In a Pirate's Debt Page 4

  Amid whoops and jostling, crew members scrambled to their assigned tasks. They stowed hammocks and sea chests at the bulwarks to help stop shot and splinters. Men quartered at the guns knocked gun ports loose from the caulking that kept out seawater, and they rigged the train tackles. The gunner checked the charges in each gun to make sure they were dry and laid out loading materials and ammunition. Men appointed as musketeers brought up small chests of muskets, pistols, and cutlasses. Aloft, the newly appointed boatswain had his small sailing crew adjust the sails to “fighting sail” so the vessel could be managed with only a few men.

  “Post colors!” Lucas trumpeted through the melee.

  “Which one, Cap’n?” a pirate yelled from the deck.

  “The Spanish, of course.” They would let the other ship think they were friendly until they drew close enough to make every shot of their cannons count.

  The blood surged through Lucas’ veins. The hope he always carried in his heart about his missing parents blossomed like a rose in a winter garden. This time the expectation seemed to have more substance. Even if disappointed again, he would rejoice that every conquered, plundered Spanish ship meant less treasure in their coffers for war and their despicable Inquisition. Surely Reverend Wentworth would agree. And he would free the poor galley slaves manning their oars. The scars on his own back from two years as a galley slave tightened.

  He turned to his ship’s boy, who had hurried up beside him. “Go warn the women to stay in the cabin, Sydney.”

  “Yessir! But can I come back and help fight?”

  “No, sir, I need you to stay with them.”

  The boy’s shoulders slumped, and his face fell.

  Bloodstone stood to attention and gave the young sailor a serious salute. “You will be their only guard.”

  Sydney straightened, returned the salute, and hurried below deck.

  Lucas turned to Thorpe. “Have the master gunner ready. I’ll give the order as soon as we get close. Right after we post our true colors.”

  His lieutenant spun on his heels and hurried below.

  In a few minutes, Lucas shouted, “Hoist the Jolly Roger!” What a shock would take place on the deck of the enemy ship, now too near to escape damage and capture. The black flag, rather than his English flag, raised such fear these days that many ships just heaved to and surrendered without firing a single shot. Lucas prayed that would be the case today.

  CHAPTER 4

  The hope of a bloodless capture turned with the Spanish ship. When the cumbersome galleon veered about to do battle, Lucas cursed the captain under his breath. As they came about, the Spaniards fired several rounds toward the Blue Heron. One hit home. Lucas and the crew near him barely escaped part of the mizzenmast crashing to the deck.

  A splinter of wood pierced Lucas’ left arm. He ignored the burning pain and shouted, “Guns away! Open up and show all our teeth. Don’t aim at the galley slave ports. Fire when I give the signal!”

  The Spanish ship sat deep in the water and right in the brigantine’s beam, clearly in the sights of all twelve guns that comprised Lucas’ larboard battery. Gunners stood with wicks soaked in saltpeter and spirits of wine, the fuses glowing red hot. Others stood ready with wadding, shot, and powder, ready to reload the moment the cannon was fired.

  “Fire!” Lucas roared across the deck. The wicks were lowered to the touchholes, igniting the charge of powder in the cannon breeches. A moment later, the guns exploded almost simultaneously.

  The deck shuddered underfoot from the heavy collision of the carriages jumping back in recoil. Choking smoke clouded back over the deck, engulfing the crew as they hauled the guns in for the reload.

  About six hundred feet away, wood splintered from smashed rails and bulkheads on the galleon. Men screamed as falling shrouds and blasted spars created bedlam on the shattered deck. One cannon, blown from its carriage, hung over the smashed remains of the gun port with its snout pointed toward the water. Smoke billowed from several places on the deck.

  When the enemy’s round blasted into the Blue Heron, Travay jumped and smothered a scream. Were they going to die?

  Mama Penn sat in a corner, her arms wrapped around herself and her eyes big and luminous. “Lord Jesus, we’s depending on you.”

  The door flew open, and Seema hurried in, followed by Sydney, who looked pale but important, if the set of his young shoulders meant anything. He slammed the door behind him and cleared his throat. His voice started as a squeak but grew stronger.

  “The Cap’n says for all ladies to stay below deck, and I’m here to guard you.” He took his stand next to the door with his pistol ready.

  Seema put her hands on her hips. “Yeah, sure, little man.” Another loud explosion rocked the floor beneath the cabin, and she put her fingers in her ears before running to drop on the cot beside Mama Penn. A low moan came from beneath her bowed head.

  “Now you don’t go worrying yo’self, girl. Mr. Thorpe told me Captain Bloodstone ain’t been defeated yet by a Spaniard, or any other enemy for that matter. The Lord’s going to protect him and us.” Mama Penn rocked to and fro. Her low prayers and praise flowed incongruously beneath the battle raging above their heads.

  Travay leaned to look out the porthole, but the fighting was on the other side of the ship, a fact for which she was most thankful. The cabin rocked with multiple explosions, and Travay screamed. Particles of dust and splinters sifted down around them from the deck above. Would the walls fall in on top of them? Smoke filled Travay’s throat, and she coughed. The sounds of running feet, shouts, and curses filled her ears. She fell on the bunk and pulled a pillow over her head. What if Captain Bloodstone did suffer his first loss? What would happen to her?

  Lucas’s stern battle countenance, which made most of his crew tremble, brightened into a tight-lipped smirk as the Blue Heron jostled around the heavier galleon, dodging its shots but getting in several from their own ports. It soon became evident the Spanish ship was no match for the smaller, more maneuverable brigantine. So much for their one hit on his deck—they would not get another.

  “Look, she’s listing, Captain. We must’ve hit one below the waterline,” a pirate cried from below.

  Finally, a white flag, hoisted above the smoke, signaled the ship’s surrender.

  The Blue Heron drew alongside, splitting the still oars of the galley. Expertly thrown grappling hooks secured the Spanish ship to the brigantine. Lucas swung over the narrow strip of sea, along with his crew, with one hand on a rope and the other on a cutlass. His men knew his rule: No unnecessary killing. Most of them would obey. But not Pitt. He slashed a Spanish sailor to the deck—then found himself face to face with Bloodstone.

  “Muster the prisoners,” Lucas commanded in a steely voice.

  With a smirk, Pitt waved his sword and rounded up the prisoners near the stern.

  Lucas stepped around bodies strewn about the smoking deck. Slippery red patches of blood made spidery patterns across the planking with every roll of the galleon. He stopped before the Spanish crew. Most of them were wounded and bleeding from injuries hastily wrapped with torn parts of uniforms. But the hard faces under the silver helmets that turned toward Lucas still blazed with bared teeth and flinty eyes.

  The conquered captain stepped forward, his nostrils flaring and his whole body at stiff attention. His once handsome Spanish uniform of red, white, and gray now showed the distress of battle with rips, burns, and splattered blood. He removed his deplumed helmet and placed it under his arm, then withdrew his sword and offered it to Lucas, hilt first. The man’s proud stare faltered and his upper lip, lined with a thin mustache, trembled. Was he thinking how a captured captain would be executed first?

  “We will not harm you or your men now that you’ve surrendered. We practice no Inquisition here.” Lucas spoke to the man in passable Castilian but was unable to keep the last words from rolling out between gritted teeth. Had his own mother and father been given the same mercy?

  The man stumbl
ed back at the tone of Lucas’ last sentence. His right hand reached for his sword, no longer there.

  Lucas tossed the confiscated weapon to Sinbad, who stood several feet away.

  The captain bowed his head and crossed himself. Some of his crew did the same.

  “Take enough men and go below to free the galley slaves and search for valuables,” Lucas shouted across the deck to Thorpe. How many would be left of all those who may have been executed or drowned during the capture? His gut rolled, knowing it was the custom of defeated Spanish ships to kill the chained slaves rather than see them freed.

  The chosen men tumbled down into the ship’s smoking belly like a pack of rats. The Spaniards cursed and moved as if to start fighting again, but swords flicked under their chins and held them at bay.

  Lucas knew his crew was in a hurry to search for treasure. And treasure they did find. They brought three ornately carved chests and deposited them with heavy thuds at his feet for later distribution. But he was more interested in the galley slaves that emerged from the bowels of the ship. Ragged, gaunt men, with hopeless lines and pallor etched across their faces, raised their arms to the sunlight and blinked watery eyes as they climbed on deck.

  An older man, gray-headed and bent with labor, stopped before Lucas. “Your men told us you are English?”

  Lucas’s heart warmed as he looked at the man. “Yes, we are English, from Charles Town. And you are no longer slaves.” He glanced at Thorpe, who also stared at the men. Would they ever forget their own terrible two years as galley prisoners?

  Pale, emaciated faces gained color as they comprehended the words. Several shouted toward Captain Bloodstone. “Thank ye, Captain, thank ye. Thank God.”

  Lucas addressed them. “You are now free from these Spanish pigs, and you are welcome to join my crew on the Blue Heron until we get to Charles Town. And there are berths on my ship in the future if you still have a taste for the sea.”

  “Charles Town?” The men smiled and nodded. One hollered, “Good, Captain. Some of us got folks there.”

  A leggy Irish lad of not more than eighteen stepped forward. “Yes, and we’ll be glad to serve you any way we can, Captain.”

  “You who were once called slaves will have no duties on my vessel for now. Enjoy your freedom and rest. Our ship’s surgeon will see to your wounds.” He grimaced as he saw the infected marks of beatings on several of the men.

  The men shouted and clapped.

  Thorpe came up beside the captain, brushing away smoke with his hand. “This ship is taking on water fast, sir.”

  They both stepped away just in time as more flames broke through the deck. “Abandon ship!” Lucas cried.

  His crew had already tied the treasure chests with strong ropes and drawn them across the water. Lucas, the freed slaves, and the Spanish prisoners, with pirates at their back, scrambled onto the Blue Heron. They watched the burning ship they’d left behind begin to sink into the sea. A great wave rocked their vessel even as they steered away as fast as possible.

  Thorpe laid his hand on Bloodstone’s shoulder as the captain turned to walk across the deck.

  “Captain, you’re wounded!”

  “It’s only a nick.”

  “Let me get the doc to look at it.”

  Lucas shook his head. “In a few minutes, Thorpe. I want to speak to the Spanish captain first, in private. Send him to me below.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The Spanish leader soon arrived at Lucas’ cabin. Thorpe ushered him in and left to guard the door.

  The man whipped off his helmet, clicked his heels together, bowed, and spoke in his native language almost too fast for Lucas to translate.

  “Capitan Pedro Juarez at your service, Capitan Bloodstone. We are grateful for the mercy you have shown us and our crew. I hope this meeting is to tell me what your plans for us are.” The man’s alert brown eyes acknowledged Lucas, then darted around the cabin. His thin, carefully trained black mustache twitched.

  Lucas swallowed the distaste in his mouth and replied alike in Castilian. “If you and your crew cooperate, I will drop you off on an island I know your ships pass on their way to the Spanish Main. With food and water, of course, enough to last you until you are rescued.”

  Captain Juarez’s eyes widened. “That is very noble for a pirate, Captain Bloodstone. Perhaps there is something I can do for you?” The man’s face hardened with anticipation.

  Did the man expect a greedy request? If so, he was in for a surprise. Lucas indicated a chair for the man and took a seat himself, trying to hide his loathing for all Spaniards and what they represented. “I want to ask you about an English vessel that one of your ships took in battle seven years ago. It sailed from Charles Town to Jamaica.”

  “Seven years is a very long time, Capitan, and we have many different crafts sailing these seas. Do you know the name of the Spanish ship?”

  “The Conquistador.”

  The man’s bearded chin jerked up, then quickly lowered. But Lucas had seen the flash of recognition. His heart ricocheted against his ribcage. Could the man know something?

  “I only want to know about the English ship they took, the King’s Lion.”

  Juarez cleared his throat. “What is your interest in that particular vessel?”

  “My mother and father were aboard.”

  The man took a deep breath. “You mean you are only trying to find out what happened to your madre y padre? That is the only information you are looking for? And for any I can give, you will set me and my crew free as you said?” He raised his dark brows and stared at Lucas.

  “Yes.”

  The Spaniard leaned back in his chair. “Your luck is unbelievable, Captain Bloodstone. It happens I was an officer on the Conquistador until about six and one-half years ago, when I was given my own ship—which, I am reminded, you just burned and sank.” He scowled.

  Lucas’ nostrils flared. His gut rolled, and bile blanketed his throat. Was he facing the murderer of his parents? Heat flushed through his body. His hand closed on the hilt of his sword.

  The Spanish captain evidently saw the change, for he stiffened and stood, groping for his own absent sword.

  Lucas took a slow, labored breath and moved his hand back to the table. He motioned for the Spaniard to be seated again. “The loss of your ship was your own fault. We gave you a chance to surrender without bloodshed. As far as what happens now, I give you my word: I will not harm you or your crew if you cooperate. I want information.”

  The captain sat, his back stiff. “Information about your madre y padre?”

  Lucas nodded. “Do you remember an older learned gentleman and”—Lucas’ voice cracked—“a gentle woman with golden hair and the greenest eyes you might have ever seen?”

  The captain blinked. “Like yours? Yes, I think I do remember such a couple. But only because it was the last ship we took while I was an officer on the Conquistador. The gentleman—I promise you, not at our hands—died clutching his chest soon after the ship was taken. And the gentle lady, yes, I remember the hair and the eyes.” He hesitated.

  Lucas’ breath gushed from his chest. His beloved father dead, and what about his mother? He sprang up and took the captain by the neck, ignoring the pain in his injured arm. “You will tell me whatever you know or I’ll—”

  “She did not die, and no one harmed her, I swear it by la Virgen Maria,” the man croaked, his eyes bulging. Lucas removed his stiff hands from the Spaniard’s jugular, but he still stood over him, trying to recover from invisible iron fingers that clutched his own throat. My sweet mother in Spanish hands!

  “What did happen to her? Why would she have been spared? If you lie to me …” Lucas spat out, opening and closing his fists.

  The Spaniard rubbed his neck and took a ragged breath. “If I remember correctly, she admitted she had been born Catholic, and the capitan said she would make a fine governess for his young daughter.”

  A ray of hope blazed across Lucas’ heated brain.
Yes, born Catholic, but became a Protestant like his father. He had to swallow to speak. “Which captain? Tell me his name and where he was from.” Lucas sat, never taking his eyes from the captain’s.

  “El Capitán Quinton Ramondo. And all I know is we sailed from Cádiz. I don’t know where he was from, whether his family was in Spain, or whether he had an estate in the colonies like many of our titled families.” Captain Juarez twisted his neck from side to side and uttered a slight groan.

  “If you are lying to me”—Lucas leaned close to the man and ground out the words—“I’ll come after you. This time there will be no mercy.”

  The captain expelled a heavy breath. “Come now, Capitan Bloodstone, I did swear by the Blessed Virgin, did I not? And why would I not be happy to give a man any information I might have about his dear mother?” He cocked his head. “It is not likely you will sail into Spanish waters to look for her, now is it?”

  Lucas stood in dismissal, but the Spanish captain had one more query. His dark eyes glittered.

  “Please, answer me one question, Capitan Bloodstone. How do you English expect to sail with any speed when you don’t have galley slaves to push you through windless seas?”

  Lucas’ lips tightened as he thought of all the prisoners the Spanish forced at their oars with frequent beatings and little food. “We have an old proverb in England: ‘Those who sail without oars stay on good terms with the wind.”’

  The man gave Lucas a black layered look, turned on his heel, and marched to the door where Thorpe waited to escort him back to the hold.

  Long after the Spaniard left, Lucas sat staring into the gathering darkness, oblivious to the throbbing of his injured arm. His father had been a good man. Lucas had loved him dearly. How sorry he was knowing he’d never see him again until heaven.

  But his mother. Could she be alive? Hope flamed into reality. “Yes, by all that is in me, I would sail into any waters to rescue her.”

  Around sundown a few days later, Lucas stretched his bandaged arm gingerly and looked out over the blue waters of the southern sea. In a few more days, they would be in Charles Town, and it couldn’t happen soon enough. Even after he’d marooned the Spanish sailors, supplied with food and water, on a small island he knew to be in the lane of Spanish merchant ships, his brigantine was still crowded to capacity with the galley slaves he carried to freedom. His crew chafed at the bit to get somewhere they could spend their winnings, and squabbles erupted daily. Thorpe was kept busy mediating problems. Meanwhile, always just below the surface of Lucas’ mind, he found himself formulating, and discarding, plan after plan of how he would find his mother. That is, if she still lived. With each new sunrise, hope grew stronger in his breast.