fontenay stiffened, not quite sure how to reply. As he did, a band of seamen emerged out of the dark and came jostling down the sandy shore toward them, carrying candle-lanterns and tankards and singing an English chantey with convivial relish.". . . We took aboard the Captain's daughter, And gave her fire 'twixt wind and water . . ."Several were in pairs, their arms about each other's shoulders. All were garbed in a flamboyant hodgepodge of European fashions—gold rings and medallions, stolen from the passengers of Spanish merchant frigates, glistened in the lantern light. Most wore fine leather sea boots; a few were barefoot.The man at their head was carrying a large keg. When hespotted the bobbing longboat, he motioned the procession to a halt, tossed the keg onto the sand, and sang out an invitation."Welcome to you, masters. There's a virgin pipe of Spanish brandy here we're expectin' to violate. We'd not take it amiss if you'd help us to our work."He drew a pistol from his belt and swung its gold-trimmed butt against the wooden stopper in the bunghole, knocking it inward."No, Monsieur. Merci. Bien des remerciements. " De Fonte- nay's voice betrayed a faint quaver. "I regret we have no time. I and my good friend, the Anglais here . . .""I wasn't asking you to drink, you arse-sucking French pimp." The man with the pistol scowled as he recognized de Fontenay. "I'd not spare you the sweat off my bollocks if you were adyin' of thirst." He turned toward Winston. "But you and your lads are welcome, sir, whoever you might be. I'll wager no honest Englishman ever declined a cup in good company. My name is Guy Bartholomew, and if you know anything of this place, you'll not have to be told I'm master of theSwiftsure, the finest brig in this port."Winston examined him in the flickering light. Yes, it was Guy Bartholomew all right. He'd been one of the originalboucaniers, and he'd hated Jacques from the first."Permit me to introduce Capitaine Winston of theDefiance, Messieurs." De Fontenay tried to ignore Bartholomew's pistol. "He has asked me personally to . . .""Winston? TheDefiance? God's wounds." Bartholomew doffed his black hat. "Let me drink to your good health. Captain." He paused to fill his tankard with the dark brown liquid spilling from the keg, then hoisted it in an impromptu toast."You don't remember me from before, Bartholomew? Back on Hispaniola?"The boucanier stared at him drunkenly. "No, sir. I can't rightly say as I do. But yours is a name known well enough in this part of the world, that's for certain. You wouldn't be planning to do a bit of sailing from this port, would you now? ’Twould be a pleasure to have you amongst us.""Monsieur," De Fontenay was edging on up the hill, "Capitaine Winston is a personal friend of our commandant, and we must . . .""A friend of Jacques?" Bartholomew studied Winston's face. "I'd not believe any such damn'd lies and calumnies of an honest Englishman like you, sir.""I knew him many years past, Bartholomew. I hope he remembers me better than you do. Though I'm not sure he still considers me a friend after our little falling out.""Well, sir, I can tell you this much. Things have changed mightily since the old days. Back then he only stole from the pox-eaten Spaniards. Now he and that French bastard de Poncy rob us all. They take a piece of all the Spaniards' booty we bring in, and then Jacques demands another ten percent for himself, as his 'landing fee.' He even levies a duty on all the hides the hunters bring over from Hispaniola to sell."De Fontenay glared. "There must always be taxes, anywhere. Jacques is commandant now, and the Chevalier de Poncy has ...""Commandant?" Bartholomew snorted. "My lads have another name for him, sir. If he ever dared come down here and meet us, the Englishmen in this port would draw lots to see who got the pleasure of cutting his throat. He knows we can't sail from any other settlement. It's only because he's got those guns up there at the fort, covering the bay, and all his damned guards, that he's not been done away with long before now." He turned back to Winston. "The bastard's made himself a dungeon up there beneath the rock, that he calls Purgatory. Go against him and that's where you end up. Few men have walked out of it alive, I'll tell you that."De Fontenay shifted uneasily and toyed with a curl. "Purgatory will not be there forever, I promise you.""So you say. But you may just wind up there yourself one day soon, sir, and then we'll likely hear you piping a different tune. Even though you are hismatelot, which I'll warrant might more properly be called his whore.""What I am to Jacques is no affair of yours.""Aye, I suppose the goings-on in the fort are not meant to be known to the honest ships' masters in this port. But we still have eyes, sir, for all that. I know you're hoping that after Jacques is gone, that Frenchman de Poncy will make you commandant of this place, this stinking piss-hole. Just because the Code of theboucaniersmakes you Jacques' heir. But it'll not happen, sir, by my life. Never.""Monsieur, enough.Suffit!" De Fontenay spat out the words, then turned back to Winston. "Shall we proceed up to the Forte?" He gestured toward the hill ahead. "Or do you intend to stay and spend the night talking with these Anglaiscochons?""My friend, do beware of that old bastard." Bartholomew caught Winston's arm, and his voice grew cautionary. "God Almighty, I could tell you such tales. He's daft as a loon these days. I'd be gone from this place in a minute if I could just figure how.""He tried to kill me once, Master Bartholomew, in a little episode you might recall if you set your mind to it. But I'm still around." Winston nodded farewell, then turned back toward the longboat. John Mewes sat nervously waiting, a flintlock across his lap. "John, take her on back and wait for us. Atiba's coming with me. And no shore leave for anybody till morning.""Aye." Mewes eyed the drunken seamen as he shoved off. "See you mind yourself, Cap'n. I'll expect you back by sunrise or I'm sendin' the lads to get you.""Till then." Winston gestured Atiba to move alongside him, then turned back to De Fontenay. "Shall we go.""Avec plaisir, Capitaine. These Anglais who sail for us can be mostdangereuxwhen they have had so much brandy." The young Frenchman paused as he glanced uncertainly at Atiba. The tall African towered by Winston's side. "Will your . . .gentilhomme de servicebe accompanying you?""He's with me.""Bon. "He cleared his throat. "As you wish."He lifted his lantern and, leaving Bartholomew's men singing on the shore, headed up the muddy, torch-lit roadway leading between the cluster of taverns that comprised the heart of Basse Terre's commercial center."How long has it been since you last visited us, Capitaine?" De Fontenay glanced back. "I have beenmatelotto Jacques for almost three years, but I don't recall the pleasure of welcoming you before this evening.""It's been a few years. Back before Jacques became governor. ''"Was this your home once, senhor?" Atiba was examining the shopfronts along the street, many displaying piles of silks and jewelry once belonging to the passengers on Spanish merchantmen. Along either side, patched-together taverns and brothels spilled their cacophony of songs, curses, and raucous fiddle music into the muddy paths that were streets.Winston laughed. "Well, it was scarcely like this. There used to be thatched huts along here and piles of hides and smoked beef ready for barter. All you could find to drink in those days was a tankard of cheap kill-devil. But the main difference is the fort up there, which is a noticeable improvement over that rusty set of culverin we used to have down along the shore.""I gather it must have been a very long time ago. Monsieur, that you were last here." De Fontenay was moving hurriedly past the rickety taverns, heading straight for the palm-lined road leading up the hill to the fort."Probably some ten years or so.""Then I wonder if Jacques will still remember you."Winston laughed. "I expect he does."De Fontenay started purposefully up the road. About six hundred yards from the shoreline the steep slope of a hill began. The climb was long and tortuous, and the young Frenchman was breathing heavily by the time they were halfway up."This place is damnable strong, senhor. Very hard to attack,even with guns." Atiba shifted the cutlass in his belt and peered up the hill, toward the line of torches. He was moving easily, his bare feet molding to the rough rock steps."It could never be stormed from down below, that much is sure." Winston glanced back. "But we're not here to try and take this place. He can keep Tortuga and bleed it dry for all I care. I'll just settle for some of those men I saw tonight. If they want to part company with him . . .""Those whoresons are not lads who fight,” Atiba commented. “They are drunkards.""They can fight as well as they drink." Winston smiled. "Don't let the brandy fool you.""Yourbrancosare a damnable curiosity, senhor." He grunted. "I am waiting to see how my peoples here live, the slaves.""Theboucaniersdon't cut cane, so they don't have slaves.""Then mayhaps I will drink with them.""You'd best hold that till after we're finished with Jacques, my friend." Winston glanced up toward the fort. "Just keep I your cutlass handy."They had reached the curving row of steps that led through the arched gateway of the fortress. Above them a steep wall of cut stone rose up against the dark sky, and across the top, illuminated by torches, was the row of culverin. Sentries armed with flintlocks, in helmets and flamboyant Spanish coats, barred the gateway till de Fontenay waved them aside. Then guards inside unbolted the iron gate and they moved up the final stairway.Winston realized the fort had been built on a natural plateau, with terraces inside the walls which would permit several hundred musketmen to fire unseen down on the settlement below. From somewhere in the back he could hear the gurgle of a spring—meaning a supply of fresh water, one of the first requirements of a good fortress.Jacques had found a natural redoubt and fortified it brilliantly. All the settlement and the harbor now were under his guns. Onlythe mountain behind, a steep precipice, had any vantage over Forte de la Roche."Senhor, what is that?" Atiba was pointing toward the massive boulder, some fifty feet wide and thirty feet high, that rested in the center of the yard as though dropped there by the hand of God.Winston studied it, puzzling, then noticed a platform atop the rock, with several cannon projecting out. A row of brick steps led halfway up the side, then ended abruptly. When they reached the base, de Fontenay turned back."The citadel above us is Jacques's personal residence, what he likes to call his 'dovecote.' It will be necessary for you to wait here while I ask him to lower the ladder.""The ladder?""Mais oui, a security measure. No one is allowed up there without his consent."He called up, identified himself, and after a pause the first rungs of a heavy iron ladder appeared through an opening in the platform. Slowly it began to be lowered toward the last step at the top of the stair.Again de Fontenay hesitated. "Perhaps it might be best if I go first, Messieurs. Jacques is not fond of surprises.""He never was." Winston motioned for Atiba to stay close.De Fontenay hung his lantern on a brass spike at the side of the stairs, then turned and lightly ascended the rungs. From the platform above, two musketmen covered his approach with flintlocks. He saluted them, then disappeared.As Winston waited, Atiba at his side, he heard a faint human voice, a low moaning sound, coming from somewhere near their feet. He looked down and noticed a doorway at the base of the rock, leading into what appeared to be an excavated chamber. The door was of thick hewn logs with only a small grate in its center.Was that, he wondered, the dungeon Bartholomew called Purgatory?Suddenly he felt an overwhelming sense of anger and betrayal at what Jacques had become. Whatever else he might have been, this was the man whose name once stood for freedom. And now . . .He was turning to head down and inspect Purgatory first-hand when a welcome sounded from the platform above."Mon ami! Bienvenue, Anglais.Mon Dieu, il y a tres long- temps!A good ten years,n 'est-ce pas?'' A bearded face peered down, while a deep voice roared with pleasure. "Perhaps you've finally learned something about how to shoot after all this time. Come up and let me have a look at you.""And maybe you've improved your aim, Jacques. Your last pistol ball didn't get you a hide." Winston turned back and reached for the ladder."Oui, truly it did not, Anglais. How near did I come?" He extended a rough hand as Winston emerged."Close enough." Winston stepped onto the platform of the citadel.In the flickering torchlight he recognized the old leader of theboucaniers, now grown noticeably heavier; his thick beard, once black as onyx, was liberally threaded with white. He sported a ruffled doublet of red silk and had stuffed his dark calico breeches into bucket-top sea boots of fine Spanish leather. The gold rings on several fingers glistened with jewels, and the squint in his eyes was deep and malevolent.Le Basque embraced Winston, then drew back and studied his scar. "Mon Dieu, so I came closer than I thought.Mes condoleances. I must have been sleepy that morning. I'd fully intended to take your head.""How about some of your French brandy, you oldbatard? For me and my friend. By the look of things, I'd say you can afford it.""Vraiment. Brandy for the Anglais . . . and his friend." The boucanier nodded warily as he saw Atiba appear at the top of the ladder. After a moment's pause, he laughed again, throatily. "Truly I can afford anything. The old days are over. I'm rich. Many a Spaniard has paid for what they did to us back then."He turned and barked an order to de Fontenay. The young man bowed, then moved smoothly through the heavy oak doors leading into Jacques's residence. "You know, I still hear of you from time to time, Anglais. But never before have we seen you here,n 'est-ce pas? How have you been?""Well enough. I see you've been busy yourself." Winston glanced up at the brickwork house Jacques had erected above the center of the rock. It was a true citadel. Along the edge of the platform, looking out, a row of nine-pound demi-culverin had been installed. "But what's this talk you chased off the English planters?""They annoyed me. You know that never was wise. So I decided to be rid of them. Besides, it's better this way. A few were permitted to stay on and sail for me, but La Tortue must be French." He reached for a tankard from the tray de Fontenay was offering. "I persuaded ourgouverneurup on St. Christophe to send down a few frigates to help me secure this place.""Is that why you keep men in a dungeon up here? We never had such things in the old days.""My little Purgatory?" He handed the tankard to Winston, then offered one to Atiba. The Yoruba eyed him coldly and waved it away. Jacques shrugged, taking a sip himself before continuing. "Surely you understand the need for discipline. If these men disobey me, they must be dealt with. Otherwise, no one remembers who is in charge of this place.""I thought we'd planned to just punish the Spaniards, not each other.""But we are, Anglais, we are. Remember when I declared they would someday soil their breeches whenever they heard the word 'boucanier'? Well, it's come true. They swear using my name. Half the time the craven bastards are too terrified to cock a musket when my men board one of their merchant frigates." He smiled. "Everything we wanted back then has come to pass. Sweet revenge." He reached and absently drew a finger down de Fontenay's arm. "But tell me, Anglais, have you got a woman these days? Or amatelot?" He studied Atiba."An Englishwoman is sailing with me. She's down on theDefiance.""TheDefiance?""My Spanish brig.""Oui, but of course. I heard how you acquired it." He laughed and stroked his beard. "Alors, tomorrow you must bring this Anglaise of yours up and let me meet her. Show her how your old friend has made his way in the world.""That depends. I thought we'd empty a tankard or two tonight and talk a bit.""Bon. Nothing better." He signaled to de Fontenay for a refill, and the young man quickly stepped forward with the flask. "Tonight we remember old times."Winston laughed. "Could be there're a few things about the old days we'd best let be. So maybe I'll just work on this fine brandy of yours and hear how you're getting along these days with our good friends the Spaniards.""Ah, Anglais, we get on very well. I have garroted easily a hundred of those bastards for every one of ours they killed back then, and taken enough cargo to buy a kingdom. You know, if their Nuevo Espana Armada, the one that ships home silver from their mines in Mexico, is a week overdue making the Canary Islands, the King of Spain and all his creditors from Italy to France cannot shit for worrying I might have taken it. Someday, my friend, I will.""Good. I'll drink to it." Winston lifted his tankard. "To the Spaniards."Jacques laughed. "Oui. And may they always be around to keep me rich.""On that subject, old friend, I had a little project in mind. I was thinking maybe I'd borrow a few of your lads and stage a raid on a certain Spanish settlement.""Anglais, why would you want to bother? Believe me when I tell you there's not a town on the Main I could not take tomorrow if I choose. But they're mostly worthless." He drank again, then rose and strolled over to the edge of the platform. Below, mast lights were speckled across the harbor, and music drifted up from the glowing tavern windows. "By the time you get into one, the Spaniards have carried everything they own into the forest and emptied the place.""I'll grant you that. But did you ever consider taking one of their islands? Say . . . Jamaica?""Mon ami, the rewards of an endeavor must justify the risk." Jacques strolled back and settled heavily into a deep leather chair. "What's over there? Besides their militia?""They've got a fortress and a town, Villa de la Vega, and there's bound to be a bit of coin, maybe even some plate. But the harbor's the real . . .""Oui, peut-etre. Perhaps there's a sou or two to be had there somewhere. But why trouble yourself with a damned militia when there're merchantmen plying the Windward Passage day in and day out, up to their gunwales with plate, pearls from their oyster beds down at Margarita, even silks shipped overland from those Manila galleons that put in at Acapulco . . .?""You know an English captain named Jackson took that fortress a few years back, and ransomed it for twenty thousand pieces-of-eight? That's a hundred and sixty thousandreals. ""Anglais, I also know very well they have a battery of guns in that fort, covering the harbor. It wouldn't be all that simple to storm.""As it happens, I've taken on a pilot who knows that harbor better than you know the one right down below, and I'm thinking I might sail over and see it." Winston took another swallow. "You're welcome to send along some men if you like. I'll split any metal money and plate with them.""Forget it. Anglais. None of these men will . . .""Wait a minute, Jacques. You don't own them. That was never the way. So if some of these lads decide to sail with me, that's their own affair.""My friend, why do you think I am thecommandant de placeif I do not command? Have you seen those culverin just below us, trained on the bay? No frigate enters Basse Terre—or leaves it-- against my will. Even yours,mon ami. Don't lose sight of that.""I thought you were getting smarter than you used to be, Jacques.""Don't try and challenge me again, Anglais." Jacques's hand had edged slowly toward the pistol in his belt, but then he glanced at Atiba and hesitated. "Though it's not my habit to kill a man while he's drinking my brandy." He smiled suddenly, breaking the tension, and leaned back. "It might injure my reputation for hospitality.""When I'm in the fortress overlooking Jamaica Bay one day soon, I'll try and remember to drink your health.""You really think you can do it, don't you?" He sobered and studied Winston."It's too easy not to. But I told you we could take it as partners, together.""Anglais, I'm not a fool. You don't have the men to manage it alone. So you're hoping I'll give you some of mine.""I don't want you to 'give' me anything, you old whoremaster. I said we would take it together."Forget it. I have better things to do." He smiled. "But all the same, it's always good to see an old friend again. Stay a while. Anglais. What if tomorrow night we feasted like the old days,boucanierstyle? Why not show yourfemmehow we used to live?""Jacques, we've got victuals on theDefiance.""Is that what you think of me?" He sighed. "That I would forgo this chance to relive old times? Bring thispetiteAnglaise of yours up and let her meet your oldami. I knew you before you were sure which end of a musket to prime. I watched you bring down your first wild boar. And now, when I welcome you and yours with open arms, you scorn my generosity.""We're not finished with this matter of the Spaniards, my friend.""Certainement. Perhaps I will give it some consideration. We can think about it tomorrow night, while we all share some brandy and dine onbarbacoa, same as the old days. As long as I breathe, nothing else will ever taste quite so good." He motioned for de Fontenay to lower the iron ladder. "We will remember the way we used to live. In truth. I even think I miss it at times. Life was simpler then.""Things don't seem so simple around here any more, Jacques.""But we can remember, my friend. Humility. It nourishes the soul.""To old times then, Jacques." He drained his tankard and signaled for Atiba. "Tomorrow.""Oui, Anglais.A demain. And my regards to your friend here with the cutlass." He smiled as he watched them start down the ladder. "But why don't you ask him to stay down there tomorrow? I must be getting old, because that sword of his is starting to make me nervous. And we wouldn't want anything to upset our littlefete, now would we,mon frere?"*Katherine stood at the bannister amidships. Serina by her side, and studied the glimmer of lights along the shore, swaying clusters of candle-lanterns as seamen passed back and forth in longboats between the brothels of Tortuga and their ships.The buccaneers. They lived in a world like none she had ever seen. As the shouts, curses, songs, and snatches of music drifted out over the gentle surf, she had to remind herself that this raffish settlement was the home of brigands unwelcome in any other place. Yet from her vantage now, they seemed like harmless, jovial children.Still, anchored alongside theDefiancewere some of the most heavily armed brigantines in the New World—no bottom here carried fewer than thirty guns. The men, too, were murderers, who killed Spanish civilians as readily as infantry. Jacques le Basque presided over the most dreaded naval force in the New World. He had done more to endanger Spain's fragile economy than all the Protestant countries together. If they grew any stronger, the few hundred men on this tiny island might well so disrupt Spain's vital lifeline of silver from the Americas as to bankrupt what once had been Europe's mightiest empire. . . .The report of a pistol sounded from somewhere along the shore, followed by yells of glee and more shots. Several men in Spanish finery had begun firing into the night to signal the commencement of an impromptu celebration. As they marched around a keg of liquor, a cluster of women, prostitutes from the taverns, shrieked in drunken encouragement and joined in the melee."This place is very frightening, senhora." Serina shivered and edged next to Katherine. Her hair was tied in a kerchief, African style, as it had been for all the voyage. "I have never seenbrancolike these. They seem so crazy, so violent.""Just be thankful we're not Spaniards, or we'd find out just how violent they really are.""Remember I once lived in Brazil. We heard stories about this place.""'Tis quite a sight, Yor Ladyships." John Mewes had ambled over to the railing, beside them, to watch for Winston. "The damnedest crew of rogues and knaves you're ever like to make acquaintance with. Things've come to a sad pass that we've got to try recruitin' some of this lot to sail with us.""Do you think they're safe ashore, John?""Aye, Yor Ladyship, on that matter I'd not trouble yourself unduly." Mewes fingered the musket he was holding. "You should've seen him once down at Curasao, when a gang of Dutch shippers didn't like the cheap price we was askin' for a load of kill-devil that'd fallen our way over at . . . I forget where. Threatened to board and scuttle us. So the Captain and me decided we'd hoist a couple of nine-pound demi's up on deck and stage a little gunnery exercise on a buoy floatin' there on the windward side o' the harbor. After we'd laid it with a couple of rounds, blew it to hell, next thing you know the Butterboxes . . .""John, what's that light over there? Isn't that him?"Mewes paused and stared. At the shoreline opposite their anchorage a lantern was flashing."Aye, m'lady. That's the signal, sure enough." He smiled. "Didn't I tell you there'd be nothing to worry over." With an exhale of relief, he quickly turned and ordered the longboat lowered, assigning four men to the oars and another four to bring flintlocks.The longboat lingered briefly in the surf at the shore, and moments later Winston and Atiba were headed back toward the ship."It seems they are safe, senhora." Serina was still watching with worried eyes. "Perhaps thesebrancoare better than those on Barbados.""Well, I don't think they have slaves, if that's what you mean. But that's about all you can say for them."A few moments later the longboat bumped against the side of theDefiance, and Winston was pulling himself over the bulwarks, followed by Atiba."Katy, break out the tankards. I think we can deal with Jacques." He offered her a hug. "He's gone half mad—taken over the island and run off the English settlers. But there're plenty of Englishboucaniershere who'd like nothing better than to sail from somewhere else.""Did he agree to help us?""Of course not. You've got to know him. It's just what I expected. When I brought up our little idea, he naturally refused point-blank. But he knows there're men here who'll join us if they like. Which means that tomorrow he'll claim it was his idea all along, then demand the biggest part of what we take for himself.""Tomorrow?""I'm going back up to the fort, around sunset, to sort out details.""I wish you wouldn't." She took his hand. "Why don't we just get whatever men we can manage and leave?""That'd mean a fight." He kissed her lightly. "Don't worry. I'll handle Jacques. We just have to keep our wits.""Well then, I want to go with you.""As a matter of fact he did ask you to come. But that's out of the question.""It's just as dangerous for you as for me. If you're going back, then so am I.""Katy, no . . .""Hugh, we've done everything together this far. So if you want to get men from this place, then I'll help you. And if that means I have to flatter this insane criminal, so be it."He regarded her thoughtfully, then smiled. "Well, in truth I'm not sure a woman can still turn his head, but I suppose you can give it a try."Serina approached them and reached to touch Winston's hand. "Senhor, was your council of war a success?""I think so. All things in time.""The branco in this place are very strange. Is it true they do not have slaves?""Slaves, no. Though they do have a kind of servant here, but even that's different from Barbados.""How so, senhor?""Well, there've never been many women around this place. So in the old days aboucaniermight acquire amatelot, to be his companion, and over the years thematelotsgot to be more like younger brothers than indentures. They have legal rights of inheritance, for instance, since mostboucaniershave no family. Aboucanierand hismatelotare legally entitled to the other's property if one of them dies." He looked back toward the shore. "Also, no man has more than onematelot. In fact, if aboucanierdoes marry a woman, hismatelothas conjugal rights to her too.""But, senhor, if the younger man, thematelot, inherits everything, what is to keep him from just killing the older man? To gain his freedom, and also the other man's property?""Honor." He shrugged and leaned back against the railing,inhaling the dense air of the island. He lingered pensively for a moment, then turned to Katherine. "Katy, do remember this isn't just any port. Some of those men out there have been known to shoot somebody for no more cause than a tankard of brandy. And underneath it all, Jacques is just like the rest. It's when he's most cordial that you'd best beware.""I still want to go." She moved next to him. "I'm going to meet face-to-face with this madman who once tried to kill you."Chapter Twenty-oneThe ochre half-light of dusk was settling over the island, lending a warm tint to the deep green of the hillside forests surrounding Forte de la Roche. In the central yard of the fortress, directly beneath le Basque's "dovecote," his uniformed guards loitered alongside the row of heavy culverin, watching the mast lights of anchored frigates and brigantines nod beneath the cloudless sky.Tibaut de Fontenay had taken no note of the beauty of the evening. He was busy tending the old-fashionedboucanJacques had ordered constructed just behind the cannon. Though he stood on the windward side, he still coughed occasionally from the smoke that threaded upward, over the "dovecote" and toward the hill above. Theboucanitself consisted of a rectangular wooden frame supporting a greenwood grill, set atop four forked posts. Over the frame and grill a thatchwork of banana leaves had been erected to hold in the piquant smoke of the smoldering naseberry branches beneath. Several haunches of beef lay flat on the grill, and now the fire was coating them with a succulent red veneer. It was the traditional Taino Indian method of cooking and preserving meat,barbacoa, that had been adopted intact by the boucaniers decades before.Jacques leaned against the railing at the edge of the platform above, pewter tankard in hand, contentedly stroking his salt-and-pepper beard as he gazed out over the harbor and the multihued sunset that washed his domain in misty ambers. Finally, he turned with a murmur of satisfaction and beckoned for Katherine to join him. She glanced uneasily toward Winston, then moved to his side."The aroma of theboucan. Mademoiselle, was always the signal the day was ending." He pointed across the wide bay, toward the green mountains of Hispaniola. "Were we over there tonight, with the hunters, we would still be scraping the last of the hides now, while ourboucanfinished curing the day's kill for storing in our banana-leafajoupa." He smiled warmly, then glanced down to see if her tankard required attention. "Though, of course, we never had such a charming Anglaise to leaven our rude company.""I should have thought, Monsieur le Basque, you might have preferred a Frenchwoman." Katherine studied him, trying to imagine the time when he and Hugh had roamed the forests together. Jacques le Basque, for all his rough exterior, conveyed an unsettling sensuality. She sensed his desire for her as he stood alongside, and when he brushed her hand, she caught herself trembling involuntarily."You do me an injustice, Mademoiselle, to suggest I would even attempt passing such a judgment." He laughed. "For me, womankind is like a garden, whose flowers each have their own beauty. Where is the man who could be so dull as to waste a single moment comparing the deep hue of the rose to the delicate pale of the lily. The petals of each are soft, they both open invitingly at the touch.""Do they always open so easily, Monsieur le Basque?""Please, you must call me Jacques." He brushed back a wisp of her hair and paused to admire her face in the light of the sunset. "It is ever a man's duty to awaken the beauty that lies sleeping in a woman's body. Too many exquisite creatures never realize how truly lovely they are.""Do those lovely creatures include handsome boys as well?" She glanced down at de Fontenay, his long curls lying tangled across his delicate shoulders.Jacques drank thoughtfully from his tankard. "Mademoiselle, there is something of beauty in all God's work. What can a man know of wine if he samples only one vineyard?""A woman might say, Jacques, it depends on whether you prefer flowers, or wine.""Touche, Mademoiselle. But some of us have a taste for all of life. Our years here are so brief."As she stood beside him, she became conscious again of the short-barreled flintlock—borrowed from Winston's sea chest, without his knowing it—she had secreted in the waist of her petticoat, just below her low-cut bodice. Now it seemed so foolish. Why had Hugh painted Jacques as erratic and dangerous? Could it be because the oldboucanierhad managed to better him in that pistol duel they once had, and he'd never quite lived it down? Maybe that was why he never seemed to get around to explaining what really happened that time."Then perhaps you'll tell me how many of those years you spent hunting." She abruptly turned and gestured toward the hazy shoreline across the bay. Seen through the smoke of theboucanbelow, Hispaniola's forests seemed endless, impenetrable. "Over there, on the big island?""Ah, Mademoiselle, thinking back now it seems like forever. Perhaps it was almost that long." He laughed genially, then glanced toward Winston, standing at the other end of the platform, and called out, "Anglais, shall we tell your lovely mademoiselle something about the way we lived back in the old days?""You can tell her anything you please, Jacques, just take care it's true." Winston was studying the fleet of ships in the bay below. "Remember this is our evening for straight talk.""Then I will try not to make it sound too romantic." Jacques chuckled and turned back. "Since the Anglais insists I must be precise, I should begin by admitting it was a somewhat difficult existence. Mademoiselle. We’d go afield for weeks at a time, usually six or eight of us together in a party— to protect ourselves should we blunder across some of the Spaniards' lancers, cavalry who roamed the island trying to be rid of us. In truth, we scarcely knew where we would bed down from one day to the next. . . ."Winston was only half listening as he studied the musket- men in the yard below. There seemed to be a restlessness, perhaps even a tension, about them. Was it theboucan? The bother of the smoke? Or was it something more? Some treachery in the making? He told himself to stay alert, that this was no time to be lulled by Jacques's famed courtliness. It could have been a big mistake not to bring Atiba, in spite of Jacques's demand he be left."On most days we would rise at dawn, prime our muskets, then move out to scout for game. Usually one of us went ahead with the dogs. Before the Anglais came to live with us, that perilous assignment normally fell to me, since I had the best aim." He lifted the onion-flask of French brandy from the side of the veranda and replenished her tankard with a smooth flourish. "When you stalk the wild bull, thetaureau sauvage, you'd best be able to bring him down with the first shot, or hope there's a stout tree nearby to climb." He smiled and thumbed toward Winston. "But after the Anglais joined us, we soon all agreed he should have the honor of going first with the dogs. We had discovered he was a born marksman." He toasted Winston with his tankard. "When the dogs had a wild bull at bay, the Anglais would dispatch it with his musket. Afterwards, one of our men would stay to butcher it and take the hide while the rest of us would move on, following him.""Then what?" She never knew before that Winston had actually been the leader of the hunt, their marksman."Well, Mademoiselle, after the Anglais had bagged a bull for every man, we'd bring all the meat and hides back to the base camp, the rendezvous. Then we would put up aboucan,like the one down there below us now, and begin smoking the meat while we finished scraping the hides." He smiled through his graying beard. "You would scarcely have recognized the Anglais, or me, in those days, Mademoiselle. Half the time our breeches were so caked with blood they looked like we'd been tarred." He glanced back at the island. "By nightfall thebarbacoawould be finished, and we would eat some, then salt the rest and put it away in anajoupa, together with the hides. Finally, we'd bed down beside the fire of theboucan, to smoke away the mosquitoes, sleeping in those canvas sacks we used to keep off ants. Then, at first light of dawn, we rose to go out again.""And then you would sell your . . .barbacoaand hides here on Tortuga?""Exactly, Mademoiselle. I see my old friend the Anglais has already told you something of those days." He smiled and caught her eye. "Yes, often as not we'd come back over here and barter with the ships that put in to refit. But then sometimes we'd just sell them over there. When we had a load, we would start watching for a sail, and if we saw a ship nearing the coast, we'd paddle out in our canoes . . .""Canoes?" She felt the night grow chill. Suddenly a memory from long ago welled up again, bearded men firing on their ship, her mother falling. . . ."Oui, Mademoiselle. Dugout canoes. In truth they're all we had those days. We made them by hollowing out the heart of a tree, burning it away, just like the Indians on Hispaniola used to do." He sipped his brandy, then motioned toward Winston. "They were quite seaworthy,n 'est-ce pas? Enough so we actually used them on our first raid." He turned back. "Though after that we naturally had Spanish ships.""And where . . . was your first raid, Monsieur le Basque?" She felt her grip tighten involuntarily on the pewter handle of her tankard."Did the Anglais never tell you about that little episode, Mademoiselle?" He laughed sarcastically. "No, perhaps itis not something he chooses to remember. Though at the time we thought we could depend on him. I have explained to you that no man among us could shoot as well as he. We wanted him to fire the first shot, as he did when we were hunting. Truly we had high hopes for him." Jacques drank again, a broad silhouette against the panorama of the sunset.
"Cap'n, care to come forward an' have a look?" Mewes was pointing at the dark green hump that had just appeared on the horizon. "That looks to be her, if I'm not amiss."
Winston turned to study the sea ahead of them. Just above the surface of the sea was the tip of a large hump, deep green like a leatherback turtle.
"Aye. Maybe youd best order all hands to station for the afternoon watch, John." He reached back and kissed Katherine lightly. "Katy, the rest of this little tale will have to wait. We've got to get ready now. In truth, I don't exactly know how pleased my old friend Jacques is going to be seeing me again after all these years."
As she watched him head down the companionway, she felt a curious mixture of excitement and unease. Now, all at once, she was wondering if she really did want to know what Hugh had been like back then. Perhaps, she told herself, there are some things better just forgotten.
"Bon soir, Capitaine." A young man carrying a candle-lantern was standing at the water's edge to greet their longboat as Winston, John Mewes, and Atiba, backed by five seamen with flintlocks, rowed in to the shallows. "Tibaut de Fontenay,a votre service, Messieurs. We spotted your mast lights from up at the Forte. Since you seemed to know the reefs, we assumed you had been here before. So you are welcome."
He appeared to be in his early twenties and was attired lavishly—a plumed hat topped his long curls, his long velvet waistcoat was parted rakishly to display an immaculate white cravat, and high, glistening boots shaped his calves. The dull glow of the lantern illuminated an almost obsequious grin.
Around them the dark outlines of a dozen frigates nodded in the light swell, while lines of foam, sparkling in the moonlight, chased up the shore. TheDefiancehad been the last vessel to navigate Basse Terre's narrow channel of reefs before the quick Caribbean dusk descended.
"The name is Winston. Master of theDefiance. " He slid over the gunwale of the longboat and waded through the light surf. "Late of Barbados and Nevis."
"Bienvenue." The man examined him briefly, then smiled again as he extended his hand and quickly shifted to heavily- accented English. "Your affairs,Capitaine, are of course no concern to us here. Any man who comes in peace is welcome at La Tortue, in the name of His Majesty, King Louis Quatorze of France."
"What the devil!" Winston drew back his hand and stared up at the lantern-lit assemblage of taverns along the shore. "Tortuga is French now?"
"Mais oui, for the better part of a year. Thegouverneurof St. Christophe—the French side—found it necessary to dispatch armed frigates and take this island under his authority. The Anglaisengagesplanting here were sent on their way; they are fortunate we did not do worse. But ships of all nations are always invited to trade for our fine hides, brasil wood for making dye, and the most succulentviande fumeeyou will taste this side of Paris." He bowed lightly, debonairly. "Or Londres. We also have a wide assortment of items in Spanish gold for sale here—and we have just received a shipload of lovely mademoiselles from Marseilles to replace the diseased English whores who had come near to ruining this port's reputation."
"We don't need any provisions, and we don't have time for any entertainment this stop. TheDefianceis just passing through, bound for the Windward Passage. I'd thought to put in for tonight and have a brandy with an old friend. Jacques le Basque. Know if he's around?"
"My master?" The man quickly raised his lantern to scrutinize Winston's face. "He does not normally receive visitors at the Forte, but you may send him your regards through me. I will be happy to tell him a Capitaine Winston ..."
"What in hell are you talking about? What 'fort' is that?"
"Forte de la Roche, 'the fort on the rock,' up there." He turned to point through the dark. On a hill overlooking the harbor a row of torches blazed, illuminating a battery of eighteen- pound culverin set above a high stone breastwork.
"When was that built? It wasn't here before."
"Only last year, Capitaine. Part of our new fortifications. It is the residence of ourcommandant de place.
"Yourcommandant. . ." Winston stopped dead still. "You've got a governor here now?"
"Oui." He smiled. "In fact, you are fortunate. He is none other than your friend Jacques. He was appointed to the post last year by the Chevalier de Poncy of St. Christophe, administrator of all our French settlements in the Caribbean." He examined the men in the longboat, his glance anxiously lingering on Atiba, who had a shiny new cutlass secured at his waist. "May I take it you knew Jacques well?"
"I knew him well enough in the old days, back before he arranged to have himself appointed governor. But then I see times have changed."
"Many things have changed here, Capitaine."
"I'll say they have." Winston signaled for Atiba to climb out of the longboat. "But my friend and I are going up to this 'Forte' and pay a visit to Commandant le Basque, and you can save your messages and diplomatic papers. He knows who I am."
De Fontenay stiffened, not quite sure how to reply. As he did, a band of seamen emerged out of the dark and came jostling down the sandy shore toward them, carrying candle-lanterns and tankards and singing an English chantey with convivial relish.
". . . We took aboard the Captain's daughter, And gave her fire 'twixt wind and water . . ."
Several were in pairs, their arms about each other's shoulders. All were garbed in a flamboyant hodgepodge of European fashions—gold rings and medallions, stolen from the passengers of Spanish merchant frigates, glistened in the lantern light. Most wore fine leather sea boots; a few were barefoot.
The man at their head was carrying a large keg. When he
spotted the bobbing longboat, he motioned the procession to a halt, tossed the keg onto the sand, and sang out an invitation.
"Welcome to you, masters. There's a virgin pipe of Spanish brandy here we're expectin' to violate. We'd not take it amiss if you'd help us to our work."
He drew a pistol from his belt and swung its gold-trimmed butt against the wooden stopper in the bunghole, knocking it inward.
"No, Monsieur. Merci. Bien des remerciements. " De Fonte- nay's voice betrayed a faint quaver. "I regret we have no time. I and my good friend, the Anglais here . . ."
"I wasn't asking you to drink, you arse-sucking French pimp." The man with the pistol scowled as he recognized de Fontenay. "I'd not spare you the sweat off my bollocks if you were adyin' of thirst." He turned toward Winston. "But you and your lads are welcome, sir, whoever you might be. I'll wager no honest Englishman ever declined a cup in good company. My name is Guy Bartholomew, and if you know anything of this place, you'll not have to be told I'm master of theSwiftsure, the finest brig in this port."
Winston examined him in the flickering light. Yes, it was Guy Bartholomew all right. He'd been one of the originalboucaniers, and he'd hated Jacques from the first.
"Permit me to introduce Capitaine Winston of theDefiance, Messieurs." De Fontenay tried to ignore Bartholomew's pistol. "He has asked me personally to . . ."
"Winston? TheDefiance? God's wounds." Bartholomew doffed his black hat. "Let me drink to your good health. Captain." He paused to fill his tankard with the dark brown liquid spilling from the keg, then hoisted it in an impromptu toast.
"You don't remember me from before, Bartholomew? Back on Hispaniola?"
The boucanier stared at him drunkenly. "No, sir. I can't rightly say as I do. But yours is a name known well enough in this part of the world, that's for certain. You wouldn't be planning to do a bit of sailing from this port, would you now? ’Twould be a pleasure to have you amongst us."
"Monsieur," De Fontenay was edging on up the hill, "Capitaine Winston is a personal friend of our commandant, and we must . . ."
"A friend of Jacques?" Bartholomew studied Winston's face. "I'd not believe any such damn'd lies and calumnies of an honest Englishman like you, sir."
"I knew him many years past, Bartholomew. I hope he remembers me better than you do. Though I'm not sure he still considers me a friend after our little falling out."
"Well, sir, I can tell you this much. Things have changed mightily since the old days. Back then he only stole from the pox-eaten Spaniards. Now he and that French bastard de Poncy rob us all. They take a piece of all the Spaniards' booty we bring in, and then Jacques demands another ten percent for himself, as his 'landing fee.' He even levies a duty on all the hides the hunters bring over from Hispaniola to sell."
De Fontenay glared. "There must always be taxes, anywhere. Jacques is commandant now, and the Chevalier de Poncy has ..."
"Commandant?" Bartholomew snorted. "My lads have another name for him, sir. If he ever dared come down here and meet us, the Englishmen in this port would draw lots to see who got the pleasure of cutting his throat. He knows we can't sail from any other settlement. It's only because he's got those guns up there at the fort, covering the bay, and all his damned guards, that he's not been done away with long before now." He turned back to Winston. "The bastard's made himself a dungeon up there beneath the rock, that he calls Purgatory. Go against him and that's where you end up. Few men have walked out of it alive, I'll tell you that."
De Fontenay shifted uneasily and toyed with a curl. "Purgatory will not be there forever, I promise you."
"So you say. But you may just wind up there yourself one day soon, sir, and then we'll likely hear you piping a different tune. Even though you are hismatelot, which I'll warrant might more properly be called his whore."
"What I am to Jacques is no affair of yours."
"Aye, I suppose the goings-on in the fort are not meant to be known to the honest ships' masters in this port. But we still have eyes, sir, for all that. I know you're hoping that after Jacques is gone, that Frenchman de Poncy will make you commandant of this place, this stinking piss-hole. Just because the Code of theboucaniersmakes you Jacques' heir. But it'll not happen, sir, by my life. Never."
"Monsieur, enough.Suffit!" De Fontenay spat out the words, then turned back to Winston. "Shall we proceed up to the Forte?" He gestured toward the hill ahead. "Or do you intend to stay and spend the night talking with these Anglaiscochons?"
"My friend, do beware of that old bastard." Bartholomew caught Winston's arm, and his voice grew cautionary. "God Almighty, I could tell you such tales. He's daft as a loon these days. I'd be gone from this place in a minute if I could just figure how."
"He tried to kill me once, Master Bartholomew, in a little episode you might recall if you set your mind to it. But I'm still around." Winston nodded farewell, then turned back toward the longboat. John Mewes sat nervously waiting, a flintlock across his lap. "John, take her on back and wait for us. Atiba's coming with me. And no shore leave for anybody till morning."
"Aye." Mewes eyed the drunken seamen as he shoved off. "See you mind yourself, Cap'n. I'll expect you back by sunrise or I'm sendin' the lads to get you."
"Till then." Winston gestured Atiba to move alongside him, then turned back to De Fontenay. "Shall we go."
"Avec plaisir, Capitaine. These Anglais who sail for us can be mostdangereuxwhen they have had so much brandy." The young Frenchman paused as he glanced uncertainly at Atiba. The tall African towered by Winston's side. "Will your . . .gentilhomme de servicebe accompanying you?"
"He's with me."
"Bon. "He cleared his throat. "As you wish."
He lifted his lantern and, leaving Bartholomew's men singing on the shore, headed up the muddy, torch-lit roadway leading between the cluster of taverns that comprised the heart of Basse Terre's commercial center.
"How long has it been since you last visited us, Capitaine?" De Fontenay glanced back. "I have beenmatelotto Jacques for almost three years, but I don't recall the pleasure of welcoming you before this evening."
"It's been a few years. Back before Jacques became governor. ''
"Was this your home once, senhor?" Atiba was examining the shopfronts along the street, many displaying piles of silks and jewelry once belonging to the passengers on Spanish merchantmen. Along either side, patched-together taverns and brothels spilled their cacophony of songs, curses, and raucous fiddle music into the muddy paths that were streets.
Winston laughed. "Well, it was scarcely like this. There used to be thatched huts along here and piles of hides and smoked beef ready for barter. All you could find to drink in those days was a tankard of cheap kill-devil. But the main difference is the fort up there, which is a noticeable improvement over that rusty set of culverin we used to have down along the shore."
"I gather it must have been a very long time ago. Monsieur, that you were last here." De Fontenay was moving hurriedly past the rickety taverns, heading straight for the palm-lined road leading up the hill to the fort.
"Probably some ten years or so."
"Then I wonder if Jacques will still remember you."
Winston laughed. "I expect he does."
De Fontenay started purposefully up the road. About six hundred yards from the shoreline the steep slope of a hill began. The climb was long and tortuous, and the young Frenchman was breathing heavily by the time they were halfway up.
"This place is damnable strong, senhor. Very hard to attack,
even with guns." Atiba shifted the cutlass in his belt and peered up the hill, toward the line of torches. He was moving easily, his bare feet molding to the rough rock steps.
"It could never be stormed from down below, that much is sure." Winston glanced back. "But we're not here to try and take this place. He can keep Tortuga and bleed it dry for all I care. I'll just settle for some of those men I saw tonight. If they want to part company with him . . ."
"Those whoresons are not lads who fight,” Atiba commented. “They are drunkards."
"They can fight as well as they drink." Winston smiled. "Don't let the brandy fool you."
"Yourbrancosare a damnable curiosity, senhor." He grunted. "I am waiting to see how my peoples here live, the slaves."
"Theboucaniersdon't cut cane, so they don't have slaves."
"Then mayhaps I will drink with them."
"You'd best hold that till after we're finished with Jacques, my friend." Winston glanced up toward the fort. "Just keep I your cutlass handy."
They had reached the curving row of steps that led through the arched gateway of the fortress. Above them a steep wall of cut stone rose up against the dark sky, and across the top, illuminated by torches, was the row of culverin. Sentries armed with flintlocks, in helmets and flamboyant Spanish coats, barred the gateway till de Fontenay waved them aside. Then guards inside unbolted the iron gate and they moved up the final stairway.
Winston realized the fort had been built on a natural plateau, with terraces inside the walls which would permit several hundred musketmen to fire unseen down on the settlement below. From somewhere in the back he could hear the gurgle of a spring—meaning a supply of fresh water, one of the first requirements of a good fortress.
Jacques had found a natural redoubt and fortified it brilliantly. All the settlement and the harbor now were under his guns. Only
the mountain behind, a steep precipice, had any vantage over Forte de la Roche.
"Senhor, what is that?" Atiba was pointing toward the massive boulder, some fifty feet wide and thirty feet high, that rested in the center of the yard as though dropped there by the hand of God.
Winston studied it, puzzling, then noticed a platform atop the rock, with several cannon projecting out. A row of brick steps led halfway up the side, then ended abruptly. When they reached the base, de Fontenay turned back.
"The citadel above us is Jacques's personal residence, what he likes to call his 'dovecote.' It will be necessary for you to wait here while I ask him to lower the ladder."
"The ladder?"
"Mais oui, a security measure. No one is allowed up there without his consent."
He called up, identified himself, and after a pause the first rungs of a heavy iron ladder appeared through an opening in the platform. Slowly it began to be lowered toward the last step at the top of the stair.
Again de Fontenay hesitated. "Perhaps it might be best if I go first, Messieurs. Jacques is not fond of surprises."
"He never was." Winston motioned for Atiba to stay close.
De Fontenay hung his lantern on a brass spike at the side of the stairs, then turned and lightly ascended the rungs. From the platform above, two musketmen covered his approach with flintlocks. He saluted them, then disappeared.
As Winston waited, Atiba at his side, he heard a faint human voice, a low moaning sound, coming from somewhere near their feet. He looked down and noticed a doorway at the base of the rock, leading into what appeared to be an excavated chamber. The door was of thick hewn logs with only a small grate in its center.
Was that, he wondered, the dungeon Bartholomew called Purgatory?
Suddenly he felt an overwhelming sense of anger and betrayal at what Jacques had become. Whatever else he might have been, this was the man whose name once stood for freedom. And now . . .
He was turning to head down and inspect Purgatory first-hand when a welcome sounded from the platform above.
"Mon ami! Bienvenue, Anglais.Mon Dieu, il y a tres long- temps!A good ten years,n 'est-ce pas?'' A bearded face peered down, while a deep voice roared with pleasure. "Perhaps you've finally learned something about how to shoot after all this time. Come up and let me have a look at you."
"And maybe you've improved your aim, Jacques. Your last pistol ball didn't get you a hide." Winston turned back and reached for the ladder.
"Oui, truly it did not, Anglais. How near did I come?" He extended a rough hand as Winston emerged.
"Close enough." Winston stepped onto the platform of the citadel.
In the flickering torchlight he recognized the old leader of theboucaniers, now grown noticeably heavier; his thick beard, once black as onyx, was liberally threaded with white. He sported a ruffled doublet of red silk and had stuffed his dark calico breeches into bucket-top sea boots of fine Spanish leather. The gold rings on several fingers glistened with jewels, and the squint in his eyes was deep and malevolent.
Le Basque embraced Winston, then drew back and studied his scar. "Mon Dieu, so I came closer than I thought.Mes condoleances. I must have been sleepy that morning. I'd fully intended to take your head."
"How about some of your French brandy, you oldbatard? For me and my friend. By the look of things, I'd say you can afford it."
"Vraiment. Brandy for the Anglais . . . and his friend." The boucanier nodded warily as he saw Atiba appear at the top of the ladder. After a moment's pause, he laughed again, throatily. "Truly I can afford anything. The old days are over. I'm rich. Many a Spaniard has paid for what they did to us back then."
He turned and barked an order to de Fontenay. The young man bowed, then moved smoothly through the heavy oak doors leading into Jacques's residence. "You know, I still hear of you from time to time, Anglais. But never before have we seen you here,n 'est-ce pas? How have you been?"
"Well enough. I see you've been busy yourself." Winston glanced up at the brickwork house Jacques had erected above the center of the rock. It was a true citadel. Along the edge of the platform, looking out, a row of nine-pound demi-culverin had been installed. "But what's this talk you chased off the English planters?"
"They annoyed me. You know that never was wise. So I decided to be rid of them. Besides, it's better this way. A few were permitted to stay on and sail for me, but La Tortue must be French." He reached for a tankard from the tray de Fontenay was offering. "I persuaded ourgouverneurup on St. Christophe to send down a few frigates to help me secure this place."
"Is that why you keep men in a dungeon up here? We never had such things in the old days."
"My little Purgatory?" He handed the tankard to Winston, then offered one to Atiba. The Yoruba eyed him coldly and waved it away. Jacques shrugged, taking a sip himself before continuing. "Surely you understand the need for discipline. If these men disobey me, they must be dealt with. Otherwise, no one remembers who is in charge of this place."
"I thought we'd planned to just punish the Spaniards, not each other."
"But we are, Anglais, we are. Remember when I declared they would someday soil their breeches whenever they heard the word 'boucanier'? Well, it's come true. They swear using my name. Half the time the craven bastards are too terrified to cock a musket when my men board one of their merchant frigates." He smiled. "Everything we wanted back then has come to pass. Sweet revenge." He reached and absently drew a finger down de Fontenay's arm. "But tell me, Anglais, have you got a woman these days? Or amatelot?" He studied Atiba.
"An Englishwoman is sailing with me. She's down on theDefiance."
"TheDefiance?"
"My Spanish brig."
"Oui, but of course. I heard how you acquired it." He laughed and stroked his beard. "Alors, tomorrow you must bring this Anglaise of yours up and let me meet her. Show her how your old friend has made his way in the world."
"That depends. I thought we'd empty a tankard or two tonight and talk a bit."
"Bon. Nothing better." He signaled to de Fontenay for a refill, and the young man quickly stepped forward with the flask. "Tonight we remember old times."
Winston laughed. "Could be there're a few things about the old days we'd best let be. So maybe I'll just work on this fine brandy of yours and hear how you're getting along these days with our good friends the Spaniards."
"Ah, Anglais, we get on very well. I have garroted easily a hundred of those bastards for every one of ours they killed back then, and taken enough cargo to buy a kingdom. You know, if their Nuevo Espana Armada, the one that ships home silver from their mines in Mexico, is a week overdue making the Canary Islands, the King of Spain and all his creditors from Italy to France cannot shit for worrying I might have taken it. Someday, my friend, I will."
"Good. I'll drink to it." Winston lifted his tankard. "To the Spaniards."
Jacques laughed. "Oui. And may they always be around to keep me rich."
"On that subject, old friend, I had a little project in mind. I was thinking maybe I'd borrow a few of your lads and stage a raid on a certain Spanish settlement."
"Anglais, why would you want to bother? Believe me when I tell you there's not a town on the Main I could not take tomorrow if I choose. But they're mostly worthless." He drank again, then rose and strolled over to the edge of the platform. Below, mast lights were speckled across the harbor, and music drifted up from the glowing tavern windows. "By the time you get into one, the Spaniards have carried everything they own into the forest and emptied the place."
"I'll grant you that. But did you ever consider taking one of their islands? Say . . . Jamaica?"
"Mon ami, the rewards of an endeavor must justify the risk." Jacques strolled back and settled heavily into a deep leather chair. "What's over there? Besides their militia?"
"They've got a fortress and a town, Villa de la Vega, and there's bound to be a bit of coin, maybe even some plate. But the harbor's the real . . ."
"Oui, peut-etre. Perhaps there's a sou or two to be had there somewhere. But why trouble yourself with a damned militia when there're merchantmen plying the Windward Passage day in and day out, up to their gunwales with plate, pearls from their oyster beds down at Margarita, even silks shipped overland from those Manila galleons that put in at Acapulco . . .?"
"You know an English captain named Jackson took that fortress a few years back, and ransomed it for twenty thousand pieces-of-eight? That's a hundred and sixty thousandreals. "
"Anglais, I also know very well they have a battery of guns in that fort, covering the harbor. It wouldn't be all that simple to storm."
"As it happens, I've taken on a pilot who knows that harbor better than you know the one right down below, and I'm thinking I might sail over and see it." Winston took another swallow. "You're welcome to send along some men if you like. I'll split any metal money and plate with them."
"Forget it. Anglais. None of these men will . . ."
"Wait a minute, Jacques. You don't own them. That was never the way. So if some of these lads decide to sail with me, that's their own affair."
"My friend, why do you think I am thecommandant de placeif I do not command? Have you seen those culverin just below us, trained on the bay? No frigate enters Basse Terre—or leaves it-- against my will. Even yours,mon ami. Don't lose sight of that."
"I thought you were getting smarter than you used to be, Jacques."
"Don't try and challenge me again, Anglais." Jacques's hand had edged slowly toward the pistol in his belt, but then he glanced at Atiba and hesitated. "Though it's not my habit to kill a man while he's drinking my brandy." He smiled suddenly, breaking the tension, and leaned back. "It might injure my reputation for hospitality."
"When I'm in the fortress overlooking Jamaica Bay one day soon, I'll try and remember to drink your health."
"You really think you can do it, don't you?" He sobered and studied Winston.
"It's too easy not to. But I told you we could take it as partners, together."
"Anglais, I'm not a fool. You don't have the men to manage it alone. So you're hoping I'll give you some of mine."
"I don't want you to 'give' me anything, you old whoremaster. I said we would take it together.
"Forget it. I have better things to do." He smiled. "But all the same, it's always good to see an old friend again. Stay a while. Anglais. What if tomorrow night we feasted like the old days,boucanierstyle? Why not show yourfemmehow we used to live?"
"Jacques, we've got victuals on theDefiance."
"Is that what you think of me?" He sighed. "That I would forgo this chance to relive old times? Bring thispetiteAnglaise of yours up and let her meet your oldami. I knew you before you were sure which end of a musket to prime. I watched you bring down your first wild boar. And now, when I welcome you and yours with open arms, you scorn my generosity."
"We're not finished with this matter of the Spaniards, my friend."
"Certainement. Perhaps I will give it some consideration. We can think about it tomorrow night, while we all share some brandy and dine onbarbacoa, same as the old days. As long as I breathe, nothing else will ever taste quite so good." He motioned for de Fontenay to lower the iron ladder. "We will remember the way we used to live. In truth. I even think I miss it at times. Life was simpler then."
"Things don't seem so simple around here any more, Jacques."
"But we can remember, my friend. Humility. It nourishes the soul."
"To old times then, Jacques." He drained his tankard and signaled for Atiba. "Tomorrow."
"Oui, Anglais.A demain. And my regards to your friend here with the cutlass." He smiled as he watched them start down the ladder. "But why don't you ask him to stay down there tomorrow? I must be getting old, because that sword of his is starting to make me nervous. And we wouldn't want anything to upset our littlefete, now would we,mon frere?"
*
Katherine stood at the bannister amidships. Serina by her side, and studied the glimmer of lights along the shore, swaying clusters of candle-lanterns as seamen passed back and forth in longboats between the brothels of Tortuga and their ships.
The buccaneers. They lived in a world like none she had ever seen. As the shouts, curses, songs, and snatches of music drifted out over the gentle surf, she had to remind herself that this raffish settlement was the home of brigands unwelcome in any other place. Yet from her vantage now, they seemed like harmless, jovial children.
Still, anchored alongside theDefiancewere some of the most heavily armed brigantines in the New World—no bottom here carried fewer than thirty guns. The men, too, were murderers, who killed Spanish civilians as readily as infantry. Jacques le Basque presided over the most dreaded naval force in the New World. He had done more to endanger Spain's fragile economy than all the Protestant countries together. If they grew any stronger, the few hundred men on this tiny island might well so disrupt Spain's vital lifeline of silver from the Americas as to bankrupt what once had been Europe's mightiest empire. . . .
The report of a pistol sounded from somewhere along the shore, followed by yells of glee and more shots. Several men in Spanish finery had begun firing into the night to signal the commencement of an impromptu celebration. As they marched around a keg of liquor, a cluster of women, prostitutes from the taverns, shrieked in drunken encouragement and joined in the melee.
"This place is very frightening, senhora." Serina shivered and edged next to Katherine. Her hair was tied in a kerchief, African style, as it had been for all the voyage. "I have never seenbrancolike these. They seem so crazy, so violent."
"Just be thankful we're not Spaniards, or we'd find out just how violent they really are."
"Remember I once lived in Brazil. We heard stories about this place."
"'Tis quite a sight, Yor Ladyships." John Mewes had ambled over to the railing, beside them, to watch for Winston. "The damnedest crew of rogues and knaves you're ever like to make acquaintance with. Things've come to a sad pass that we've got to try recruitin' some of this lot to sail with us."
"Do you think they're safe ashore, John?"
"Aye, Yor Ladyship, on that matter I'd not trouble yourself unduly." Mewes fingered the musket he was holding. "You should've seen him once down at Curasao, when a gang of Dutch shippers didn't like the cheap price we was askin' for a load of kill-devil that'd fallen our way over at . . . I forget where. Threatened to board and scuttle us. So the Captain and me decided we'd hoist a couple of nine-pound demi's up on deck and stage a little gunnery exercise on a buoy floatin' there on the windward side o' the harbor. After we'd laid it with a couple of rounds, blew it to hell, next thing you know the Butterboxes . . ."
"John, what's that light over there? Isn't that him?"
Mewes paused and stared. At the shoreline opposite their anchorage a lantern was flashing.
"Aye, m'lady. That's the signal, sure enough." He smiled. "Didn't I tell you there'd be nothing to worry over." With an exhale of relief, he quickly turned and ordered the longboat lowered, assigning four men to the oars and another four to bring flintlocks.
The longboat lingered briefly in the surf at the shore, and moments later Winston and Atiba were headed back toward the ship.
"It seems they are safe, senhora." Serina was still watching with worried eyes. "Perhaps thesebrancoare better than those on Barbados."
"Well, I don't think they have slaves, if that's what you mean. But that's about all you can say for them."
A few moments later the longboat bumped against the side of theDefiance, and Winston was pulling himself over the bulwarks, followed by Atiba.
"Katy, break out the tankards. I think we can deal with Jacques." He offered her a hug. "He's gone half mad—taken over the island and run off the English settlers. But there're plenty of Englishboucaniershere who'd like nothing better than to sail from somewhere else."
"Did he agree to help us?"
"Of course not. You've got to know him. It's just what I expected. When I brought up our little idea, he naturally refused point-blank. But he knows there're men here who'll join us if they like. Which means that tomorrow he'll claim it was his idea all along, then demand the biggest part of what we take for himself."
"Tomorrow?"
"I'm going back up to the fort, around sunset, to sort out details."
"I wish you wouldn't." She took his hand. "Why don't we just get whatever men we can manage and leave?"
"That'd mean a fight." He kissed her lightly. "Don't worry. I'll handle Jacques. We just have to keep our wits."
"Well then, I want to go with you."
"As a matter of fact he did ask you to come. But that's out of the question."
"It's just as dangerous for you as for me. If you're going back, then so am I."
"Katy, no . . ."
"Hugh, we've done everything together this far. So if you want to get men from this place, then I'll help you. And if that means I have to flatter this insane criminal, so be it."
He regarded her thoughtfully, then smiled. "Well, in truth I'm not sure a woman can still turn his head, but I suppose you can give it a try."
Serina approached them and reached to touch Winston's hand. "Senhor, was your council of war a success?"
"I think so. All things in time."
"The branco in this place are very strange. Is it true they do not have slaves?"
"Slaves, no. Though they do have a kind of servant here, but even that's different from Barbados."
"How so, senhor?"
"Well, there've never been many women around this place. So in the old days aboucaniermight acquire amatelot, to be his companion, and over the years thematelotsgot to be more like younger brothers than indentures. They have legal rights of inheritance, for instance, since mostboucaniershave no family. Aboucanierand hismatelotare legally entitled to the other's property if one of them dies." He looked back toward the shore. "Also, no man has more than onematelot. In fact, if aboucanierdoes marry a woman, hismatelothas conjugal rights to her too."
"But, senhor, if the younger man, thematelot, inherits everything, what is to keep him from just killing the older man? To gain his freedom, and also the other man's property?"
"Honor." He shrugged and leaned back against the railing,
inhaling the dense air of the island. He lingered pensively for a moment, then turned to Katherine. "Katy, do remember this isn't just any port. Some of those men out there have been known to shoot somebody for no more cause than a tankard of brandy. And underneath it all, Jacques is just like the rest. It's when he's most cordial that you'd best beware."
"I still want to go." She moved next to him. "I'm going to meet face-to-face with this madman who once tried to kill you."
Chapter Twenty-one
The ochre half-light of dusk was settling over the island, lending a warm tint to the deep green of the hillside forests surrounding Forte de la Roche. In the central yard of the fortress, directly beneath le Basque's "dovecote," his uniformed guards loitered alongside the row of heavy culverin, watching the mast lights of anchored frigates and brigantines nod beneath the cloudless sky.
Tibaut de Fontenay had taken no note of the beauty of the evening. He was busy tending the old-fashionedboucanJacques had ordered constructed just behind the cannon. Though he stood on the windward side, he still coughed occasionally from the smoke that threaded upward, over the "dovecote" and toward the hill above. Theboucanitself consisted of a rectangular wooden frame supporting a greenwood grill, set atop four forked posts. Over the frame and grill a thatchwork of banana leaves had been erected to hold in the piquant smoke of the smoldering naseberry branches beneath. Several haunches of beef lay flat on the grill, and now the fire was coating them with a succulent red veneer. It was the traditional Taino Indian method of cooking and preserving meat,barbacoa, that had been adopted intact by the boucaniers decades before.
Jacques leaned against the railing at the edge of the platform above, pewter tankard in hand, contentedly stroking his salt-and-pepper beard as he gazed out over the harbor and the multihued sunset that washed his domain in misty ambers. Finally, he turned with a murmur of satisfaction and beckoned for Katherine to join him. She glanced uneasily toward Winston, then moved to his side.
"The aroma of theboucan. Mademoiselle, was always the signal the day was ending." He pointed across the wide bay, toward the green mountains of Hispaniola. "Were we over there tonight, with the hunters, we would still be scraping the last of the hides now, while ourboucanfinished curing the day's kill for storing in our banana-leafajoupa." He smiled warmly, then glanced down to see if her tankard required attention. "Though, of course, we never had such a charming Anglaise to leaven our rude company."
"I should have thought, Monsieur le Basque, you might have preferred a Frenchwoman." Katherine studied him, trying to imagine the time when he and Hugh had roamed the forests together. Jacques le Basque, for all his rough exterior, conveyed an unsettling sensuality. She sensed his desire for her as he stood alongside, and when he brushed her hand, she caught herself trembling involuntarily.
"You do me an injustice, Mademoiselle, to suggest I would even attempt passing such a judgment." He laughed. "For me, womankind is like a garden, whose flowers each have their own beauty. Where is the man who could be so dull as to waste a single moment comparing the deep hue of the rose to the delicate pale of the lily. The petals of each are soft, they both open invitingly at the touch."
"Do they always open so easily, Monsieur le Basque?"
"Please, you must call me Jacques." He brushed back a wisp of her hair and paused to admire her face in the light of the sunset. "It is ever a man's duty to awaken the beauty that lies sleeping in a woman's body. Too many exquisite creatures never realize how truly lovely they are."
"Do those lovely creatures include handsome boys as well?" She glanced down at de Fontenay, his long curls lying tangled across his delicate shoulders.
Jacques drank thoughtfully from his tankard. "Mademoiselle, there is something of beauty in all God's work. What can a man know of wine if he samples only one vineyard?"
"A woman might say, Jacques, it depends on whether you prefer flowers, or wine."
"Touche, Mademoiselle. But some of us have a taste for all of life. Our years here are so brief."
As she stood beside him, she became conscious again of the short-barreled flintlock—borrowed from Winston's sea chest, without his knowing it—she had secreted in the waist of her petticoat, just below her low-cut bodice. Now it seemed so foolish. Why had Hugh painted Jacques as erratic and dangerous? Could it be because the oldboucanierhad managed to better him in that pistol duel they once had, and he'd never quite lived it down? Maybe that was why he never seemed to get around to explaining what really happened that time.
"Then perhaps you'll tell me how many of those years you spent hunting." She abruptly turned and gestured toward the hazy shoreline across the bay. Seen through the smoke of theboucanbelow, Hispaniola's forests seemed endless, impenetrable. "Over there, on the big island?"
"Ah, Mademoiselle, thinking back now it seems like forever. Perhaps it was almost that long." He laughed genially, then glanced toward Winston, standing at the other end of the platform, and called out, "Anglais, shall we tell your lovely mademoiselle something about the way we lived back in the old days?"
"You can tell her anything you please, Jacques, just take care it's true." Winston was studying the fleet of ships in the bay below. "Remember this is our evening for straight talk."
"Then I will try not to make it sound too romantic." Jacques chuckled and turned back. "Since the Anglais insists I must be precise, I should begin by admitting it was a somewhat difficult existence. Mademoiselle. We’d go afield for weeks at a time, usually six or eight of us together in a party— to protect ourselves should we blunder across some of the Spaniards' lancers, cavalry who roamed the island trying to be rid of us. In truth, we scarcely knew where we would bed down from one day to the next. . . ."
Winston was only half listening as he studied the musket- men in the yard below. There seemed to be a restlessness, perhaps even a tension, about them. Was it theboucan? The bother of the smoke? Or was it something more? Some treachery in the making? He told himself to stay alert, that this was no time to be lulled by Jacques's famed courtliness. It could have been a big mistake not to bring Atiba, in spite of Jacques's demand he be left.
"On most days we would rise at dawn, prime our muskets, then move out to scout for game. Usually one of us went ahead with the dogs. Before the Anglais came to live with us, that perilous assignment normally fell to me, since I had the best aim." He lifted the onion-flask of French brandy from the side of the veranda and replenished her tankard with a smooth flourish. "When you stalk the wild bull, thetaureau sauvage, you'd best be able to bring him down with the first shot, or hope there's a stout tree nearby to climb." He smiled and thumbed toward Winston. "But after the Anglais joined us, we soon all agreed he should have the honor of going first with the dogs. We had discovered he was a born marksman." He toasted Winston with his tankard. "When the dogs had a wild bull at bay, the Anglais would dispatch it with his musket. Afterwards, one of our men would stay to butcher it and take the hide while the rest of us would move on, following him."
"Then what?" She never knew before that Winston had actually been the leader of the hunt, their marksman.
"Well, Mademoiselle, after the Anglais had bagged a bull for every man, we'd bring all the meat and hides back to the base camp, the rendezvous. Then we would put up aboucan,
like the one down there below us now, and begin smoking the meat while we finished scraping the hides." He smiled through his graying beard. "You would scarcely have recognized the Anglais, or me, in those days, Mademoiselle. Half the time our breeches were so caked with blood they looked like we'd been tarred." He glanced back at the island. "By nightfall thebarbacoawould be finished, and we would eat some, then salt the rest and put it away in anajoupa, together with the hides. Finally, we'd bed down beside the fire of theboucan, to smoke away the mosquitoes, sleeping in those canvas sacks we used to keep off ants. Then, at first light of dawn, we rose to go out again."
"And then you would sell your . . .barbacoaand hides here on Tortuga?"
"Exactly, Mademoiselle. I see my old friend the Anglais has already told you something of those days." He smiled and caught her eye. "Yes, often as not we'd come back over here and barter with the ships that put in to refit. But then sometimes we'd just sell them over there. When we had a load, we would start watching for a sail, and if we saw a ship nearing the coast, we'd paddle out in our canoes . . ."
"Canoes?" She felt the night grow chill. Suddenly a memory from long ago welled up again, bearded men firing on their ship, her mother falling. . . .
"Oui, Mademoiselle. Dugout canoes. In truth they're all we had those days. We made them by hollowing out the heart of a tree, burning it away, just like the Indians on Hispaniola used to do." He sipped his brandy, then motioned toward Winston. "They were quite seaworthy,n 'est-ce pas? Enough so we actually used them on our first raid." He turned back. "Though after that we naturally had Spanish ships."
"And where . . . was your first raid, Monsieur le Basque?" She felt her grip tighten involuntarily on the pewter handle of her tankard.
"Did the Anglais never tell you about that little episode, Mademoiselle?" He laughed sarcastically. "No, perhaps it
is not something he chooses to remember. Though at the time we thought we could depend on him. I have explained to you that no man among us could shoot as well as he. We wanted him to fire the first shot, as he did when we were hunting. Truly we had high hopes for him." Jacques drank again, a broad silhouette against the panorama of the sunset.