Authors: Kerry Newcomb
Mad Morgan (20 page)
The two remaining Spaniards called out to their comrades and managed to shame several other men into joining the fray. Half a dozen shadowy figures rose from their blankets and started across the warehouse floor toward Morgan and the Indian. The Spaniards grudgingly trusted in their overwhelming numbers to prevail.
Kintana held his ground, fists opening and closing as he crouched, preparing to spring. He began to chant softly in the language of his people, a tongue that was older than the Spanish empire. Morgan stepped past the Kuna warrior and confronted the prisoners.
“Enough! I am Morgan the pirate. Trim your sails and come about, or prepare for bloodshed, you milk-livered skalawags!”
“We know you English. Stand with the savage. So be it,” someone called out. “There are but two of you and many of us.”
“Aye. And I have no doubt you will prevail. But I will not go quietly.” Morgan paused to allow his words to sink in. Then he continued in a voice most grave. “There will be blood on the moon before you drag me under. How many will I take with me? Four, five ⦠? How many will I blind or cripple? For the rage is coming upon me, and woe to the poor devil who stands in my way. Come, then, you briny dogfish.” Morgan advanced on his would-be attackers, a move that startled them. He addressed them calmly, with the detachment of a man who didn't care whether he lived or died. “Come and die for your master's pleasureâthem that put us in irons will delight in all our suffering. For in the end, there is no country here, no flag within these walls; we are not enemies, but brothers, bound to one another by our common misery. The choice is yours, mates. Endure together or damn ourselves for the governor's sport.”
His words had the desired effect and struck a chord with the men around him. The Spanish prisoners hesitated and began to argue among themselves. They considered the wisdom in what he was saying. No one wished to be the first of Morgan's victims. Who wanted to lose an eye or wind up lame? In the end, the Spaniards did an about-face and shuffled back to their places.
Morgan inwardly sighed in relief. He turned and caught Kintana scrutinizing him, a puzzled expression on the warrior's dark face. The Kuna Indian did not utter a word, but with a detached air slowly swung about and returned to his corner of the room, stepping around Tonio's fallen form.
“No need to thank me,” Morgan said with a shrug, and crossed back to his straw pallet. He settled back against the wall and gingerly eased into an upright position. His back was bruised and his shoulder throbbed from where the big man had clawed at him. He sighed and closed his eyes and must have drifted off, because suddenly he was nudged awake by a guard slapping the butt of his musket against the buccaneer's feet.
Morgan reacted with a start. He blinked and took a moment to get his bearings. It was still night, still raining. He couldn't have been asleep much longer than an hour. He looked up into the leveled muskets of a pair of guards and between them, the flat brown features of Major Gilberto Barba, the officer assigned to oversee the prisoners on the docks. Barba was a man of average height, with a massive girth and sloping, powerful shoulders. From what Morgan could tell in the time he had spent on the waterfront, the major was a man who cared only that his charges delivered a hard day's work for their squalid bed and plate of food.
Barba was not a vindictive man, and though his ways were harsh, he tried not to be unfair. What went on within the walls of the abandoned warehouse stockade was none of his concern. Let the animals prey upon themselves, let the strongest survive. Come sunrise, he expected the prisoners to be prepared to work, and work hard.
“Ven conmigo,”
he said. He tugged a double-barreled pistol from his belt and cocked the weapon. “You will come with me.” Morgan saw no reason to argue with the man.
he said. He tugged a double-barreled pistol from his belt and cocked the weapon. “You will come with me.” Morgan saw no reason to argue with the man.
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The coach arrived at the rear of a gaily lit two-storied hacienda fronting the Avenida Balboa, on a hillside a few blocks from the governor's palace in the center of the city. The hacienda was ringed with an intricate maze of gardens and narrow covered walkways; the patterns of the rocks underfoot were indistinguishable through the rain and the gloom. Major Barba issued an order in a clipped tone and the driver continued past the hacienda, circled the block and brought the team of horses past a carriage house and stable, through a wide gate, along a drive that wound beneath a grove of willows. The carriage came to a halt near a picturesque stone garden-house just inside the walls of the hacienda.
The major ordered his escort to remain beneath the trees, and brought Morgan up onto the covered porch. The rain kept up a syncopated beat on the red clay tile roof. While the soldiers remained
outside, shielded from the elements beneath the draping branches, Barba and Morgan entered the garden house. In the relative quiet of the anteroom Barba motioned for Morgan to continue inside.
outside, shielded from the elements beneath the draping branches, Barba and Morgan entered the garden house. In the relative quiet of the anteroom Barba motioned for Morgan to continue inside.
“Be warned, señor, do not give me cause. I will not hesitate to kill you.” He gestured toward another doorway.
Morgan nodded and continued into the garden house. He entered a warm, well-lit interior, furnished with two comfortable high-backed chairs before a hearth. A large, comfortable-looking four-poster feather bed filled an alcove; another set of ladder-backed chairs had been set before a table groaning beneath platters of baked chicken, a tureen of black-bean soup, and a bottle of Madeira.
Morgan started across the room and headed straight for the table. Something moved out of the corner of his eye, a stranger, keeping abreast of him. He glanced around in alarm before realizing he had seen his reflection in a nearby mirror hung upon the wall and sandwiched between two stained-glass windows depicting a pair of bleak-looking saints with chipped glass eyes upturned toward heaven.
Morgan approached the mirror, confronted his imageâbearded, shaggy hair, eyes pouched and deep-set from lack of sleep. He was thinner, but not yet gaunt. The flesh around his neck was ruptured and scarred from the mock executions he had endured. One day Don Alonso would forget his pretense or grow tired of his cruel game and end Morgan's plight.
Morgan heard the rustle of a grown. He glanced across the room and noticed the woman in the chair by the fire. Elena Maria rose from the chair and stood with her back to the hearth. The firelight shining through her
“robe à la Française,”
a simple sack dress falling loosely from just below her shoulders to the floor, outlined her body's supple curves. The raindrops made a merry noise, spattering against the windows and pouring from the eaves. Seeing herâilluminated, even radiantâmade Morgan feel dirty and almost ashamed to be in the same room. Then he remembered who had helped put him here.
“robe à la Française,”
a simple sack dress falling loosely from just below her shoulders to the floor, outlined her body's supple curves. The raindrops made a merry noise, spattering against the windows and pouring from the eaves. Seeing herâilluminated, even radiantâmade Morgan feel dirty and almost ashamed to be in the same room. Then he remembered who had helped put him here.
He spun around and stalked across the room. Elena gasped at the unexpected suddenness of his advance, and tried to retreat but found herself between the hearth and the pirateâa painful burn or a broken neck. She was about to call out to the major when Morgan altered his course and stopped at the table. He began to gorge himself on the food, ripping off chunks of chicken, treating tureen as his own private soup bowl, using the ladle for a spoon. He made no apology for his lack of manners though he did pause a moment to offer the ladle to the lady. She declined. He shrugged and dug into his meal.
“Gilberto Barba is an old family friend. His loyalty has always been first and foremost to my father and to me and the house of Saucedo. I can count on his discretion.”
“He won't save you.”
“What do you mean?”
“The fat major won't keep me from snapping your neck,” Morgan told her. “But, first things first.” He poured a tankard of Madeira, passing the cup below his nostrils and inhaling the bouquet. Then he swilled it down, spilling a trickle out of the corner of his mouth and wiping his face with his forearm.
“This is how you would repay me for saving your life?” she asked, nervously eyeing the door. Perhaps she had overestimated her beauty and the power of the passion they had shared.
“For betraying me into Don Alonso's âcare'?”
“Let's not dwell on the past,” she purred. “I shall help you to escape.”
Morgan looked up at her, tossed a well-gnawed chicken quarter aside, wiped his hands on his filthy shirt and crossed around the table to stand before the woman at the hearth. She smelled of rosewater, her lustrous black hair spilled over her bare shoulders. He reached up and brushed the tresses away from the swell of her breasts, her soft flesh barely concealed beneath a cream-colored silk bodice. Then his hands closed round her throat. She did not cry out. He pulled her to him, crushed her lips with his in a bruising kiss. Then he released her. She staggered back a step, wrinkling her nose at his sodden stench, her shoulders bruised by his rough embrace.
He laughed at her discomfort. “One gets used to the smell,” he said, “the perfume of slavery.” He returned to the table. No matter what, Morgan intended to leave this room with a full belly. He tore another roasted hen in half. “So, now you will save me, eh?”
“Yes. And all I ask in return is one small favor.”
“Very well, my lady, and what must I do for you in return?”
“Kill the governor.”
Morgan's eyes widened. “Your husband?”
“Not yet. But soon. We will be married a week from today in the Cathedral de Santa Maria. That night, Major Barba will bring you to this garden house. He will provide you with weapons, a uniform, everything you need.” Elena Maria sat in the chair before the fire and focused on the dancing flames, a miniature vision of hell. All that was needed were the poor souls in torment.
She had suffered enoughâthe loss of her father, a marriage of convenience
to establish her ties to the Spanish courtâbut she would not lose her birthright to any man. “Don Alonso wishes to return to my father's house on our wedding night. Gilberto will bring you to the rear entrance. I will bring Don Alonso to the garden house when we arrive. I shall remind him of the bed and my desire to consummate our union apart from the house and the servants. He will be anxious to please me. Wait for us here. And kill him when he enters.”
to establish her ties to the Spanish courtâbut she would not lose her birthright to any man. “Don Alonso wishes to return to my father's house on our wedding night. Gilberto will bring you to the rear entrance. I will bring Don Alonso to the garden house when we arrive. I shall remind him of the bed and my desire to consummate our union apart from the house and the servants. He will be anxious to please me. Wait for us here. And kill him when he enters.”
“With gun or knife?”
“With whatever it takesâboth, if you must. No doubt he will be unarmed. I can see to that. You can count on me.”
“Of that I am certain. And then what? There will be patrols searching for me once he is discovered.”
“Most of the troops are garrisoned in the forts. By the time they have been brought over to the city you will be beyond their grasp. Gilberto will take you to the waterfront and place you aboard the
Castille
, a bark that I shall dispatch to the Caribbean. It will sail with the dawn wind. I will personally guarantee your safe passage around the cape to Jamaica. I won't raise an alarm until the
Castille
has sailed. You see, we can both have our freedom.”
Castille
, a bark that I shall dispatch to the Caribbean. It will sail with the dawn wind. I will personally guarantee your safe passage around the cape to Jamaica. I won't raise an alarm until the
Castille
has sailed. You see, we can both have our freedom.”
“You will be Dona Elena Maria de Saucedo del Alonso, a woman of wealth and title,” Morgan remarked coolly.
“A woman blessed with independence. A rare thing in a world that favors men.”
“And yet, for all your struggles, I don't think you will ever be free. To steal the wind, to call the thunder, to stand before the breaking dawn and watch the sun rise golden over the edge of the world like the eye of God Almighty and know you can go anywhere and be anything you wish, if only you have the courage to dare the devil.”
“Will you do it?” Elena Maria squirmed impatiently. “One day the governor will grow weary of his sport and the noose will tighten around your neck for the last time.”
“You planned this. From that first night in Maracaibo. You played us all like cards and charted my course to this very moment.”
“Will you kill my husband?” she repeated.
“Yes.”
Elena Maria appeared visibly relieved. “You must remain with the prisoners. But the major assures me you will not be mistreated. And there will be extra food. I do not want you to become weak or infirm.”
“You are most kind.” Morgan quietly watched her, noticing how the firelight flickered and danced upon her sultry countenance, concealing
her face in patterns of shadow and light. Even now, Elena stirred him; knowing she was poison, he was still tempted. They stared at one another in uncomfortable silenceâthey might have been two people who had woke from a night of passion to find themselves standing on opposite shores, surprised to discover an ocean lay between them.
her face in patterns of shadow and light. Even now, Elena stirred him; knowing she was poison, he was still tempted. They stared at one another in uncomfortable silenceâthey might have been two people who had woke from a night of passion to find themselves standing on opposite shores, surprised to discover an ocean lay between them.
Elena Maria called out, “Gilberto.” The rotund officer immediately entered the room. He frowned at Morgan's proximity to Doña Elena. But she did not seem any worse off. Barba grudgingly appraised Morgan, the officer absentmindedly twirling the tips of the thick moustache covering his upper lip. The buccaneer had lost some weight, but his gray eyes were clear and bold, and there remained an aura of danger. “Return Señor Morgan to the compound,” the woman said.
Morgan, on hearing his name, shoved another half of chicken inside his shirt and started toward the door. On impulse, he altered his course, brushed past the major, made his way to the woman's side, moved in close, leaned over the chair and whispered in her ear.
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