"He told me how you got together to fight the Spaniards, but ...""Did he?Bon. " He paused to check theboucanbelow them, then the men. Finally he shrugged and turned back. "It was the start of the legend of theboucaniers, Mademoiselle. And you can take pride that the Anglais was part of it. Few men are still alive now to tell that tale.""What happened to the others, Jacques?" Winston's voice hardened as he moved next to one of the nine-pound cannon. "I seem to remember there were almost thirty of us. Guy Bartholomew was on that raid, for one. I saw him down below last night. I knew a lot of those men well.""Oui, you had many friends. But after you . . . left us, a few unfortunate incidents transpired."Winston tensed. "Did the ship . . . ?""I discovered what can occur when there is not proper organization, Anglais. But now I am getting ahead of our story. Surely you remember the island we had encamped on. Well, we waited on that cursed sand spit several weeks more, hoping there would be another prize. But alas, we saw nothing,rien. Then finally one day around noon, when it was so hot you could scarcely breathe, we spied a Spanish sail—far at sea. By then all our supplies were down. We were desperate. So we launched our canoes and put to sea, with a vow we would seize the ship or perish trying.""And you took it?" Winston had set down his tankard on the railing and was listening intently."Mais oui. But of course. Desperate men rarely fail. Later we learned that when the captain saw our canoes approaching he scoffed, saying what could a few dugouts do against hisguns. He paid for that misjudgment with his life. We waited till dark, then stormed her. The ship was ours in minutes.""Congratulations.""Not so quickly, Anglais. Unfortunately, all did not go smoothly after that. Perhaps it's just as well you were no longer with us,mon ami. Naturally, we threw all the Spaniards overboard, crew and passengers. And then we sailed her back here, to Basse Terre. A three-hundred-ton brigantine. There was some plate aboard—perhaps the capitaine was hoarding it—and considerable coin among the passengers. But when we dropped anchor here, a misunderstanding arose over how it all was to be divided." He sighed. "There were problems. I regret to say it led to bloodshed.""What do you mean?" Winston glared at him. "I thought we'd agreed to split all prizes equally."He smiled patiently. "Anglais, think about it. How could such a thing be? I was the commander; my position had certain requirements. And to make sure the same question did not arise again, I created Articles for us to sail under, giving more to the ship's master. They specify in advance what portion goes to every man, from the maintop to the keel . . . though the commander and officers naturally must receive a larger share. . . .""And what about now?" Winston interrupted. "Now that you Frenchmen have taken over Tortuga? I hear there's a new way to split any prizes the men bring in. Which includes you and Chevalier de Poncy.""Oui, conditions have changed slightly. But the men all understand that.""They understand these French culverin up here.Mes compliments. It must be very profitable for you and him.""But we have much responsibility here." He gestured toward the settlement below them. "I have many men under my authority.''"So now that you've taken over this place and become commandant, it's not really like it used to be, when everybody worked for himself. Now there's a French administration. And that means extortion, though I suppose you call it taxes."“Naturellement.'' He paused to watch as de Fontenay walked to the edge of the parapet and glanced up at the mountain behind the fort. "But tonight we were to recall those old, happy days, Anglais, before the burden of all this governing descended on my unworthy shoulders. Yourjoliemademoiselle seems to take such interest in what happened back then.""I'd like to hear about what happened while Hugh was on that raid with you. You said he was to fire the first shot.""Oui." Jacques laughed. "And he did indeed pull the first trigger. I was truly sad to part with him at what was to be our moment of glory. But we had differences, I regret to say, that made it necessary . . .""What do you mean?" She was watching Hugh's uneasiness as he glanced around the fort, suspecting he'd probably just as soon this story wasn't told."We had carefully laid a trap to lure in a ship. Mademoiselle. Up in the Grand Caicos, using a fire on the shore.""Where?""Some islands north of here. Where the Spaniards stop every year." Jacques continued evenly, "And our plan seemed to be working brilliantly. What's more, the Anglais here was given the honor of the first bullet." He sipped from his tankard. "But when a prize blundered into it, the affair turned bloody. Some of my men were killed, and I seem to recall a woman on the ship. I regret to say the Anglais was responsible.""Hugh, what . . . did . . . you . . . do?" She heard her tankard drop onto the boards."To his credit, I will admit he at least helped us bait the hook, Mademoiselle." Jacques smiled. "Did you not, Anglais?""That I did. Except it caught an English fish, instead of a Spaniard."Good Christ, no! Katherine sucked in her breath. The coldhearted bastard. I am glad I brought a pistol. Except it'll not be for Jacques le Basque. "I think you two had best spare me the rest of your heroic little tale, before I . . .""But, Mademoiselle, the Anglais was our finest marksman. He could bring down a wild boar at three hundred paces." He toasted Winston with a long draught from his tankard. "Don't forget I had trained him well. We wanted him to fire the first shot. You should at least take pride in that, even if the rest does not redound entirely to his credit.""Hugh, you'd better tell me the truth. Right now." She moved toward him, almost quivering with rage. She felt her hand close about the grip of her pistol as she stood facing Winston, his scarred face impassive. "Did you fire on the ship?""Mademoiselle, what does it matter now? All that is past, correct?" Jacques smiled as he strolled over. "Tonight the Anglais and I are once more Freres de la Cote, brothers in the honorable order of boucaniers." He patted Winston's shoulder. "That is still true,n'est-ce pas? And together we will mount the greatest raid ever—on the Spanish island of Jamaica."Winston was still puzzling over Katherine's sudden anger when he finally realized what Jacques had said. So, he thought, the oldbatardwants to give me the men after all. Just as I'd figured. Now it's time to talk details."Together, Jacques. But remember I'm the one who has the pilot, the man who can get us into the harbor. So that means I set the terms." He sipped from his tankard, feeling the brandy burn its way down. "And since you seem to like it here so much, I'll keep the port for myself, and we'll just draw up some of those Articles of yours about how we manage the rest.""But of course, Anglais. I've already been thinking. Perhaps we can handle it this way: you keep whatever you find in the fortress, and my men will take the spoils from the town.""Wait a minute. The town's apt to have the most booty, you know that, Jacques.""Anglais, how can we possibly foretell such a thing in advance? Already I am assuming a risk . . ."Jacques smiled and turned to look down at the bay. As he moved, the railing he had been standing beside exploded, spewing slivers of mastic wood into the evening air. When he glanced back, startled, a faint pop sounded from the direction of the hill behind the fort.Time froze as a look of angry realization spread through the old boucaniers eyes. He checked the iron ladder, still lowered, then yelled for the guards below to light the linstocks for the cannon and ready their muskets."Katy, take cover." Winston seized her arm and she felt him pull her against the side of the house, out of sight of the hill above. "Maybe Commandant le Basque is not quite so popular with some of his lads as he seems to think.""I can very well take care of myself. Captain. Right now I've a mind to kill you both." She wrenched her arm away and moved down the side of the citadel."Katy, what . . . ?" As Winston stared at her, uncomprehending, another musket ball from the dark above splattered into the post beside Jacques. He bellowed a curse, then drew the pistol from his belt and stepped into the protection of the roof. When he did, one of the guards from below, wearing a black hat and jerkin, appeared at the top of the iron ladder leading up from the courtyard. Jacques yelled for him to hurry."Damn you,vite, there's some fool up the hill with a musket."Before he could finish, the man raised a long flintlock pistol and fired.The ball ripped away part of the ornate lace along one side of Jacques's collar. Almost before the spurt of flame had died away, Jacques's own pistol was cocked. He casually took aim and shot the guard squarely in the face. The man slumped across the edge of the opening, then slid backward and out of sight."Anglais." He turned back coolly. "Tonight you have just had the privilege of seeing me remind thesecochonswho controls this island."Even as he spoke, the curly head of de Fontenay appeared through the opening. When Jacques saw him, he beckoned him forward. "Come on, and pull it up after you. Too many killings will upset my guests' dinner."The young Frenchman stepped slowly onto the platform, then slipped his right hand into his ornate doublet and lifted out a pistol. He examined it for a moment before reaching down with his left and extracting another."I said to pull up the ladder, damn you. That's an order."De Fontenay began to back along the railing, all the while staring at Jacques with eyes fearful and uncertain. Finally he summoned the courage to speak."You are abete, Jacques, truly a beast." His voice trembled, and glistening droplets of sweat had begun to bead on his smooth forehead. "We are going to open Purgatory and release the men you have down there. Give me the keys, or I will kill you myself, I swear it.""You'd do well to put those guns away, you littlefou. Before I become annoyed." Jacques glared at him a moment, then turned toward Winston, his voice even. "Anglais, kindly pass me one of your pistols. Or I will be forced to kill this littleputainand all the rest with my own bare hands. I would regret having to soil them.""You'd best settle this yourself, Jacques. I keep my pistols. Besides, maybe you should open that new dungeon of yours. We never needed anything like that in the old days.""Damn you, Anglais." His voice hardened. "I said give me a gun."At that moment, another guard from below appeared at the opening. With a curse, Jacques stepped over and shoved a heavy boot into his face, sending the startled man sprawling backward. Then he seized the iron ladder and drew it up, beyond reach of those below. He ignored de Fontenay as he turned back to Winston."Are you defying me too, Anglais?Bon. Because before this night is over, I have full intention of settling our accounts.""Jacques,mon ami!" Winston laughed. "Here all this time I thought we were going to befreresagain." He sobered. "Though I would prefer going in partners with a commander who can manage his own men.""You mean this little one?" He thumbed at de Fontenay. "Believe me when I tell you he does not have the courage of—“Now de Fontenay was raising the pistol in his right hand, shakily. "I said to give us the keys, Jacques. You have gone too far.""You will not live that long, my littlematelot, to order me what to do." Jacques feigned a menacing step toward him. Startled, de Fontenay edged backward, and Jacques erupted with laughter, then turned back to Winston. "You see, Anglais? Cowards are all the same. Remember when you wanted to kill me? You were point-blank, and you failed. Now this littleputainhas the same idea." He seized Winston's jerkin. "Give me one of your guns, Anglais, or I will take it with my own hands.""No!" At the other end of the citadel Katherine stood holding the pistol she had brought. She was gripping it with both hands, rock steady, aimed at them. Slowly she moved down the porch. "I'd like to just be rid of you both. Which one of you should I kill?"The old boucanier stared at her as she approached, then at Winston. "Your Anglaise has gone mad.""I was on that English ship you two are so proud of attacking." She directed the flintlock toward Winston. "Hugh, the woman you remember killing—she was my mother."The night flared with the report of a pistol, and Jacques flinched in surprise. He glanced down curiously at the splotch of red blossoming against the side of his silk shirt, then looked up at de Fontenay."That was a serious mistake, my littleami. One you will not live long enough to regret."The smoking pistol de Fontenay held dropped noisily onto the boards at his feet, while he raised the other. "I said give to me the keys, Jacques. Or I will kill you, I swear it.""You think I can be killed? By you?Jamais. " He laughed, then suddenly reached out and wrenched away the pistol Katherine was holding, shoving her aside. With a smile he aimed it directly at de Fontenay's chest. "Now, mon ami . . ."There was a dead click, then silence. It had misfired."I don't want this, Jacques, truly." De Fontenay started to tremble, and abruptly the other pistol he held exploded with a pink arrow of flame."Anglais . . ." Jacques jerked lightly, a second splotch of red spreading across his pale shirt. Then he dropped to one knee with a curse.De Fontenay stepped hesitantly forward. "Perhaps now you will understand,mon maitre, what kind of man I can be."He watched in disbelief as Jacques slowly slumped forward across the boards at his feet. Then he edged closer to where the old boucanier lay, reached down and ripped away a ring of heavy keys secured to his belt. He held them a moment in triumph before he looked down again, suddenly incredulous. "Mon Dieu, he is dead."With a cry of remorse he crouched over the lifeless figure and lovingly touched the bloodstained beard. Finally he remembered himself and glanced up at Winston. "It seems I have finished what you began. He told me today how you two quarreled once. He cared nothing for us, you or me, friend or lover." He hesitated, and his eyes appeared to plead. "What do we do now?"Winston was still staring at Katherine, his mind flooded with dismay at the anger in her eyes. At last he seemed to hear de Fontenay and turned back. "Since you've got his keys, you might as well go ahead and throw them down. I assume you mean to open the dungeon.""Oui. He had begun to lock men there just on his whim. Yesterday he even imprisoned a . . . special friend of mine. It was too much." He walked to the edge of the platform and flung the ring of keys down toward the pavement of the fort.As the ring of metal against stone cut through the silence, he yelled out, "Purgatory is no more. Jacques le Basque is in hell." He abruptly turned and shoved down the ladder. In the courtyard below, pandemonium erupted.At once a cannon blazed into the night. Then a second, and a third. Moments later, jubilant musket fire sounded up from the direction of the settlement as men poured into the streets, torches and lanterns blazing."Good God, Katy, I don't know what you've been thinking, but we'd best talk about it later. Right now we've got to get out of here." Winston walked hesitantly to where she stood. "Somebody's apt to get a mind to fire this place.""No, I don't . . .""Katy, come on. " He grabbed her arm.De Fontenay was still at the railing along the edge of the platform, as though not yet fully comprehending the enormity of his act. Below him a string of prisoners, still shackled, was being led from the dungeon beneath the "dovecote."Winston forcibly guided Katherine down the ladder and onto the stone steps below. Now guards had already begun dismantling theboucanwith the butts of their muskets, sending sparks sailing upward into the night air.Then the iron gateway of the fortress burst open and a mob of seamen began pouring through, waving pistols and cheering. Finally one of them spotted Winston on the steps and pressed through the crowd."God's blood, is it true?"Winston looked down and recognized Guy Bartholomew."Jacques is dead.""An' they're all claiming you did it. That you came up here and killed the bastard. The very thing we all wanted, and you managed it." He reached up and pumped Winston's hand. "Maybe now I can stand you a drink. For my money, I say you should be new commandant of this piss-hole, by virtue of ridding the place of him.""I didn't kill him, Bartholomew. That 'honor' goes to hismatelot. "The excited seaman scarcely paused. "'Tis no matter, sir. That little whore is nothing. I know one thing; every Englishman here'll sail for you, or I'm not a Christian.""Maybe we can call some of the ships' masters together and see what they want to do.""You can name the time, sir. And I'll tell you this: there're going to be a few changes around here, that I can warrant." He turned to look at the other men, several of whom were offering flasks of brandy to the prisoners. Around them, the French guards had remembered Jacques's store of liquor and were shoving past, headed up the ladder. In moments they were flinging down flasks of brandy.Bartholomew turned and gazed down toward the collection of mast lights below them. "There's scarcely an Englishman here who'd not have left that whoreson's service long ago, save there's no place else but Tortuga the likes of us can drop anchor. But now with him gone we can . . .""Until further notice, this island is going to be under my administration, as representative of the Chevalier de Poncy,gouverneurof St. Christophe." De Fontenay had appeared at the top of the steps and begun to shout over the tumult in the yard. His curls fluttered in the wind as he called for quiet. "By the Code of the boucaniers, the Telle Etoit la Coutume de la Cote, I am Jacques's legal heir. Which means I can claim the office of acting commandant de place. . . ."Bartholomew yelled up at him. "You can claim whatever you like, you pimp. But no Englishman'll sail for you, an' that's a fact. We'll spike these cannon if you're thinking to try any of the old tricks. It's a new day, by all that's holy.""What do you mean?" De Fontenay glanced down."I mean from this day forth we'll sail for whatever master we've a mind to."De Fontenay called to Winston. "You saw who killed him, Monsieur. Tell them." He looked back toward Bartholomew. "This man knew Jacques better than any of you. His friend, the Anglais, from the very first days of theboucaniers. He will tell you the Code makes me . . .""Anglais!" Bartholomew stared at Winston a moment, then a smile erupted across his hard face. "Good God, I do believe it is. You've aged mightily, lad, on my honor. Please take no offense I didn't recognize you before.""It's been a long time.""God's blood, none of us ever knew your Christian name. We all thought you dead after you and Jacques had that little shooting spree." He grasped Winston's hand. "Do you have any idea how proud we were of you? I tell you we all saw it when you pulled a pistol on that bastard. You may not know it, sir, but it was because of you his band of French rogues didn't rape that English frigate. All the Englishmen amongst us wanted to stop it, but we had no chance." He laughed. "In truth, sir, that was the start of all our troubles here. We never got along with the damn'd Frenchmen after that. Articles or no."Hugh, what's he saying?" Katherine was staring at him."What do you mean?""Is it true you stopped Jacques and his men from taking our ship? The one you were talking about tonight?""The idea was we were only to kill Spaniards. No Englishman had done anything to us. It wouldn't have been honorable. When Jacques didn't agree with me on that point, things got a little unpleasant. That's when somebody started firing on the ship.""Aye, the damn'd Frenchmen," Bartholomew interjected. "I was there, sir.""I'm sorry the rest of us didn't manage to warn you in time." Winston slipped his arm around her.Suddenly she wanted to smother him in her arms. "But do you realize you must have saved my life? They would have killed us all.""They doubtless would have. Eventually." He reached over and kissed her, then drew back and examined her. "Katy, I have a confession to make. I think I can still remember watching you. When I was in the longboat, trying to reach the ship. I think I fell in love with you that morning. With that brave girl who stood there at the railing, musket balls flying. I never forgot it, in all the years. My God, to think it was you.” He held her against him for a moment, then lifted up her face. "Which also means I have you and yours to thank for trying to kill me, when I wanted to get out to where you were.""The captain just assumed you were one of them. I heard him talk about it after. Nobody had any idea . . ." She hugged him. "You and your 'honor.' You changed my life.""You and that ship sure as hell changed mine. After I fell in love with you, I damned near died of thirst in that leaky longboat. And then Ruyters . . .""Capitaine, please tell them I was the one who shot Jacques. That I am nowcommandant de place. " De Fontenay interrupted, his voice pleading. "That I have the authority to order them . . .""You're not ordering anything, by Jesus. I'm about to put an end to any more French orders here and now." Bartholomew seized a burning stick from the fire in the boucan and flung it upward, onto the veranda of the "dovecote."A cheer went up from the English seamen clustered around,and before Jacques's French guards could stop them, they were flinging torches and flaming logs up into the citadel."Messieurs, no. Please!Je vous en prie. Non!" De Fontenay stared up in horror.Tongues of flame began to lick at the edge of the platform. Some of the guards dropped their muskets and yelled to get buckets of water from the spring behind the rock. Then they thought better of it and started edging gingerly toward the iron gates leading out of the fortress and down the hill.The other guards who had been rifling the liquor came scurrying down the ladder, jostling de Fontenay aside. As Winston urged Katherine toward the gates, the youngmatelotwas still lingering forlornly on the steps, gazing up at the burning "dovecote." Finally, the last to leave Forte de la Roche, he sadly turned and made his way out."Senhor, what is happening here?" Atiba was racing up the steps leading to the gate, carrying his cutlass. "I swam to shore and came fastly as I could.""There's been a little revolution up here, my friend. And I'll tell you something else. There's likely to be some gunpowder in that citadel. For those demi-culverin. I don't have any idea how many kegs he had, but knowing Jacques, there was enough." He took Katherine's hand. "It's the end for this place, that much you can be sure.""Hugh, what about the plan to use his men?" She turned back to look."We'll just have to see how things here are going to settle out now. Maybe it's not over yet."They moved onto the tree-lined pathway. The night air was sharp, fragrant. Above the glow of the fire, the moon hung like a lantern in the tropical sky."You know, I never trusted him for a minute. Truly I didn't." She slipped her arm around Winston's jerkin. "I realize now he was planning to somehow try and kill us both tonight. Thank heaven it's over. Why don't we just get out of here while we still can?""Well, sir, it's a new day." Guy Bartholomew emerged out of the crowd, his smile illuminated by the glow of the blaze. "An' I've been talkin' with some of my lads. Why don't we just have done with these damn'd Frenchmen and claim this island?" He gleefully rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "No Englishman here's goin' to line the pockets of a Frenchman ever again, that I'll promise you.""You can try and make Tortuga English if you like, but you won't be sailing with me if you do.""What do you mean, sir?" Bartholomew stood puzzling. "This is our best chance ever to take hold and keep this place. An' there's precious few other islands where we can headquarter.""I know one that has a better harbor. And a better fortress guarding it""Where might that be?""Ever think of Jamaica?""Jamaica, sir?" He glanced up confusedly. "But that belongs to the pox-eaten Spaniards.""Not after we take it away from them it won't. And when we do, any English privateer who wants can use the harbor there.""Now, sir." Bartholomew stopped. "Tryin' to seize Jamaica's another matter entirely. We thought you were the man to help us take charge of this little enterprise here of pillagin' the cursed Spaniards' shipping. You didn't say you're plannin' to try stealin' a whole island from the whoresons.""I'm not just planning, my friend." Winston moved on ahead, Atiba by his side. "God willing, I'm damned sure going to do it.""It's a bold notion, that I'll grant you." He examined Winston skeptically, then grinned as he followed after. "God's life, that'd be the biggest prize any Englishman in the Caribbean ever tried.""I think it can be done.""Well, I'll be plain with you, sir. I don't know how many men here'll be willing to risk their hide on such a venture. I hear the Spaniards've got a militia over there, maybe a thousand strong. 'Tis even said they've got some cavalry.""Then all you Englishmen here can stay on and sail for the next commandant Chevalier de Poncy finds to send down and take over. He'll hold La Tortue for France, don't you think otherwise. All those commissions didn't stay in Jacques's pocket, you can be sure. He's bound to have passed a share up to the Frenchmen on St. Christopher.""We'll not permit it, sir. We'll not let the Frenchmen have it back.""How do you figure on stopping them? This fortress'll take weeks to put into any kind of shape again, and de Poncy's sure to post a fleet down the minute he hears of this. I'd say this place'll have no choice but stay French.""Aye, I'm beginnin' to get the thrust of your thinkin'." He gazed ruefully back up at the burning fort. "If that should happen, and I grant you there's some likelihood it just might, then there's apt to be damned little future here for a God-fearin' Englishman. So either we keep on sailin' for some other French bastard or we find ourselves another harbor.""That's how I read the situation now." Winston continued on down the hill. "So why don't we hold a vote amongst the men and see, Master Bartholomew? Maybe a few of them are game to try making a whole new place."JAMAICAChapter Twenty-twoA cricket sang from somewhere within the dark crevices of the stone wall surrounding the two men, a sharp, shrill cadence in the night. To the older it was a welcome sign all was well; the younger gave it no heed, as again he bent over and hit his steel against the flint, sending sparks flying into the wind. Finally he cursed in Spanish and paused to pull his goatskin jerkin closer.Hipolito de Valera had not expected this roofless hilltop outpost would catch the full force of the breeze that rolled in off the bay. He paused for another gust to die away, then struck the flint once more. A shower of sparks scattered across the small pile of dry grass and twigs by the wall, and then slowly, tentatively the tinder began to glow. When at last it was blazing, he tossed on a large handful of twigs and leaned back to watch.In the uneven glow of the fire his face was soft, with an aquiline nose and dark Castilian eyes. He was from the sparsely settled north, where his father don Alfonso de Valera had planted forty-five acres of grape arbor in the mountains. Winemaking was forbidden in the Spanish Americas, but taxes on Spanish wines were high and Spain was far away."!Tenga cuidado!The flame must be kept low. It has to be heated slowly." Juan Jose Pereira was, as he had alreadyobserved several times previously this night, more knowing of the world. His lined cheeks were leather-dark from a lifetime of riding in the harsh Jamaican sun for the cattle-rancher who owned the largesthatoon the Liguanea Plain. Perhaps the youngest son of a vineyard owner might understand the best day to pick grapes for the claret, but such a raw youth would know nothing of the correct preparation of chocolate.Juan Jose monitored the blaze for a time, and then—his hands moving with the deft assurance of the ancientconquistadores—carefully retrieved a worn leather bag from his pocket and dropped a brown lump into the brass kettle now hanging above the fire. He next added two green tabasco peppers, followed by a portion of goat's milk from his canteen. Finally he stirred in a careful quantity ofmuscavadosugar—procured for him informally by his sister's son Carlos, who operated the boiling house of a sugar plantation in the Guanaboa Vale, one of only seven on the island with a horse-drawn mill for crushing the cane.As he watched the thick mixture begin to simmer, he motioned for the younger man to climb back up the stone stairway to the top of their outpost, thevigiaoverlooking the harbor of Jamaica Bay. Dawn was four hours away, but their vigil for mast lights must be kept, even when there was nothing but the half moon to watch.In truth Juan Jose did not mind his occasional night of duty for the militia, especially here on the mountain. He liked the stars, the cool air so unlike his sweltering thatched hut on the plain, and the implicit confirmation his eyes were still as keen as they had been the morning he was baptized, over fifty years ago.The aroma of the chocolate swirled up into the watchtower above, and in the moonlight its dusky perfume sent Hipolito's thoughts soaring.Elvita. Wouldn't it be paradise if she were here tonight, instead of a crusty oldvaquerolike Juan Jose? He thought again of her almond eyes, which he sometimes caught glancing at him during the Mass . . . though always averted with a pretense of modesty when his own look returned their desire.He sat musing over what his father would say when he informed him he was hopelessly in love with Elvita de Loaisa. Undoubtedly don Alfonso would immediately point out that her father Garcia de Loaisa had only twenty acres of lowland cotton in cultivation: what dowry would such a lazy family bring?What to do? Just to think about her, while the moon . . ."Your chocolate." Juan Jose was standing beside him holding out a pewter bowl, from which a tiny wisp of steam trailed upward to be captured in the breeze. The old man watched him take it, then, holding his own portion, settled back against the stone bench."You were gazing at the moon, my son." He crossed himself, then began to sip noisily. "The spot to watch is over there, at the tip of the Cayo de Carena." Now he was pointing south. "Anyprotestantefleet that would attack us must first sail around the Point."The old man consumed the rest of his chocolate quickly, then licked the rim of the bowl and laid it aside. Its spicy sweetness was good, true enough, one of the joys of the Spanish Americas, but now he wanted something stronger. Unobtrusively he rummaged through the pocket of his coat till he located his flask of pimento brandy. He extracted the cork with his teeth, then pensively drew twice on the bottle before rising to stare out over the stone balustrade.Below them on the right lay Jamaica Bay, placid and empty, with the sandy cay called Cayo de Carena defining its farthest perimeter. The cay, he had always thought, was where the Passage Fort really should be. But their governor, don Francisco de Castilla, claimed there was no money to build a second one. All the same, spreading below him was the finest harbor in the New World—when Jamaica had no more than three thousand souls, maybe four, on the whole island. Did not even the giantgaleones, on their way north from Cartegena, find it easy to put in here to trade? Their arrival was, in fact, always the event of the year, the time when Jamaica's hides and pig lard were readied for Havana, in exchange for fresh supplies of wine, olive oil, wheat flour, even cloth from home. Don Fernando, owner of thehato, always made certain his hides were cured and bundled for thegaleonesby late spring.But don Fernando's leather business was of scant concern to Juan Jose. What use had he for white lace from Seville? He pulled again at the flask, its brandy sharp and pungent, and let his eyes wander to the green plain on his left, now washed in moonlight. That was the Jamaica he cared about, where everything he required could be grown right in the earth. Cotton for the women to spin, beef and cassava to eat, wine and cacao and cane-brandy for drinking, tobacco to soothe his soul. . . .He suddenly remembered he had left his pipe in the leather knapsack, down below. But now he would wait a bit. Thinking of a pleasure made it even sweeter . . . Just as he knew young Hipolito was dreaming still of some country senorita. When a young man could not attend to what he was told for longer than a minute, it could only be first love.As he stood musing, his glance fell on Caguaya, the Passage Fort, half a mile to the left, along the Rio Cobre river that flowed down from Villa de la Vega. The fort boasted ten great guns, and it was manned by militia day and night. If any strange ship entered the bay, Caguaya would be signaled from here at thevigia, using two large bells donated by the Church, and the fort's cannon would be readied as a precaution. He studied it for a time, pleased it was there. Its guns would kill any hereticluteranowho came to steal.The pipe. He glanced over at Hipolito, now making a show of watching the Point at Cayo de Carena, and briefly entertained sending him down for it. Then he decided the climb would be good for his legs, would help him keep his breath—which he needed for his Saturday night trysts with Margarita, don Fernando's head cook. Though, Mother of God, she had lungs enough for them both. He chuckled to himself and took a last pull on the fiery brandy before collecting the pewter bowls to start down the stairs. "Mypipa. Don't fall asleep gazing at the moon while I'm below."The young man blushed in the dark and busily studied the horizon. Juan Jose stood watching him for a moment, wondering if he had been that transparent thirty-some years past, then turned and began descending the steps, his boots ringing hard against the stone.The knapsack was at the side wall, near the door, and as he bent over to begin searching for the clay stem of his pipe he caught the movement of a shadow along the stone lintel. Suddenly it stopped.''Que pasa?"He froze and waited for an answer.Silence. Now the shadow was motionless.His musket, and Hipolito's, were both leaning against the far wall, near the stairs. Then he remembered . . .Slowly, with infinite care, he slipped open the buckle on the knapsack and felt for his knife, the one with the long blade he used for skinning. His fingers closed about its bone handle, and he carefully drew it from its sheath. He raised up quietly and smoothly, as though stalking a skittish calf, and edged against the wall. The shadow moved again, tentatively, and then a massive black form was outlined against the doorway.Un negro!Whose could it be? There were no more than forty or fifty slaves on the whole of Jamaica, brought years ago to work on the plantations. But the cane fields were far away, west of Rio Minho and inland. The onlynegroyou ever saw this far east was an occasional domestic.Perhaps he was a runaway? There was a band of Maroons, freenegros, now living in the mountains. But they kept to themselves. They did not come down onto the plain to steal.The black man stood staring at him. He did not move, merely watched as though completely unafraid.Then Juan Jose saw the glint of a wide blade, a cutlass, in the moonlight. This was no thief. Who was he? What could he want?"Senor, stop." He raised his knife. "You are not permitted . . ."Thenegromoved through the doorway, as though not understanding. His blade was rising, slowly.Juan Jose took a deep breath and lunged.He was floating, enfolded in Margarita's soft bosom, while the world turned gradually sideways. Then he felt a pain in his knee as it struck against the stone—oddly, that was his first sensation, and he wondered fleetingly if it would still be stiff when he mounted his mare in the morning. Next he noticed a dull ache in the side of his neck, not sharp but warm from the blood. He felt the knife slip away, clattering onto the stone paving beyond his reach, and then he saw the moon, clear and crisp, suspended above him in the open sky. Next to it hovered Hipolito, his frightened eyes gazing down from the head of the stair. The eyes held dark brown for a second, then turned red, then black."Meu Deus, you have killed him!" A woman's voice pierced the dark. She was speaking in Portuguese as she moved through the door behind the tallnegro.Hipolito watched in terrified silence, too afraid even to breathe. Behind thenegroand the woman were four other men, whispering in Ingles, muskets poised. He realized both the guns were still down below, and besides, how could . . ."The whoreson tried to murder me with his damnable knife." The man drew up the cutlass and wiped its blood against the leather coat of Juan Jose, sprawled at his feet."We were not to kill unless necessary. Those were your orders."Thenegromotioned for quiet and casually stepped over the body, headed for the stairs.Mother of God, no! Hipolito drew back, wanting to cry out, to flee. But then he realized he was cornered, like an animal.Now thenegrowas mounting the stairs, still holding the sword, the woman directly behind him.Why, he wondered, had a woman come with them. These could not be ordinary thieves; they must becorsario luterano, heretic Protestantflibusteroof the sea. Why hadn't he seen their ship? They must have put in at Esquebel, the little bay down the western shore, then come up by the trail. It was five miles, a quick climb if you knew the way.But how could they have known the road leading up to thevigia? And if these were here, how many more were now readying to attack the fort at Caguaya, just to the north? The bells . . . !He backed slowly toward the small tower and felt blindly for the rope. But now the huge figure blotted out the moon as it moved toward him. Fearfully he watched the shadow glide across the paving, inching nearer, a stone at a time. Then he noticed the wind blowing through his hair, tousling it across his face, and he would have pushed it back save he was unable to move. He could taste his own fear now, like a small copper tlaco in his mouth.The man was raising his sword. Where was the rope! Mother of God!"Nao." The woman had seized thenegro'sarm, was pulling him back. Hipolito could almost decipher her Portuguese as she continued, "Suficiente. No more killing."Hipolito stepped away from the bell tower. "Senor, por favor..."The man had paused, trying to shake aside the woman. Then he said something, like a hard curse.Hipolito felt his knees turn to warm butter and he droppedforward, across the stones. He was crying now, his body shivering from the hard, cold paving against his face."Just tie him." The woman's voice came again. "He is only a boy."The man's voice responded, in the strange language, and Hipolito thought he could feel the sword against his neck. He had always imagined he would someday die proudly, would honor Elvita by his courage, and now here he was, cringing on his belly. They would find him like this. The men in the vineyards would joke he had groveled before the Protestantladroneslike a dog."I will stay and watch him, and this place. Leave me two muskets." The woman spoke once more, then called out in Ingles. There were more footsteps on the stairs as the other men clambered up."Why damn me, 'tis naught but a lad," a voice said in Ingles, "sent to do a man's work.""He's all they'd need to spy us, have no fear. I'll wager 'twould be no great matter to warn the fort. Which is what he'll be doin' if we . . ."Senor, how do you signal the fort?" The woman was speaking now, in Spanish, as she seized Hipolito's face and pulled him up. "Speak quickly, or I will let them kill you."Hipolito gestured vaguely toward the two bells hanging in the tower behind."Take out the clappers, then tie him." The woman's voice came again, now in Ingles. "The rest of you ready the lanterns."The dugout canoes had already been launched, bobbing alongside the two frigates anchored on the sea side of the Cayo de Carena. Directly ahead of them lay the Point, overlooking the entry to Jamaica Bay.Katherine felt the gold inlay of the musket's barrel, cold and hard against her fingertips, and tried to still her pulse as she peered through the dim moonlight. Up the companionway, on the quarterdeck, Winston was deep in a final parlay with Guy Bartholomew of theSwiftsure. Like all the seamen, they kept casting anxious glances toward a spot on the shore across the bay, just below thevigia, where the advance party would signal the all-clear with lanterns.The last month had not been an easy time. After the death of Jacques le Basque, Tortuga was plunged into turmoil for a fortnight, with the English and Frenchboucaniersat Basse Terre quarreling violently over the island's future. There had nearly been war. Finally Bartholomew and almost a hundred and fifty seamen had elected to join Winston in his attempt to seize a new English privateering base at Jamaica. But they also demanded the right to hold Villa de la Vega for ransom, as Jackson had done so many years before. It was the dream of riches that appealed to them most, every man suddenly fancying himself a second Croesus. Finally Winston and Bartholomew had drawn up Articles specifying the division of spoils, in the tradition of theboucaniers.After that, two more weeks had passed in final preparations, as muskets and kegs of powder were stockpiled. To have sufficient landing craft they had bartered butts of kill-devil with the Cow-Killers on Hispaniola for ten wide dugout canoes—all over six feet across and able to transport fifteen to twenty men. With the dugouts aboard and lashed securely along the main deck of the two ships, the assault was ready.They set sail as a flurry of rumors from other islands began reaching the buccaneer stronghold. The most disquieting was that a French fleet of armed warships had already been dispatched south by the Chevalier de Poncy of St. Christopher, who intended to restore his dominion over Tortuga and appoint a new Frenchcommandant de place.Yet another story, spreading among the Spanish planters on Hispaniola, was that an English armada had tried to invade the city of Santo Domingo on the southern coast, but was repulsed ingloriously, with hundreds lost.The story of the French fleet further alarmed the English buccaneers, and almost two dozen more offered to join the Jamaica expedition. The Spanish tale of a failed assault on Santo Domingo was quickly dismissed. It was merely another in a long history of excuses put forward by theaudienciaof that city to explain its failure to attack Tortuga. There would never have been a better time to storm the island, but once again the cowardly Spaniards had managed to find a reason for allowing the boucaniers to go unmolested, claiming all their forces were needed to defend the capital.The morning of their departure arrived brisk and clear, and by mid-afternoon they had already made Cape Nicholao, at the northwest tip of Hispaniola. Since the Windward Passage lay just ahead, they shortened sail, holding their course west by southwest till dark, when they elected to heave-to and wait for morning, lest they overshoot. At dawn they were back underway, and just before nightfall, as planned, they had sighted Point Morant on the eastern tip of Jamaica. Winston ordered the first stage of the assault to commence.The frigates made way along the southern coast till they neared the Point of the Cayo de Carena, the wide cay at the entry to Jamaica Bay. Then, while theSwiftsurekept station to watch for any turtling craft that might sound the alarm, Winston hoisted theDefiance'snew sails and headed on past the Point, directly along the coast. The attack plan called for an advance party to proceed overland from the rear and surprise thevigiaon the hill overlooking the bay, using a map prepared by their Spanish pilot, Armando Vargas. Winston appointed Atiba to lead the men; Serina went with them as translator.They had gone ashore two hours before midnight, giving them four hours to secure thevigiabefore the attack was launched. A signal of three lanterns on the shore below thevigiawould signify all-clear. After they had disappeared up the trail and into the salt savannah, theDefiancerejoined theSwiftsure, at which time Winston ordered the fo'c'sle unlocked and flintlocks distributed, together with bandoliers of powder and shot. While the men checked and primed their muskets, Winston ordered extra barrels of powder and shot loaded into the dugouts, along with pikes and half-pikes.Now the men stirred impatiently on the decks, new flintlocks glistening in the moonlight, anxious for their first feel of Spanish gold. . . .Katherine pushed through the crowd and headed up the companionway toward the quarterdeck. Winston had just dismissed Bartholomew, sending him back to theSwiftsureto oversee final assignments of his own men and arms. The old boucanier was still chuckling over something Winston had said as she met him on the companionway."See you take care with that musket now, m'lady." He doffed his dark hat with a wink as he stepped past. "She's apt to go off when you’d least expect."She smiled and nodded, then smoothly drew back the hammer on the breech with an ominous click as she looked up."Then tell me, Guy, is this what makes it fire?""God's blood, m'lady." Bartholomew scurried quickly past, then glanced uncertainly over his shoulder as he slid across the bannister and started down the swaying rope ladder, headed for the shallop moored below."Hugh, how long do you expect before the signal?""It'd best be soon. If not, we won't have time to cross the bay before daylight." He peered through the dark, toward the hill. "We've got to clear the harbor and reach the mouth of the Rio Cobre while it's still dark, or they'll see us from the Passage Fort.""How far up the river is the fort?""Vargas claims it's only about a quarter mile." He glanced back toward the hill. "But once we make the river, their cannon won't be able to touch us. It's only when we're exposed crossing the bay that we need worry.""What about the militia there when we try to storm it?""Vargasclaims that if they're not expecting trouble, it'llbe lightly manned. After we take it, we'll have their cannon, together with the ordnance we've already got. There's nothing else on the island save a few matchlock muskets.""And their cavalry.""All they'll have is lances, or pikes." He slipped his arm around her waist. "No, Katy, after we seize Passage Fort, the Spaniards can never get us out of here, from land or sea. Jamaica will be ours, because this harbor will belong to us."
"He told me how you got together to fight the Spaniards, but ..."
"Did he?Bon. " He paused to check theboucanbelow them, then the men. Finally he shrugged and turned back. "It was the start of the legend of theboucaniers, Mademoiselle. And you can take pride that the Anglais was part of it. Few men are still alive now to tell that tale."
"What happened to the others, Jacques?" Winston's voice hardened as he moved next to one of the nine-pound cannon. "I seem to remember there were almost thirty of us. Guy Bartholomew was on that raid, for one. I saw him down below last night. I knew a lot of those men well."
"Oui, you had many friends. But after you . . . left us, a few unfortunate incidents transpired."
Winston tensed. "Did the ship . . . ?"
"I discovered what can occur when there is not proper organization, Anglais. But now I am getting ahead of our story. Surely you remember the island we had encamped on. Well, we waited on that cursed sand spit several weeks more, hoping there would be another prize. But alas, we saw nothing,rien. Then finally one day around noon, when it was so hot you could scarcely breathe, we spied a Spanish sail—far at sea. By then all our supplies were down. We were desperate. So we launched our canoes and put to sea, with a vow we would seize the ship or perish trying."
"And you took it?" Winston had set down his tankard on the railing and was listening intently.
"Mais oui. But of course. Desperate men rarely fail. Later we learned that when the captain saw our canoes approaching he scoffed, saying what could a few dugouts do against his
guns. He paid for that misjudgment with his life. We waited till dark, then stormed her. The ship was ours in minutes."
"Congratulations."
"Not so quickly, Anglais. Unfortunately, all did not go smoothly after that. Perhaps it's just as well you were no longer with us,mon ami. Naturally, we threw all the Spaniards overboard, crew and passengers. And then we sailed her back here, to Basse Terre. A three-hundred-ton brigantine. There was some plate aboard—perhaps the capitaine was hoarding it—and considerable coin among the passengers. But when we dropped anchor here, a misunderstanding arose over how it all was to be divided." He sighed. "There were problems. I regret to say it led to bloodshed."
"What do you mean?" Winston glared at him. "I thought we'd agreed to split all prizes equally."
He smiled patiently. "Anglais, think about it. How could such a thing be? I was the commander; my position had certain requirements. And to make sure the same question did not arise again, I created Articles for us to sail under, giving more to the ship's master. They specify in advance what portion goes to every man, from the maintop to the keel . . . though the commander and officers naturally must receive a larger share. . . ."
"And what about now?" Winston interrupted. "Now that you Frenchmen have taken over Tortuga? I hear there's a new way to split any prizes the men bring in. Which includes you and Chevalier de Poncy."
"Oui, conditions have changed slightly. But the men all understand that."
"They understand these French culverin up here.Mes compliments. It must be very profitable for you and him."
"But we have much responsibility here." He gestured toward the settlement below them. "I have many men under my authority.''
"So now that you've taken over this place and become commandant, it's not really like it used to be, when everybody worked for himself. Now there's a French administration. And that means extortion, though I suppose you call it taxes."
“Naturellement.'' He paused to watch as de Fontenay walked to the edge of the parapet and glanced up at the mountain behind the fort. "But tonight we were to recall those old, happy days, Anglais, before the burden of all this governing descended on my unworthy shoulders. Yourjoliemademoiselle seems to take such interest in what happened back then."
"I'd like to hear about what happened while Hugh was on that raid with you. You said he was to fire the first shot."
"Oui." Jacques laughed. "And he did indeed pull the first trigger. I was truly sad to part with him at what was to be our moment of glory. But we had differences, I regret to say, that made it necessary . . ."
"What do you mean?" She was watching Hugh's uneasiness as he glanced around the fort, suspecting he'd probably just as soon this story wasn't told.
"We had carefully laid a trap to lure in a ship. Mademoiselle. Up in the Grand Caicos, using a fire on the shore."
"Where?"
"Some islands north of here. Where the Spaniards stop every year." Jacques continued evenly, "And our plan seemed to be working brilliantly. What's more, the Anglais here was given the honor of the first bullet." He sipped from his tankard. "But when a prize blundered into it, the affair turned bloody. Some of my men were killed, and I seem to recall a woman on the ship. I regret to say the Anglais was responsible."
"Hugh, what . . . did . . . you . . . do?" She heard her tankard drop onto the boards.
"To his credit, I will admit he at least helped us bait the hook, Mademoiselle." Jacques smiled. "Did you not, Anglais?"
"That I did. Except it caught an English fish, instead of a Spaniard."
Good Christ, no! Katherine sucked in her breath. The coldhearted bastard. I am glad I brought a pistol. Except it'll not be for Jacques le Basque. "I think you two had best spare me the rest of your heroic little tale, before I . . ."
"But, Mademoiselle, the Anglais was our finest marksman. He could bring down a wild boar at three hundred paces." He toasted Winston with a long draught from his tankard. "Don't forget I had trained him well. We wanted him to fire the first shot. You should at least take pride in that, even if the rest does not redound entirely to his credit."
"Hugh, you'd better tell me the truth. Right now." She moved toward him, almost quivering with rage. She felt her hand close about the grip of her pistol as she stood facing Winston, his scarred face impassive. "Did you fire on the ship?"
"Mademoiselle, what does it matter now? All that is past, correct?" Jacques smiled as he strolled over. "Tonight the Anglais and I are once more Freres de la Cote, brothers in the honorable order of boucaniers." He patted Winston's shoulder. "That is still true,n'est-ce pas? And together we will mount the greatest raid ever—on the Spanish island of Jamaica."
Winston was still puzzling over Katherine's sudden anger when he finally realized what Jacques had said. So, he thought, the oldbatardwants to give me the men after all. Just as I'd figured. Now it's time to talk details.
"Together, Jacques. But remember I'm the one who has the pilot, the man who can get us into the harbor. So that means I set the terms." He sipped from his tankard, feeling the brandy burn its way down. "And since you seem to like it here so much, I'll keep the port for myself, and we'll just draw up some of those Articles of yours about how we manage the rest."
"But of course, Anglais. I've already been thinking. Perhaps we can handle it this way: you keep whatever you find in the fortress, and my men will take the spoils from the town."
"Wait a minute. The town's apt to have the most booty, you know that, Jacques."
"Anglais, how can we possibly foretell such a thing in advance? Already I am assuming a risk . . ."
Jacques smiled and turned to look down at the bay. As he moved, the railing he had been standing beside exploded, spewing slivers of mastic wood into the evening air. When he glanced back, startled, a faint pop sounded from the direction of the hill behind the fort.
Time froze as a look of angry realization spread through the old boucaniers eyes. He checked the iron ladder, still lowered, then yelled for the guards below to light the linstocks for the cannon and ready their muskets.
"Katy, take cover." Winston seized her arm and she felt him pull her against the side of the house, out of sight of the hill above. "Maybe Commandant le Basque is not quite so popular with some of his lads as he seems to think."
"I can very well take care of myself. Captain. Right now I've a mind to kill you both." She wrenched her arm away and moved down the side of the citadel.
"Katy, what . . . ?" As Winston stared at her, uncomprehending, another musket ball from the dark above splattered into the post beside Jacques. He bellowed a curse, then drew the pistol from his belt and stepped into the protection of the roof. When he did, one of the guards from below, wearing a black hat and jerkin, appeared at the top of the iron ladder leading up from the courtyard. Jacques yelled for him to hurry.
"Damn you,vite, there's some fool up the hill with a musket."
Before he could finish, the man raised a long flintlock pistol and fired.
The ball ripped away part of the ornate lace along one side of Jacques's collar. Almost before the spurt of flame had died away, Jacques's own pistol was cocked. He casually took aim and shot the guard squarely in the face. The man slumped across the edge of the opening, then slid backward and out of sight.
"Anglais." He turned back coolly. "Tonight you have just had the privilege of seeing me remind thesecochonswho controls this island."
Even as he spoke, the curly head of de Fontenay appeared through the opening. When Jacques saw him, he beckoned him forward. "Come on, and pull it up after you. Too many killings will upset my guests' dinner."
The young Frenchman stepped slowly onto the platform, then slipped his right hand into his ornate doublet and lifted out a pistol. He examined it for a moment before reaching down with his left and extracting another.
"I said to pull up the ladder, damn you. That's an order."
De Fontenay began to back along the railing, all the while staring at Jacques with eyes fearful and uncertain. Finally he summoned the courage to speak.
"You are abete, Jacques, truly a beast." His voice trembled, and glistening droplets of sweat had begun to bead on his smooth forehead. "We are going to open Purgatory and release the men you have down there. Give me the keys, or I will kill you myself, I swear it."
"You'd do well to put those guns away, you littlefou. Before I become annoyed." Jacques glared at him a moment, then turned toward Winston, his voice even. "Anglais, kindly pass me one of your pistols. Or I will be forced to kill this littleputainand all the rest with my own bare hands. I would regret having to soil them."
"You'd best settle this yourself, Jacques. I keep my pistols. Besides, maybe you should open that new dungeon of yours. We never needed anything like that in the old days."
"Damn you, Anglais." His voice hardened. "I said give me a gun."
At that moment, another guard from below appeared at the opening. With a curse, Jacques stepped over and shoved a heavy boot into his face, sending the startled man sprawling backward. Then he seized the iron ladder and drew it up, beyond reach of those below. He ignored de Fontenay as he turned back to Winston.
"Are you defying me too, Anglais?Bon. Because before this night is over, I have full intention of settling our accounts."
"Jacques,mon ami!" Winston laughed. "Here all this time I thought we were going to befreresagain." He sobered. "Though I would prefer going in partners with a commander who can manage his own men."
"You mean this little one?" He thumbed at de Fontenay. "Believe me when I tell you he does not have the courage of—“
Now de Fontenay was raising the pistol in his right hand, shakily. "I said to give us the keys, Jacques. You have gone too far."
"You will not live that long, my littlematelot, to order me what to do." Jacques feigned a menacing step toward him. Startled, de Fontenay edged backward, and Jacques erupted with laughter, then turned back to Winston. "You see, Anglais? Cowards are all the same. Remember when you wanted to kill me? You were point-blank, and you failed. Now this littleputainhas the same idea." He seized Winston's jerkin. "Give me one of your guns, Anglais, or I will take it with my own hands."
"No!" At the other end of the citadel Katherine stood holding the pistol she had brought. She was gripping it with both hands, rock steady, aimed at them. Slowly she moved down the porch. "I'd like to just be rid of you both. Which one of you should I kill?"
The old boucanier stared at her as she approached, then at Winston. "Your Anglaise has gone mad."
"I was on that English ship you two are so proud of attacking." She directed the flintlock toward Winston. "Hugh, the woman you remember killing—she was my mother."
The night flared with the report of a pistol, and Jacques flinched in surprise. He glanced down curiously at the splotch of red blossoming against the side of his silk shirt, then looked up at de Fontenay.
"That was a serious mistake, my littleami. One you will not live long enough to regret."
The smoking pistol de Fontenay held dropped noisily onto the boards at his feet, while he raised the other. "I said give to me the keys, Jacques. Or I will kill you, I swear it."
"You think I can be killed? By you?Jamais. " He laughed, then suddenly reached out and wrenched away the pistol Katherine was holding, shoving her aside. With a smile he aimed it directly at de Fontenay's chest. "Now, mon ami . . ."
There was a dead click, then silence. It had misfired.
"I don't want this, Jacques, truly." De Fontenay started to tremble, and abruptly the other pistol he held exploded with a pink arrow of flame.
"Anglais . . ." Jacques jerked lightly, a second splotch of red spreading across his pale shirt. Then he dropped to one knee with a curse.
De Fontenay stepped hesitantly forward. "Perhaps now you will understand,mon maitre, what kind of man I can be."
He watched in disbelief as Jacques slowly slumped forward across the boards at his feet. Then he edged closer to where the old boucanier lay, reached down and ripped away a ring of heavy keys secured to his belt. He held them a moment in triumph before he looked down again, suddenly incredulous. "Mon Dieu, he is dead."
With a cry of remorse he crouched over the lifeless figure and lovingly touched the bloodstained beard. Finally he remembered himself and glanced up at Winston. "It seems I have finished what you began. He told me today how you two quarreled once. He cared nothing for us, you or me, friend or lover." He hesitated, and his eyes appeared to plead. "What do we do now?"
Winston was still staring at Katherine, his mind flooded with dismay at the anger in her eyes. At last he seemed to hear de Fontenay and turned back. "Since you've got his keys, you might as well go ahead and throw them down. I assume you mean to open the dungeon."
"Oui. He had begun to lock men there just on his whim. Yesterday he even imprisoned a . . . special friend of mine. It was too much." He walked to the edge of the platform and flung the ring of keys down toward the pavement of the fort.
As the ring of metal against stone cut through the silence, he yelled out, "Purgatory is no more. Jacques le Basque is in hell." He abruptly turned and shoved down the ladder. In the courtyard below, pandemonium erupted.
At once a cannon blazed into the night. Then a second, and a third. Moments later, jubilant musket fire sounded up from the direction of the settlement as men poured into the streets, torches and lanterns blazing.
"Good God, Katy, I don't know what you've been thinking, but we'd best talk about it later. Right now we've got to get out of here." Winston walked hesitantly to where she stood. "Somebody's apt to get a mind to fire this place."
"No, I don't . . ."
"Katy, come on. " He grabbed her arm.
De Fontenay was still at the railing along the edge of the platform, as though not yet fully comprehending the enormity of his act. Below him a string of prisoners, still shackled, was being led from the dungeon beneath the "dovecote."
Winston forcibly guided Katherine down the ladder and onto the stone steps below. Now guards had already begun dismantling theboucanwith the butts of their muskets, sending sparks sailing upward into the night air.
Then the iron gateway of the fortress burst open and a mob of seamen began pouring through, waving pistols and cheering. Finally one of them spotted Winston on the steps and pressed through the crowd.
"God's blood, is it true?"
Winston looked down and recognized Guy Bartholomew.
"Jacques is dead."
"An' they're all claiming you did it. That you came up here and killed the bastard. The very thing we all wanted, and you managed it." He reached up and pumped Winston's hand. "Maybe now I can stand you a drink. For my money, I say you should be new commandant of this piss-hole, by virtue of ridding the place of him."
"I didn't kill him, Bartholomew. That 'honor' goes to hismatelot. "
The excited seaman scarcely paused. "'Tis no matter, sir. That little whore is nothing. I know one thing; every Englishman here'll sail for you, or I'm not a Christian."
"Maybe we can call some of the ships' masters together and see what they want to do."
"You can name the time, sir. And I'll tell you this: there're going to be a few changes around here, that I can warrant." He turned to look at the other men, several of whom were offering flasks of brandy to the prisoners. Around them, the French guards had remembered Jacques's store of liquor and were shoving past, headed up the ladder. In moments they were flinging down flasks of brandy.
Bartholomew turned and gazed down toward the collection of mast lights below them. "There's scarcely an Englishman here who'd not have left that whoreson's service long ago, save there's no place else but Tortuga the likes of us can drop anchor. But now with him gone we can . . ."
"Until further notice, this island is going to be under my administration, as representative of the Chevalier de Poncy,gouverneurof St. Christophe." De Fontenay had appeared at the top of the steps and begun to shout over the tumult in the yard. His curls fluttered in the wind as he called for quiet. "By the Code of the boucaniers, the Telle Etoit la Coutume de la Cote, I am Jacques's legal heir. Which means I can claim the office of acting commandant de place. . . ."
Bartholomew yelled up at him. "You can claim whatever you like, you pimp. But no Englishman'll sail for you, an' that's a fact. We'll spike these cannon if you're thinking to try any of the old tricks. It's a new day, by all that's holy."
"What do you mean?" De Fontenay glanced down.
"I mean from this day forth we'll sail for whatever master we've a mind to."
De Fontenay called to Winston. "You saw who killed him, Monsieur. Tell them." He looked back toward Bartholomew. "This man knew Jacques better than any of you. His friend, the Anglais, from the very first days of theboucaniers. He will tell you the Code makes me . . ."
"Anglais!" Bartholomew stared at Winston a moment, then a smile erupted across his hard face. "Good God, I do believe it is. You've aged mightily, lad, on my honor. Please take no offense I didn't recognize you before."
"It's been a long time."
"God's blood, none of us ever knew your Christian name. We all thought you dead after you and Jacques had that little shooting spree." He grasped Winston's hand. "Do you have any idea how proud we were of you? I tell you we all saw it when you pulled a pistol on that bastard. You may not know it, sir, but it was because of you his band of French rogues didn't rape that English frigate. All the Englishmen amongst us wanted to stop it, but we had no chance." He laughed. "In truth, sir, that was the start of all our troubles here. We never got along with the damn'd Frenchmen after that. Articles or no.
"Hugh, what's he saying?" Katherine was staring at him.
"What do you mean?"
"Is it true you stopped Jacques and his men from taking our ship? The one you were talking about tonight?"
"The idea was we were only to kill Spaniards. No Englishman had done anything to us. It wouldn't have been honorable. When Jacques didn't agree with me on that point, things got a little unpleasant. That's when somebody started firing on the ship."
"Aye, the damn'd Frenchmen," Bartholomew interjected. "I was there, sir."
"I'm sorry the rest of us didn't manage to warn you in time." Winston slipped his arm around her.
Suddenly she wanted to smother him in her arms. "But do you realize you must have saved my life? They would have killed us all."
"They doubtless would have. Eventually." He reached over and kissed her, then drew back and examined her. "Katy, I have a confession to make. I think I can still remember watching you. When I was in the longboat, trying to reach the ship. I think I fell in love with you that morning. With that brave girl who stood there at the railing, musket balls flying. I never forgot it, in all the years. My God, to think it was you.” He held her against him for a moment, then lifted up her face. "Which also means I have you and yours to thank for trying to kill me, when I wanted to get out to where you were."
"The captain just assumed you were one of them. I heard him talk about it after. Nobody had any idea . . ." She hugged him. "You and your 'honor.' You changed my life."
"You and that ship sure as hell changed mine. After I fell in love with you, I damned near died of thirst in that leaky longboat. And then Ruyters . . ."
"Capitaine, please tell them I was the one who shot Jacques. That I am nowcommandant de place. " De Fontenay interrupted, his voice pleading. "That I have the authority to order them . . ."
"You're not ordering anything, by Jesus. I'm about to put an end to any more French orders here and now." Bartholomew seized a burning stick from the fire in the boucan and flung it upward, onto the veranda of the "dovecote."
A cheer went up from the English seamen clustered around,
and before Jacques's French guards could stop them, they were flinging torches and flaming logs up into the citadel.
"Messieurs, no. Please!Je vous en prie. Non!" De Fontenay stared up in horror.
Tongues of flame began to lick at the edge of the platform. Some of the guards dropped their muskets and yelled to get buckets of water from the spring behind the rock. Then they thought better of it and started edging gingerly toward the iron gates leading out of the fortress and down the hill.
The other guards who had been rifling the liquor came scurrying down the ladder, jostling de Fontenay aside. As Winston urged Katherine toward the gates, the youngmatelotwas still lingering forlornly on the steps, gazing up at the burning "dovecote." Finally, the last to leave Forte de la Roche, he sadly turned and made his way out.
"Senhor, what is happening here?" Atiba was racing up the steps leading to the gate, carrying his cutlass. "I swam to shore and came fastly as I could."
"There's been a little revolution up here, my friend. And I'll tell you something else. There's likely to be some gunpowder in that citadel. For those demi-culverin. I don't have any idea how many kegs he had, but knowing Jacques, there was enough." He took Katherine's hand. "It's the end for this place, that much you can be sure."
"Hugh, what about the plan to use his men?" She turned back to look.
"We'll just have to see how things here are going to settle out now. Maybe it's not over yet."
They moved onto the tree-lined pathway. The night air was sharp, fragrant. Above the glow of the fire, the moon hung like a lantern in the tropical sky.
"You know, I never trusted him for a minute. Truly I didn't." She slipped her arm around Winston's jerkin. "I realize now he was planning to somehow try and kill us both tonight. Thank heaven it's over. Why don't we just get out of here while we still can?"
"Well, sir, it's a new day." Guy Bartholomew emerged out of the crowd, his smile illuminated by the glow of the blaze. "An' I've been talkin' with some of my lads. Why don't we just have done with these damn'd Frenchmen and claim this island?" He gleefully rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "No Englishman here's goin' to line the pockets of a Frenchman ever again, that I'll promise you."
"You can try and make Tortuga English if you like, but you won't be sailing with me if you do."
"What do you mean, sir?" Bartholomew stood puzzling. "This is our best chance ever to take hold and keep this place. An' there's precious few other islands where we can headquarter."
"I know one that has a better harbor. And a better fortress guarding it"
"Where might that be?"
"Ever think of Jamaica?"
"Jamaica, sir?" He glanced up confusedly. "But that belongs to the pox-eaten Spaniards."
"Not after we take it away from them it won't. And when we do, any English privateer who wants can use the harbor there."
"Now, sir." Bartholomew stopped. "Tryin' to seize Jamaica's another matter entirely. We thought you were the man to help us take charge of this little enterprise here of pillagin' the cursed Spaniards' shipping. You didn't say you're plannin' to try stealin' a whole island from the whoresons."
"I'm not just planning, my friend." Winston moved on ahead, Atiba by his side. "God willing, I'm damned sure going to do it."
"It's a bold notion, that I'll grant you." He examined Winston skeptically, then grinned as he followed after. "God's life, that'd be the biggest prize any Englishman in the Caribbean ever tried."
"I think it can be done."
"Well, I'll be plain with you, sir. I don't know how many men here'll be willing to risk their hide on such a venture. I hear the Spaniards've got a militia over there, maybe a thousand strong. 'Tis even said they've got some cavalry."
"Then all you Englishmen here can stay on and sail for the next commandant Chevalier de Poncy finds to send down and take over. He'll hold La Tortue for France, don't you think otherwise. All those commissions didn't stay in Jacques's pocket, you can be sure. He's bound to have passed a share up to the Frenchmen on St. Christopher."
"We'll not permit it, sir. We'll not let the Frenchmen have it back."
"How do you figure on stopping them? This fortress'll take weeks to put into any kind of shape again, and de Poncy's sure to post a fleet down the minute he hears of this. I'd say this place'll have no choice but stay French."
"Aye, I'm beginnin' to get the thrust of your thinkin'." He gazed ruefully back up at the burning fort. "If that should happen, and I grant you there's some likelihood it just might, then there's apt to be damned little future here for a God-fearin' Englishman. So either we keep on sailin' for some other French bastard or we find ourselves another harbor."
"That's how I read the situation now." Winston continued on down the hill. "So why don't we hold a vote amongst the men and see, Master Bartholomew? Maybe a few of them are game to try making a whole new place."
JAMAICA
A cricket sang from somewhere within the dark crevices of the stone wall surrounding the two men, a sharp, shrill cadence in the night. To the older it was a welcome sign all was well; the younger gave it no heed, as again he bent over and hit his steel against the flint, sending sparks flying into the wind. Finally he cursed in Spanish and paused to pull his goatskin jerkin closer.
Hipolito de Valera had not expected this roofless hilltop outpost would catch the full force of the breeze that rolled in off the bay. He paused for another gust to die away, then struck the flint once more. A shower of sparks scattered across the small pile of dry grass and twigs by the wall, and then slowly, tentatively the tinder began to glow. When at last it was blazing, he tossed on a large handful of twigs and leaned back to watch.
In the uneven glow of the fire his face was soft, with an aquiline nose and dark Castilian eyes. He was from the sparsely settled north, where his father don Alfonso de Valera had planted forty-five acres of grape arbor in the mountains. Winemaking was forbidden in the Spanish Americas, but taxes on Spanish wines were high and Spain was far away.
"!Tenga cuidado!The flame must be kept low. It has to be heated slowly." Juan Jose Pereira was, as he had already
observed several times previously this night, more knowing of the world. His lined cheeks were leather-dark from a lifetime of riding in the harsh Jamaican sun for the cattle-rancher who owned the largesthatoon the Liguanea Plain. Perhaps the youngest son of a vineyard owner might understand the best day to pick grapes for the claret, but such a raw youth would know nothing of the correct preparation of chocolate.
Juan Jose monitored the blaze for a time, and then—his hands moving with the deft assurance of the ancientconquistadores—carefully retrieved a worn leather bag from his pocket and dropped a brown lump into the brass kettle now hanging above the fire. He next added two green tabasco peppers, followed by a portion of goat's milk from his canteen. Finally he stirred in a careful quantity ofmuscavadosugar—procured for him informally by his sister's son Carlos, who operated the boiling house of a sugar plantation in the Guanaboa Vale, one of only seven on the island with a horse-drawn mill for crushing the cane.
As he watched the thick mixture begin to simmer, he motioned for the younger man to climb back up the stone stairway to the top of their outpost, thevigiaoverlooking the harbor of Jamaica Bay. Dawn was four hours away, but their vigil for mast lights must be kept, even when there was nothing but the half moon to watch.
In truth Juan Jose did not mind his occasional night of duty for the militia, especially here on the mountain. He liked the stars, the cool air so unlike his sweltering thatched hut on the plain, and the implicit confirmation his eyes were still as keen as they had been the morning he was baptized, over fifty years ago.
The aroma of the chocolate swirled up into the watchtower above, and in the moonlight its dusky perfume sent Hipolito's thoughts soaring.
Elvita. Wouldn't it be paradise if she were here tonight, instead of a crusty oldvaquerolike Juan Jose? He thought again of her almond eyes, which he sometimes caught glancing at him during the Mass . . . though always averted with a pretense of modesty when his own look returned their desire.
He sat musing over what his father would say when he informed him he was hopelessly in love with Elvita de Loaisa. Undoubtedly don Alfonso would immediately point out that her father Garcia de Loaisa had only twenty acres of lowland cotton in cultivation: what dowry would such a lazy family bring?
What to do? Just to think about her, while the moon . . .
"Your chocolate." Juan Jose was standing beside him holding out a pewter bowl, from which a tiny wisp of steam trailed upward to be captured in the breeze. The old man watched him take it, then, holding his own portion, settled back against the stone bench.
"You were gazing at the moon, my son." He crossed himself, then began to sip noisily. "The spot to watch is over there, at the tip of the Cayo de Carena." Now he was pointing south. "Anyprotestantefleet that would attack us must first sail around the Point."
The old man consumed the rest of his chocolate quickly, then licked the rim of the bowl and laid it aside. Its spicy sweetness was good, true enough, one of the joys of the Spanish Americas, but now he wanted something stronger. Unobtrusively he rummaged through the pocket of his coat till he located his flask of pimento brandy. He extracted the cork with his teeth, then pensively drew twice on the bottle before rising to stare out over the stone balustrade.
Below them on the right lay Jamaica Bay, placid and empty, with the sandy cay called Cayo de Carena defining its farthest perimeter. The cay, he had always thought, was where the Passage Fort really should be. But their governor, don Francisco de Castilla, claimed there was no money to build a second one. All the same, spreading below him was the finest harbor in the New World—when Jamaica had no more than three thousand souls, maybe four, on the whole island. Did not even the giantgaleones, on their way north from Cartegena, find it easy to put in here to trade? Their arrival was, in fact, always the event of the year, the time when Jamaica's hides and pig lard were readied for Havana, in exchange for fresh supplies of wine, olive oil, wheat flour, even cloth from home. Don Fernando, owner of thehato, always made certain his hides were cured and bundled for thegaleonesby late spring.
But don Fernando's leather business was of scant concern to Juan Jose. What use had he for white lace from Seville? He pulled again at the flask, its brandy sharp and pungent, and let his eyes wander to the green plain on his left, now washed in moonlight. That was the Jamaica he cared about, where everything he required could be grown right in the earth. Cotton for the women to spin, beef and cassava to eat, wine and cacao and cane-brandy for drinking, tobacco to soothe his soul. . . .
He suddenly remembered he had left his pipe in the leather knapsack, down below. But now he would wait a bit. Thinking of a pleasure made it even sweeter . . . Just as he knew young Hipolito was dreaming still of some country senorita. When a young man could not attend to what he was told for longer than a minute, it could only be first love.
As he stood musing, his glance fell on Caguaya, the Passage Fort, half a mile to the left, along the Rio Cobre river that flowed down from Villa de la Vega. The fort boasted ten great guns, and it was manned by militia day and night. If any strange ship entered the bay, Caguaya would be signaled from here at thevigia, using two large bells donated by the Church, and the fort's cannon would be readied as a precaution. He studied it for a time, pleased it was there. Its guns would kill any hereticluteranowho came to steal.
The pipe. He glanced over at Hipolito, now making a show of watching the Point at Cayo de Carena, and briefly entertained sending him down for it. Then he decided the climb would be good for his legs, would help him keep his breath—which he needed for his Saturday night trysts with Margarita, don Fernando's head cook. Though, Mother of God, she had lungs enough for them both. He chuckled to himself and took a last pull on the fiery brandy before collecting the pewter bowls to start down the stairs. "Mypipa. Don't fall asleep gazing at the moon while I'm below."
The young man blushed in the dark and busily studied the horizon. Juan Jose stood watching him for a moment, wondering if he had been that transparent thirty-some years past, then turned and began descending the steps, his boots ringing hard against the stone.
The knapsack was at the side wall, near the door, and as he bent over to begin searching for the clay stem of his pipe he caught the movement of a shadow along the stone lintel. Suddenly it stopped.
''Que pasa?"He froze and waited for an answer.
Silence. Now the shadow was motionless.
His musket, and Hipolito's, were both leaning against the far wall, near the stairs. Then he remembered . . .
Slowly, with infinite care, he slipped open the buckle on the knapsack and felt for his knife, the one with the long blade he used for skinning. His fingers closed about its bone handle, and he carefully drew it from its sheath. He raised up quietly and smoothly, as though stalking a skittish calf, and edged against the wall. The shadow moved again, tentatively, and then a massive black form was outlined against the doorway.
Un negro!
Whose could it be? There were no more than forty or fifty slaves on the whole of Jamaica, brought years ago to work on the plantations. But the cane fields were far away, west of Rio Minho and inland. The onlynegroyou ever saw this far east was an occasional domestic.
Perhaps he was a runaway? There was a band of Maroons, freenegros, now living in the mountains. But they kept to themselves. They did not come down onto the plain to steal.
The black man stood staring at him. He did not move, merely watched as though completely unafraid.
Then Juan Jose saw the glint of a wide blade, a cutlass, in the moonlight. This was no thief. Who was he? What could he want?
"Senor, stop." He raised his knife. "You are not permitted . . ."
Thenegromoved through the doorway, as though not understanding. His blade was rising, slowly.
Juan Jose took a deep breath and lunged.
He was floating, enfolded in Margarita's soft bosom, while the world turned gradually sideways. Then he felt a pain in his knee as it struck against the stone—oddly, that was his first sensation, and he wondered fleetingly if it would still be stiff when he mounted his mare in the morning. Next he noticed a dull ache in the side of his neck, not sharp but warm from the blood. He felt the knife slip away, clattering onto the stone paving beyond his reach, and then he saw the moon, clear and crisp, suspended above him in the open sky. Next to it hovered Hipolito, his frightened eyes gazing down from the head of the stair. The eyes held dark brown for a second, then turned red, then black.
"Meu Deus, you have killed him!" A woman's voice pierced the dark. She was speaking in Portuguese as she moved through the door behind the tallnegro.
Hipolito watched in terrified silence, too afraid even to breathe. Behind thenegroand the woman were four other men, whispering in Ingles, muskets poised. He realized both the guns were still down below, and besides, how could . . .
"The whoreson tried to murder me with his damnable knife." The man drew up the cutlass and wiped its blood against the leather coat of Juan Jose, sprawled at his feet.
"We were not to kill unless necessary. Those were your orders."
Thenegromotioned for quiet and casually stepped over the body, headed for the stairs.
Mother of God, no! Hipolito drew back, wanting to cry out, to flee. But then he realized he was cornered, like an animal.
Now thenegrowas mounting the stairs, still holding the sword, the woman directly behind him.
Why, he wondered, had a woman come with them. These could not be ordinary thieves; they must becorsario luterano, heretic Protestantflibusteroof the sea. Why hadn't he seen their ship? They must have put in at Esquebel, the little bay down the western shore, then come up by the trail. It was five miles, a quick climb if you knew the way.
But how could they have known the road leading up to thevigia? And if these were here, how many more were now readying to attack the fort at Caguaya, just to the north? The bells . . . !
He backed slowly toward the small tower and felt blindly for the rope. But now the huge figure blotted out the moon as it moved toward him. Fearfully he watched the shadow glide across the paving, inching nearer, a stone at a time. Then he noticed the wind blowing through his hair, tousling it across his face, and he would have pushed it back save he was unable to move. He could taste his own fear now, like a small copper tlaco in his mouth.
The man was raising his sword. Where was the rope! Mother of God!
"Nao." The woman had seized thenegro'sarm, was pulling him back. Hipolito could almost decipher her Portuguese as she continued, "Suficiente. No more killing."
Hipolito stepped away from the bell tower. "Senor, por favor..."
The man had paused, trying to shake aside the woman. Then he said something, like a hard curse.
Hipolito felt his knees turn to warm butter and he dropped
forward, across the stones. He was crying now, his body shivering from the hard, cold paving against his face.
"Just tie him." The woman's voice came again. "He is only a boy."
The man's voice responded, in the strange language, and Hipolito thought he could feel the sword against his neck. He had always imagined he would someday die proudly, would honor Elvita by his courage, and now here he was, cringing on his belly. They would find him like this. The men in the vineyards would joke he had groveled before the Protestantladroneslike a dog.
"I will stay and watch him, and this place. Leave me two muskets." The woman spoke once more, then called out in Ingles. There were more footsteps on the stairs as the other men clambered up.
"Why damn me, 'tis naught but a lad," a voice said in Ingles, "sent to do a man's work."
"He's all they'd need to spy us, have no fear. I'll wager 'twould be no great matter to warn the fort. Which is what he'll be doin' if we . . .
"Senor, how do you signal the fort?" The woman was speaking now, in Spanish, as she seized Hipolito's face and pulled him up. "Speak quickly, or I will let them kill you."
Hipolito gestured vaguely toward the two bells hanging in the tower behind.
"Take out the clappers, then tie him." The woman's voice came again, now in Ingles. "The rest of you ready the lanterns."
The dugout canoes had already been launched, bobbing alongside the two frigates anchored on the sea side of the Cayo de Carena. Directly ahead of them lay the Point, overlooking the entry to Jamaica Bay.
Katherine felt the gold inlay of the musket's barrel, cold and hard against her fingertips, and tried to still her pulse as she peered through the dim moonlight. Up the companionway, on the quarterdeck, Winston was deep in a final parlay with Guy Bartholomew of theSwiftsure. Like all the seamen, they kept casting anxious glances toward a spot on the shore across the bay, just below thevigia, where the advance party would signal the all-clear with lanterns.
The last month had not been an easy time. After the death of Jacques le Basque, Tortuga was plunged into turmoil for a fortnight, with the English and Frenchboucaniersat Basse Terre quarreling violently over the island's future. There had nearly been war. Finally Bartholomew and almost a hundred and fifty seamen had elected to join Winston in his attempt to seize a new English privateering base at Jamaica. But they also demanded the right to hold Villa de la Vega for ransom, as Jackson had done so many years before. It was the dream of riches that appealed to them most, every man suddenly fancying himself a second Croesus. Finally Winston and Bartholomew had drawn up Articles specifying the division of spoils, in the tradition of theboucaniers.
After that, two more weeks had passed in final preparations, as muskets and kegs of powder were stockpiled. To have sufficient landing craft they had bartered butts of kill-devil with the Cow-Killers on Hispaniola for ten wide dugout canoes—all over six feet across and able to transport fifteen to twenty men. With the dugouts aboard and lashed securely along the main deck of the two ships, the assault was ready.
They set sail as a flurry of rumors from other islands began reaching the buccaneer stronghold. The most disquieting was that a French fleet of armed warships had already been dispatched south by the Chevalier de Poncy of St. Christopher, who intended to restore his dominion over Tortuga and appoint a new Frenchcommandant de place.
Yet another story, spreading among the Spanish planters on Hispaniola, was that an English armada had tried to invade the city of Santo Domingo on the southern coast, but was repulsed ingloriously, with hundreds lost.
The story of the French fleet further alarmed the English buccaneers, and almost two dozen more offered to join the Jamaica expedition. The Spanish tale of a failed assault on Santo Domingo was quickly dismissed. It was merely another in a long history of excuses put forward by theaudienciaof that city to explain its failure to attack Tortuga. There would never have been a better time to storm the island, but once again the cowardly Spaniards had managed to find a reason for allowing the boucaniers to go unmolested, claiming all their forces were needed to defend the capital.
The morning of their departure arrived brisk and clear, and by mid-afternoon they had already made Cape Nicholao, at the northwest tip of Hispaniola. Since the Windward Passage lay just ahead, they shortened sail, holding their course west by southwest till dark, when they elected to heave-to and wait for morning, lest they overshoot. At dawn they were back underway, and just before nightfall, as planned, they had sighted Point Morant on the eastern tip of Jamaica. Winston ordered the first stage of the assault to commence.
The frigates made way along the southern coast till they neared the Point of the Cayo de Carena, the wide cay at the entry to Jamaica Bay. Then, while theSwiftsurekept station to watch for any turtling craft that might sound the alarm, Winston hoisted theDefiance'snew sails and headed on past the Point, directly along the coast. The attack plan called for an advance party to proceed overland from the rear and surprise thevigiaon the hill overlooking the bay, using a map prepared by their Spanish pilot, Armando Vargas. Winston appointed Atiba to lead the men; Serina went with them as translator.
They had gone ashore two hours before midnight, giving them four hours to secure thevigiabefore the attack was launched. A signal of three lanterns on the shore below thevigiawould signify all-clear. After they had disappeared up the trail and into the salt savannah, theDefiancerejoined theSwiftsure, at which time Winston ordered the fo'c'sle unlocked and flintlocks distributed, together with bandoliers of powder and shot. While the men checked and primed their muskets, Winston ordered extra barrels of powder and shot loaded into the dugouts, along with pikes and half-pikes.
Now the men stirred impatiently on the decks, new flintlocks glistening in the moonlight, anxious for their first feel of Spanish gold. . . .
Katherine pushed through the crowd and headed up the companionway toward the quarterdeck. Winston had just dismissed Bartholomew, sending him back to theSwiftsureto oversee final assignments of his own men and arms. The old boucanier was still chuckling over something Winston had said as she met him on the companionway.
"See you take care with that musket now, m'lady." He doffed his dark hat with a wink as he stepped past. "She's apt to go off when you’d least expect."
She smiled and nodded, then smoothly drew back the hammer on the breech with an ominous click as she looked up.
"Then tell me, Guy, is this what makes it fire?"
"God's blood, m'lady." Bartholomew scurried quickly past, then glanced uncertainly over his shoulder as he slid across the bannister and started down the swaying rope ladder, headed for the shallop moored below.
"Hugh, how long do you expect before the signal?"
"It'd best be soon. If not, we won't have time to cross the bay before daylight." He peered through the dark, toward the hill. "We've got to clear the harbor and reach the mouth of the Rio Cobre while it's still dark, or they'll see us from the Passage Fort."
"How far up the river is the fort?"
"Vargas claims it's only about a quarter mile." He glanced back toward the hill. "But once we make the river, their cannon won't be able to touch us. It's only when we're exposed crossing the bay that we need worry."
"What about the militia there when we try to storm it?"
"Vargasclaims that if they're not expecting trouble, it'll
be lightly manned. After we take it, we'll have their cannon, together with the ordnance we've already got. There's nothing else on the island save a few matchlock muskets."
"And their cavalry."
"All they'll have is lances, or pikes." He slipped his arm around her waist. "No, Katy, after we seize Passage Fort, the Spaniards can never get us out of here, from land or sea. Jamaica will be ours, because this harbor will belong to us."