Jack Iron (20 page)

Navarre chuckled softly and removed his clothes, discarding first his shirt and then his trousers. He knelt beside her on the bed. His naked chest was covered with a spiraling pattern of scars that trailed down from each shoulder to form a Y in the middle of his chest and then made a single double line to his loins. Raven knew what was coming but was powerless to resist the cayman-faced pirate. The medicine woman’s arms simply would not obey her. As Navarre lowered himself atop his captive, Raven turned to stare at the logs ablaze in the fireplace. With the last ounce of her flagging strength, she poured her whole being into that heart of fire until it consumed her sense of touch and hearing and sight, until she was one with the flames, inviolable and purified.

She did not even feel his warm breath fanning her cheek.

A log split; an ember cracked and exploded like a gunshot in the square. Kit McQueen spun, crouched, and reached for one of the fifty-caliber pistols concealed beneath his waistcoat. The Quaker’s walnut grip filled the palm of his hand. He recognized the source of the noise almost immediately and relaxed his stance.

Kit was standing at the mouth of an alley opposite the corner of the Sea Spray Tavern and well out of reach of the light seeping through the cracks in a shuttered window. His compact powerful physique remained hidden in the shadows while he studied Market Square, which at a quarter past midnight was already strewn with the unconscious crews of Callaghan’s ship and Laffite’s
Malice.
Navarre’s brigands were also represented, but not in as many numbers, which Kit found highly disconcerting. He intended to voice his concerns to Laffite.

The lieutenant had remained aloof from the festivities. He had finished his bowl of oildown, and finding a place apart from the crowd, he had nursed his flagon of jack iron, sipping occasionally and taking only enough to warm his belly. A restlessness was upon him, and once Orturo Navarre departed for the governor’s palace, Kit managed to escape NKenai’s notice and slip away from the square undetected and, along with Nate Russell and Strikes With Club, made his way down to the waterfront.

As stealthy as his Choctaw companions, Kit had avoided the Navarre’s freebooters guarding the beach and discovered for himself the cannons concealed beneath the tarpaulins lining the road above the beach. With the help of Nate and Strikes With Club, Kit made an accurate assessment of Morgan Town’s fortifications. These twelve-pounders coupled with the twenty-fours on the hillside were a lethal threat to any ship entering the harbor that Navarre might consider an enemy. Kit didn’t much care for the notion that Laffite’s schooner was completely at the mercy of the shore batteries.

Now, past midnight, Kit had returned to Market Square only to discover Laffite was nowhere to be found. Nate Russell moved up along the side of the building to stand abreast of Kit while Strikes With Club, keeping watch at the rear of the alley, rubbed his eyes and slumped wearily against the wall of the tavern. He needed sleep but doubted he was any closer to getting any. The warrior yawned and, propping his rifled musket against the broken remains of a nearby barrel, stretched his limbs. On the other hand, Nate Russell hid his fatigue. Sleep was the least of his concerns.

“I do not like this place,” said Nate. “Neither does Strikes With Club. Evil spirits walk among the living in this village. Our deaths are here if we do not leave.” Nate Russell studied the square, taking in the human detritus of the night’s celebration. Men slept where jack iron dropped them, on tables and under them, propped against one another or alone, curled near the still-crackling fire or hunched in the shadows. The snoring brigands filled the air with a guttural drone that was almost deafening.

“I’d like nothing better,” Kit replied. “But there’s something amiss here. And I must learn the truth before I quit this island.” He fell silent as the front door of the tavern creaked open and Harry Tregoning emerged from the smoky interior and stepped into the night. Kit started forward and the British marine, spying movement out of the corner of his eye, turned, startled, then breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized McQueen.

“Joshua and Jericho!” Tregoning exclaimed in a sibilant voice, and hurried across the front of the tavern. “Three times Laffite has sent me into the night looking for you. I haven’t had a moment to myself to enjoy the charm of Mr. Bragg’s Nubian ladies. And now they’re all spoke for. Taken to bed and deprived of my company while I’ve been wandering Market Square looking for you.”

“I deeply sympathize,” Kit impatiently replied.

“You lack sincerity,” Tregoning sniffed.

“You’ll lack more than that if you don’t bring me to Laffite,” Kit growled, and patted the hilt of his Arkansas toothpick.

The marine took the hint and led the way to the tavern. Nate Russell refused to follow. The proximity of the forested slopes behind the town was his security. He did not want to be confined indoors if trouble came. Nate flatly stated his intentions and retreated down the alley to join Strikes With Club. Kit couldn’t blame either of them. He was beginning to feel trapped himself.

The Sea Spray Tavern was a long, high-ceilinged space with four massive roof beams running the length of the room. Upstairs, a dimly lit hallway offered access to ten bedrooms in which sleep seldom occurred, at least during the evening hours. In the tavern below, oil lamps set in wall brackets provided most of the light. As for furniture, Bragg provided his customers with a collection of palm-wood tables flanked by bench seats. A few ladder-back chairs were strewn about the room. Despite the crowded square, the tavern itself was surprisingly free of revelers. Men were slumped forward and snoring at three of the tables. And half a dozen kittens chased a fist-sized cannonball among the tables and chairs. Every time the iron shot came to rest, one of the kittens would scamper across the floor and bat the thing and set it rolling again. Heavy-looking wine casks and barrels of ale rested on their sides in a massive frame behind a bar constructed of oak and finished with embellishments of carved driftwood inlaid with shells. Tom Bragg, the tavern’s owner, walked around the bar as Tregoning reentered with McQueen at his side. Bragg did not appear as alarmed by the lieutenant’s presence as he previously had been. A pockmarked, homely sort, Bragg’s tender side showed in the way he cradled a kitten in the crook of his right arm. A hand-carved crutch shoved underneath his left arm helped him maintain his balance as he began to tire in the late hours of night.

“Reckon the third time was the charm,” Bragg said, limping forward. His peg leg and cane rap-rap-rapped with every step. A woman’s voice drifted down from the stairway off to Kit’s left. It could have been a moan of pain or pleasure.

“NKenai’s upstairs. I sent him Ushanga and Asali. They are new arrivals and ought to keep him occupied for the remainder of the night,” Tom Bragg explained. He gestured toward a thick fold of curtains off to the right of the wine casks. “This way, Lieutenant. You know, last time I was this close to an American officer, he was trying to run me through with a pike.” Bragg didn’t finish the story. Obviously he had lived to tell the tale. Bragg muttered a few words of endearment to the calico kitten in his arm and set the tabby down on the bar. The animal circled and began to mew. He crumbled a fistful of hardboiled egg for the kitten, who immediately ceased complaining. Bragg continued along the length of the bar and limped over the splayed legs of Artemus Callaghan’s first mate, a well-fed-looking seaman rendered unconscious by the powerful brews concocted by Bragg. “There’s some that say if the devil had my rum punch, he wouldn’t need Hell,” said the peg-legged tavernkeeper. He snorted and cleared his throat and swallowed some phlegm, then wiped his mouth on his apron. His loose-fitting shirt was stained with tobacco and spilled wine. Stepping up to the curtains, he lifted a fold and held it back to reveal a door the color of seaweed but faded and needing a fresh coat of paint. Kit glanced at Tregoning, who nodded reassuringly, and then tried the latch. Nothing had prepared him for the scene he found beyond the green door.

Three men were seated about a large square table dominating the center of the room. Judging by the brass-frame bed against the far wall and a rolltop writing desk off to the right, Bragg called this room home.

Jean Laffite rested his elbows on the table and clapped his hands together. “At last… our elusive young lieutenant!” he exclaimed. The fastidiously dressed buccaneer picked his clay pipe off the table and lit the tobacco in the bowl from a nearby candle. Soon, bluish gray clouds of aromatic smoke curled upward to the rafters.

“Lordee, Kit. Where’ve you been? We figured the ground must have swallowed you up,” said Iron Hand O’Keefe, seated next to the Baratarian. Kit had expected to find the Irishman blind drunk by now. McQueen was happy to have misjudged him. But it was the third man that held Kit’s interest. Here was a gaunt-looking individual dressed in the garb of a freebooter, baggy trousers tucked into buckled boots, and a shirt that a man twice his size could have worn. The stranger held a tankard of hot buttered rum in his veined bony hands. His eyes, both bright and alert, were set in a vaguely familiar face. It took a moment, but Kit recognized the brigand as none other than Father Bernal.

“We have not formally met. I am Father Albert Bernal,” said the priest. “I must apologize for avoiding you earlier, but Navarre… ah… always Navarre. I run from him like a tody from a yellow snake.” The priest lifted the tankard to his lips. “Then an angel whispered to me, in the darkness of my church, and told me that there are times when prayer is not enough. Action is called for.” The priest finished the last of the rum and set the empty tankard down on the tabletop. His arthritic hands trembled as he paused, allowing Tregoning and Bragg to enter the room.

Bragg nodded to the priest, then headed for a pitcher of sorrel, a potent beverage made from cooking sorrel berries and filled a jar with both pulp and juice. The red sweet drink was usually ready for consumption after a week. Age it a month and only a fool would touch the stuff.

“I am not a brave man,” Father Bernal continued, “and have been afraid of death all my life. But there are some things worse than death. So here I am. I thought the disguise would fool the Cayman’s watchdogs.”

“You’re Navarre’s man, aren’t you?” Kit asked, glancing aside at Bragg.

“I was… till he shot my leg off,” the tavern-keeper admitted. “I took a fever after they sawed my limb. The padre here nursed me back to health. I owe him my life.” Bragg rapped his knuckles against the peg leg. “This here be the source of my conversion, mate, and that’s the truth of it.”

Kit nodded. He accepted the man’s explanation at face value. If Laffite trusted him, that was good enough for McQueen. He turned to the buccaneer. “The waterfront is lined with twelve-pounders. And the guns are constantly manned. I counted ten pieces. I’ve also been to the governor’s palace. The twenty-four-pounders are heavily protected and each boasts a six-man gun crew. Navarre is ready for trouble.”

“A fact which Cesar Obregon discovered, to his dismay,” said Laffite.

“Obregon has been here?” Kit’s hopes soared. The news hit him like a slap in the face.

“He still is,” Bragg interjected. “Like I told Cap’n Laffite, the Hawk of the Antilles came sailing into port not expecting anything but a ‘Hello’ and ‘Welcome Home.’ When the guns opened up and one of the twenty-fours put a load of shot in the
Windthrift
’s stern, Obregon hauled down his flag.” Bragg winced and began to rub his left leg where the stump fit into the peg leg. The pain would be with him all his days. “We were all surprised when he did, until we saw he had a lady aboard. It was plain to one and all the shore guns had him crossed, though he might have made it out to sea. But Obregon lowered his colors rather than risk her life.”

Kit hurried over to the tavernkeeper and caught him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. “Is she well? Answer me, sir, or by heaven I’ll—”

“Ease up, lad,” O’Keefe said in a sharp tone. His cheeks were flushed from drinking too much and the room was too damn warm, but hot or cold, drunk or sober, he was still Iron Hand, chief of the Choctaw, and Raven was still his daughter. A lost temper benefited no one, especially O’Keefe’s daughter.

As Bragg pried himself free of the lieutenant’s grasp, Father Bernal rose from the table and placed a hand on Kit’s forearm. “I have seen her, my son. Navarre holds her prisoner in the governor’s palace. As for Obregon, he and some of his shipmates are being kept in a pit a couple of hundred yards inland from the palace.”

“What about a boy?” said O’Keefe. “He’d be about eight years old…”

“Yes.” The priest nodded. “He is with Obregon. I tried to bring them the sacraments but was turned back. There’s always a number of guards stationed nearby. The rest of the
Windthrift
’s crew were taken to Obregon’s cove on the east shore. Navarre is using them to build shelter to house the slaves that have been brought to the island.”

“The devil take Obregon. Let’s get Raven,” Kit said, pulling away from the priest. Even as he spoke the words, he knew how futile they seemed. The palace was nothing less than a heavily guarded fortress. An all-out assault might breach the walls, but at a bloody expense. And the ruthless brigand called the Cayman might harm Raven if he suspected an attempted rescue. McQueen held up his hand in submission. “I know. It will take planning.”

Laffite chuckled. “We’ll make a freebooter of you yet.”

“I thought you’ve given up a life of piracy.”

“Oh, I have. From the day my spies reported that General Jackson was bringing a load of gold-painted lead ingots to ensure my loyalty… and I decided to fight at his side anyway. Yes, I’d say from that moment on, I was an honest man.”

Kit lowered his gaze, finding an excuse to study the floor. Old Hickory had certainly underestimated Laffite’s network of spies. No wonder the man had been such a successful smuggler.

“Lose something?” asked Laffite.

“I’m looking for a hole big enough to crawl into. Captain Laffite, I misjudged you… General Jackson, myself, all of us. I deeply regret it. You are a patriot. I can only offer my deepest apology.” This was a night of revelations, Kit thought.