The Red Ripper (31 page)
Authors: Kerry Newcomb
He slumped back amid his brethren. In the darkness back toward the stern, poor delirious Hiram James cried out for his sister. The hallucinations shifted: he called out for men to join him at the topgallants, he shouted
for his comrades to cut away the sailcloth. “Watch yourselves, lads, they're using chain.” His breathing grew more labored then rattled deep in his throat and ceased altogether.
for his comrades to cut away the sailcloth. “Watch yourselves, lads, they're using chain.” His breathing grew more labored then rattled deep in his throat and ceased altogether.
“It's all over,” someone called out.
“Good for him,” Pierre Voisin disconsolately replied. “Should we grieve?
Je ne sais pas.
Why? At least he's free. Hell can be no worse.” In the silence that followed the Frenchman's benediction, the buccaneers gloomily pondered the fate that awaited them all. In sharp contrast to their mood, the revel above continued unabated. The guards were celebrating as if there were no tomorrow. A scar-faced Spanish sergeant knelt upon the grate overhead, his bulk blocking out the pale moonlight appearing through the tattered clouds. Manuel Salas dragged his pewter tankard across the iron screen, taking care to spill some of the rum. Why not? There was plenty. He enjoyed taunting the prisoners. Animals like these were a constant threat to Spain's colonies in the New World. They deserved to suffer.
Je ne sais pas.
Why? At least he's free. Hell can be no worse.” In the silence that followed the Frenchman's benediction, the buccaneers gloomily pondered the fate that awaited them all. In sharp contrast to their mood, the revel above continued unabated. The guards were celebrating as if there were no tomorrow. A scar-faced Spanish sergeant knelt upon the grate overhead, his bulk blocking out the pale moonlight appearing through the tattered clouds. Manuel Salas dragged his pewter tankard across the iron screen, taking care to spill some of the rum. Why not? There was plenty. He enjoyed taunting the prisoners. Animals like these were a constant threat to Spain's colonies in the New World. They deserved to suffer.
“What say you, thieves, murderers, you sons of bitches? The rum is sweet as mother's milk. Are you thirsty, my pretties?” One of the whores joined the sergeant and began to pull on his coat. She was a round, heavyset mulatto, wide-eyed and unsteady on her feet. Salas whispered in her ear. The mulatto nodded and laughed, raised her skirt and presented herself to the prisoners. “Feast your eyes,” roared Salas. “For you'll never again enjoy a woman's favor.” The sergeant grabbed her ample derriere, turned her about and buried his scarred face beneath the woman's rumpled skirts. The mulatto squealed in delight and rose up on her toes. A few moments later the guard freed himself from her coffee-colored thighs and struggled to his feet. The curses rising from below amused him. He emptied the contents of the tankard onto the upturned faces. “Here you soulless
scum, you
boucaniers.
Drink. Drink.” Beneath the grate, several of the freebooters surged forward, struggling to place themselves beneath the trickle of rum. William Jolly bullied his way through the men, with Israel Goodenough and the Frenchman, Voisin, at his side. Sir William put an end to the altercation before it spread throughout the gundeck.
scum, you
boucaniers.
Drink. Drink.” Beneath the grate, several of the freebooters surged forward, struggling to place themselves beneath the trickle of rum. William Jolly bullied his way through the men, with Israel Goodenough and the Frenchman, Voisin, at his side. Sir William put an end to the altercation before it spread throughout the gundeck.
“What is this? Shall we give this jackal the satisfaction of watching us kill one another for a few drops of grog?!”
The prisoners surrounding Jolly grudgingly retreated, chains rattling as they shuffled back to their places. Salas hurled the tankard against the iron grate, cursed the physician in the darkness below and, grabbing the whore in his rough embrace, dragged her out of sight. Jolly and the others could hear him laughing above the din of his companions. Elsewhere on the deck a pistol shot rang out, followed by another. In celebration ⦠?
A few moments later the whore began to scream. The prisoners assumed she was being brutally taken by her paramour. Indeed, there wasn't a guard who seemed to be anything less than mean and dangerous. Suddenly Sergeant Salas landed facedown and covered the grate with his body.
“Has this bastard no shame?” said Israel Goodenough. “Will he go a'romping in bushy park right above us?” Droplets of moisture spattered into the hold.
“More rum,” Israel muttered, catching a few droplets on his fingertips. Then he sniffed his fingers and stepped back from the spreading stain. “Blood?” The mulatto continued to scream as she ran across the deck and vaulted over the side of the ship. A mouthful of salt water stilled her cries.
William Jolly dipped his fingers in the moisture and nodded in confirmation. Now one and all recognized the unmistakable clatter of steel on steel. Bootheels
drummed across the deck. A door slammed back on its hinges. A musket discharged. The commotion on deck intensified as the guards scrambled about. Someone cried out,
“Quien viené?!”
There were growls and groans, a cry of pain and a litany of curses, all in Spanish. Someone cried out in agony, his voice trailed off. The other prostitutes attempted to raise the alarm but the women were obviously frightened and desperate to be off the prison ship. This far out in the bay there was no one to hear them scream. Even a pistol shot failed to rouse the garrison ashore.
drummed across the deck. A door slammed back on its hinges. A musket discharged. The commotion on deck intensified as the guards scrambled about. Someone cried out,
“Quien viené?!”
There were growls and groans, a cry of pain and a litany of curses, all in Spanish. Someone cried out in agony, his voice trailed off. The other prostitutes attempted to raise the alarm but the women were obviously frightened and desperate to be off the prison ship. This far out in the bay there was no one to hear them scream. Even a pistol shot failed to rouse the garrison ashore.
“Sacre bleu.
What is happening?” Voisin muttered, echoing the concern of every man. He blessed himself.
What is happening?” Voisin muttered, echoing the concern of every man. He blessed himself.
Jolly shrugged. “Sounds like hell's come to the dance.” He shook his head, stroked his broad rough chin, and moved to the steps leading up to the quarterdeck. The melee raged on. Another guard collapsed, moaning and writhing on the deck until he gagged and died. His companions lost heart and followed the prostitutes over the side of the boat. Their voices grew distant as they splashed and pawed the water, exhorting one another to swim for shore.
Then silence. The seconds crept past. They heard the pad of bare feet upon the quarterdeck as someone made their way past the grate. Upturned eyes followed the sound as it passed overhead then leveled toward the door at the head of the steps leading up from the gundeck. The iron bolt on the outside of the door shrieked like a banshee as it slid back. Next, the iron hinges offered protest as the door swung open and crashed against the deck. A wiry-looking figure outlined in silvery light appeared on the top step, then started down into the foul chamber. The slave moved with catlike grace; as if stalking prey, watchful ⦠dangerous and ready to lash out. William Jolly squinted and rubbed his eyes. The stranger on the top steps brandished a wicked-looking cane-cutter
in one hand, a ring of iron keys in the other. He was clad in torn breeches, damp and clinging to his powerful thighs from the long swim from shore. His torso was burned dark, his belly lean and corded with muscle. The collective gaze of the prisoners focused on the ring of iron keys dangling from the stranger's fingers.
in one hand, a ring of iron keys in the other. He was clad in torn breeches, damp and clinging to his powerful thighs from the long swim from shore. His torso was burned dark, his belly lean and corded with muscle. The collective gaze of the prisoners focused on the ring of iron keys dangling from the stranger's fingers.
“I intend to steal this ship,” said the man on the steps. He looked to be no more than twenty, young and untried but resolute; he spoke softly, but with conviction, saying exactly what he meant. His gray eyes, tempered like the raw steel of the cruel blade in his fist, cast a spell over this collection of sea rogues. “I shall need a crew.”
“Where are the guards?” Israel called out, voicing a question on everyone's mind.
“Some took their chances in the bay. The others ⦔ The man on the steps raised his cane-cutter, its hooked blade spattered crimson.
“Who's with you?” another of the freebooters asked suspiciously. “You expect us to believe a jackanapes like yourself captured the
Dolorosa
on your lonesome?”
Dolorosa
on your lonesome?”
“Believe what you see,” the stranger on the steps replied. Without further explanation, he tossed the keys into the hold. William Jolly made a perfect catch and with trembling hands began to fumble at the padlocks chaining the men to the deck underfoot. At last the ankle clamps fell away and he kicked free of the shackles and passed the keys to the outstretched hands of his companions. Jolly advanced on their benefactor, his great bulk looming over the younger man. This escaped slave was a sight, standing there half-naked, bleeding from several nasty-looking cuts, his shaggy shoulder-length brown hair framing his careworn featuresâfor it was in the hard-edged lines of his face that slavery had marked him the most.
But the young man had single-handedly vanquished the Spaniards, taken the prison ship for his prize, and
freed Jolly and his shipmates, one and all. The physician felt the breath of fate tickle his ear. Sir William was standing at the crossroads of all that had gone before, aware that his next decision determined the rest of his life, for better or ill. One thing he suspected: there would be no lack of adventure with this young man.
freed Jolly and his shipmates, one and all. The physician felt the breath of fate tickle his ear. Sir William was standing at the crossroads of all that had gone before, aware that his next decision determined the rest of his life, for better or ill. One thing he suspected: there would be no lack of adventure with this young man.
“By heaven, I'll serve with you. Never let it be said William Jolly forgets a good deed done his way.”
“Aye, we're with you,” Israel Goodenough exclaimed, rubbing his chafed limbs. He was grateful for a second chance. The newly freed buccaneers surged toward the steps. Jolly halted them with a wave of his hand.
“Lads, here be your captain. What say you?”
“Mais oui.
I will follow the devil himself if he leads to freedom!” shouted Voisin. And the rough lot joined in with one accord, accepting the physician's decision to give their young benefactor a chance. He had proved a match for the Spaniards, whether he could fly the Black Flag and survive this unruly lot, only time would tell.
I will follow the devil himself if he leads to freedom!” shouted Voisin. And the rough lot joined in with one accord, accepting the physician's decision to give their young benefactor a chance. He had proved a match for the Spaniards, whether he could fly the Black Flag and survive this unruly lot, only time would tell.
The stranger nodded and led the way up into the night air. William Jolly fell into step alongside the younger man. “Tell me, uh, Cap'n, what do you know of sailing a leaky bucket like this?”
“Not a damn thing,” the escaped slave retorted. “That's why I need you.” A wicked grin split his features. Once on deck, Jolly noted the dead Spaniards sprawled about the ship. Even a jaded old sea dog like himself was impressed. It was as if some terrible force of nature had swept down upon the guards and slayed them where they stood.
“Just who are you?” Sir William quietly asked, a note of unease in his tone. Their benefactor showed no regret for his actions, though he knelt and wiped his blade clean on the baggy coatsleeve of one of his victims.
“Henry Morgan.”
Jolly shrugged. The name meant nothing. “You come from plantations ashore?” asked the physician, lighting a lantern. He held up the lamp and quietly appraised his new captain by the lamp's sallow glow.
Morgan nodded. “I was taken from my village in Wales and brought here, a long ⦠long time ago.” Music and laughter and the sounds of revelry drifted across the black bay. The port was draped in lantern light and the Spanish populace danced in the streets.
“Listen to them,” Jolly said. “No one can hold a candle to a Spaniard for celebrating. And when it comes to religion, them's the saintliest sons of bitches I know, that is, when they aren't starving our poor families to death or hanging our kinsmen. Do you be a God-fearin' man, Henry Morgan?”
And for the first time Morgan smiled. But his humor was carved in ice and his storm-gray eyes narrowed and flashed.
“I shall follow only two commandments,” said Morgan. “âGet mad.'” His fierce gaze flared like a lit fuse. “âGet even.'”
Jolly shivered in the warm, humid sea breeze ruffling the square-rigged sails overhead.
Morgan experienced a flash of memory, his thoughts reached back seven years to Swansea, a settlement on the coast of Wales, a quiet little port engulfed in flames and at the mercy of Spanish raiders. In his mind's eye he watched Welsh men and boys shackled and led away to be chained in the hold of a Spanish raider and carried off to the Caribbean. The rest was a blur of servitude and grueling toil. But Henry Morgan was free now, free to seek his fortune, to roam the Spanish Main. He'd leave Santiago de Cuba far richer than he came, with a ship and a crew. And an unquenchable thirst for retribution.
“What are they celebrating?” Israel asked in a deep
voice. He approached from amidships, the tall man folding his arms across his bony chest as he paused to stare off toward shore.
voice. He approached from amidships, the tall man folding his arms across his bony chest as he paused to stare off toward shore.
Morgan's ominous reply cut quick as a cutlass, unsheathed from some secret place where the hurt ran deep. “It is the last night of peace.”
THE RED RIPPER
Copyright © 1999 by Kerry Newcomb. Excerpt from
Mad Morgan
copyright © 2000 by Kerry Newcomb.
Mad Morgan
copyright © 2000 by Kerry Newcomb.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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eISBN 9781429978712
First eBook Edition : March 2012
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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-21752
St. Martin's Press hardcover edition / June 1999
St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / August 2000
St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / August 2000
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