Jack Iron (21 page)

“Accepted, Lieutenant,” said Laffite, shifting in his seat. Apologies made him uncomfortable. “I admire your courage. You came along even though you suspected I might turn on you and slit your gullet at any time.” He laughed. “Oh, but I would like to have seen Cesar’s face when he scratched those ingots and the paint came off beneath his fingernail.” Laffite pursed his lips and ran a hand across his stubbled cheeks. He intended to find time to shave before encountering Navarre again. It wasn’t like the buccaneer to be anything less than fastidious. “Well, now. Let’s see what kind of sea rover you really are, McQueen. How would you suggest we go about dealing with the likes of Orturo Navarre and saving your fair Raven O’Keefe?”

“I’ll think on it,” said Kit. Much to the surprise of the men gathered in Bragg’s private quarters, he turned on his heels, ambled from the back room, and quietly passed the tables and the tavern’s slumbering patrons. He strode to the front door and out into the night, where he halted at the edge of Market Square and looked up at the well-fortified governor’s palace on the hill overlooking the town. His mind had already begun to formulate a plan. It tore his heart to watch those moonlit walls and be powerless to reach the woman he loved.

Then an anger came upon him, and a cold fury, more terrible than ever he had experienced in his thirty years, left him trembling. First Obregon’s rash misdeeds and now Orturo Navarre’s foul treachery… one betrayal leading to another. How much was he supposed to take? Did they think him of so little consequence, these brigands of the Antilles? A plan… Yes, indeed. He knew how it must be done. The scheme involved fire and blood and retribution worthy of the Old Testament. To hell with getting mad. It was time to get even.

T
HE NIGHTMARE HAD HIM
. It began soft, then parted like silken curtains, ruffled by the wind, un-threatening, at first only to reveal the horror. The horror! An explosion rocked the
Windthrift.
“We’re being fired upon from shore! Another image, summoned by the dream, materialized this time without the explosions. Raven waited alone with Obregon in his cabin. For six long weeks she had been a pampered prisoner aboard the
Windthrift.
He had respected her privacy and refrained from forcing himself upon her, and had gone so far as to express his love. Her reply was always the same: “Take me back, then. Return to New Orleans.” Obregon’s refrain never changed. Raven would learn to love him. Natividad was her home and she would love him in time… The image dissolved into fire and blood and the cries of the wounded. Once more Obregon relived the shame of his surrender and watched in his mind’s eye as his crew lowered the flag. He had never surrendered before, but the presence of Raven and the boy aboard his vessel left him no choice. A rogue he might be, a thief and a sea raider, yes again, but Captain Cesar Obregon would never knowingly place a woman or child in jeopardy. So the
Windthrift
struck its colors and the Hawk became a prisoner in his island home.

Johnny Fuller nudged him awake.

“Captain Obregon… you been hollering something fierce,” the dirty-faced eight-year-old said. There was the look of age in his green eyes. But then, he had seen things.

Cesar Obregon opened his eyes and looked directly up at the soles of Honeyboy Biggs’s worn boots. The irascible old cannoneer dangled from the stout limb of an oak tree that overhung the pit in which Obregon and the boy were imprisoned. Obregon struggled to his feet, dusted off his ragged shirt, and lowered his gaze. The sight of poor Biggs made him sick at heart and yearn for vengeance. He slammed his fist into the walls of the pit. Sixteen feet above him, none other than the Cayman himself peered over the lip and down at his prisoners. A stormy-looking sunrise provided a drab backdrop for Navarre as he grinned at Obregon.

“You slept well, my friend,” said the Carib half-breed.

“Go to hell,” Obregon snapped. His voice was a dry rasp. Navarre had ordered his pit guards to withhold water from the Cayman’s captives. If hanging Biggs hadn’t loosened the Castilian’s tongue, perhaps watching the boy die of thirst would inspire Obregon to reveal the whereabouts of his ill-gotten gains. Rumor had it that Navarre had a fortune hidden somewhere on the island, and Obregon intended to have it.

“You do not sound cooperative today. How unfortunate,” Navarre replied. He drew his cutlass and poked Biggs’s corpse and set it swinging to and fro over the pit. The rope creaked where it came in contact with the gray bark. Biggs’s hands had been tied behind his back. His head was twisted now at a garish angle, his features mottled, eyes blank with death’s sightless stare. He was beyond harm and pain, but the indignity of his death and the treatment he continued to receive cut Obregon to the quick. Navarre sensed this and chuckled. “We had visitors. None other than Captain Jean Laffite. He brought some American lieutenant with him. They were looking for you.”

Obregon fought back any display of emotion. Laffite and McQueen here! No doubt they came looking for blood. No matter, either man or both would be better than Navarre. And wait till I tell Jean about the lead ingots and Jackson’s ploy, thought Obregon. We’ll return to New Orleans and plunder Jackson’s coffers…

Navarre nudged a clump of dirt and sent it tumbling down on Johnny, who took up a different position below. The hole in the ground was no more than ten feet across, but he managed to avoid the loose earth. He knelt and scooped up a dirt clod and launched it at his tormentor. Navarre had to quickly duck to avoid being beaned. As it was, the clod sailed over the edge of the pit and struck NKenai in the neck. The African scowled and retreated out of harm’s way.

“Well done, young one.” Obregon chuckled. “Would that it had been one of my knives. With Laffite here, we have a chance.”

“And if Kit has arrived, I’ll warrant Chief Iron Hand can’t be far behind,” Johnny exclaimed.

“I entertained your friends and sent them on their way,” Navarre’s voice drifted down to them. “They were none the wiser.” His grim visage appeared again. “Just tell me what I want to know and I’ll set you and the rest of your mates free.”

“Very well, climb down here and let me whisper it in your ear,” Obregon retorted, inviting the brigand to come within arm’s length. His fists opened and closed. If he could only get his hands on the Cayman for just one brief moment… “You’ll kill us no matter what I say. I’d sooner trust the sun not to burn than the likes of you!” A raindrop spattered against his cheek followed by several more droplets, and then a fine misting rain commenced. Obregon opened his mouth in gratitude. Nature had at least taken their side. They wouldn’t die of thirst today.

“I’ll have my reckoning with you, Orturo Navarre. I swear it. As God is my witness.” But the news of Laffite’s departure was a disheartening blow.

The Cayman only laughed. Men had threatened him before. “The Hawk screeches. But I have pulled your talons. You cannot stand against me. Before I am finished, you will welcome death.” Rain formed rivulets across his shaved skull and dripped from his cheekbones. “Do you think me cruel? Mercy is for ordinary men.” He fixed his stone-eyed stare at Johnny Fuller. The eight-year-old shrank back against Obregon. He was frightened. But he held another clod of hard earth and wasn’t about to be taken without a fight. “Little one. Be brave. For the days to come will test your courage. I think I will cut off parts of your body and make you eat them.” He glanced at Obregon. “Now do you see? You will tell me everything. Everything. In time.”

Navarre straightened and issued orders for two of the guards he had stationed to remain at the pit. The brigands, neither of whom appreciated being left behind in the rain, dutifully took up their stations while four of their companions returned to the makeshift shelter they had erected out of ship’s canvas, felling several saplings for support.

Navarre made his way out of the clearing and started back down the winding trail that would return him to the governor’s palace. The path followed a natural incline, for Navarre had selected a site in a ravine between two hills well back of Morgan Town. The farmland was located further to the north, where broader gaps in the hills allowed longer periods of sunlight and the fertile soil coughed up fewer rocks with the passing seasons.

The pirate could have ridden a horse, but he did not trust the beasts and preferred to move along under his own power. NKenai’s feet hurt, but he did not complain and fell in alongside the Cayman. Both men continued on through the misting rain. Navarre was strangely silent, wrapped in the mystery of his own thoughts, his mood darkening. He became increasingly gloomy the further from the pit they traveled. NKenai remembered earlier in the morning, when he had first brought news that Laffite was preparing to depart and had already dispatched most of his crew to the
Malice.
Even then, Navarre had appeared troubled. The African wondered if the captive Choctaw woman might be the cause, but he kept his questions to himself. Navarre was an intensely private man and did not welcome scrutiny. And yet, NKenai was worried. He glanced over his shoulder at the dozen well-armed brigands making up Navarre’s personal guard. The escort was far enough behind the Cayman for NKenai to speak without them overhearing.

“Captain Navarre,
tafadhali mnisamehe
, please forgive me. But I sense you are troubled. As your loyal servant I ask if there is something I may do.” NKenai lowered his gaze to the bone-handled guns jutting from Navarre’s belt. The Cayman was dressed in a deep purple waistcoat that had begun to glisten with raindrops. Wet fronds whipped Navarre’s black trousers and clutched at his ruffled shirt, but his guns were dry and shielded from the elements by his coat flaps. NKenai was prepared to bolt behind the nearest tree if Navarre reached for his guns.

“Troubled?” Navarre asked, as if the word were utterly foreign to his ears. His hand drifted up to his chest and he began to subtly rub his breastbone. NKenai thought that an odd gesture, then decided to ignore it. The African did not want to press his luck. “Troubled, uh, no,” repeated the Cayman.

Navarre’s thoughts drifted back through the morning hours when he had woken to a woman’s voice singing softly in a language he did not understand and found that Raven had not only recovered from the dream tea, but had left his bedside as the sun attempted to rise through the lowering clouds. Chanting filled the room. Orturo Navarre recognized that magic was being made and his flesh turned cold at the sound, for despite his civilized trappings he had a primitive’s innate dread of things supernatural.

He found the half-breed woman crouched naked before the hearth. Her coppery flesh was streaked with a mixture of soot and blood. She had gouged the palms of her hands on a jagged outcropping of stone just above the mantle, smearing her life’s fluid in snakelike designs over her chest and belly. Her rounded breasts were caked with crimson-coated ashes.

Navarre was appalled to find that Raven had marked him with the same mixture of her own blood and ashes while he slept, undisturbed by her touch, tracing the mark of the serpent from his chest to his loins. As she chanted, a look of triumph lit her features. Navarre scrambled off the bed and attempted to rub the “snake” from his chest. It was Raven’s turn to laugh.

“Witch woman… what have you done?” Navarre blurted out.

“You will discover for yourself soon enough,” she replied. “When your loins wither and courage fails and pain comes, then you will know. For you have dishonored me and there is a price to be paid.” Raven stood before him, unabashed by her nakedness. She advanced on the pirate and leveled a finger at him, tracing in the air the mark of the snake. “The serpent is within you. It is your death. And you cannot escape. For I am Raven, Medicine Woman of the Choctaw, and the spirits of those who have gone before call me by name. The destroyer hears my voice and calls me by name. The soul stealer hears my voice and calls me by name.”

“Conjure woman… this has cost you your life!” Navarre continued to paw at his flesh, smearing the design but failing to remove it from his skin.

“What will you do, strike me down? Go ahead.” Raven opened her arms, leaving herself vulnerable to the brigand, even inviting his attack. “Touch me and awaken the serpent and die in agony! Cut short what life you have left.” She stepped toward him. Navarre retreated toward the door, grabbing up his clothes in the process. His full-blown hatred of the woman was far outweighed by his dread of what she represented. He would have gladly struck her down, but not at the cost of his life. By the time his hand touched the door latch, his abdomen had begun to ache and he wondered if the serpent had indeed awakened.

He wondered still.

Making his way back from the pit, Navarre paused, pain returning as he stood in the center of the brush-lined trail. In his thoughts, he cursed his own weakness, the lust that had lured him to the conjure woman’s bed. The sooner he was rid of her, the better. He wanted her off the island. But he wasn’t prepared to sail to Cuba to sell her to some Spanish grandee. Then he thought of Artemus Callaghan. Of course. Make the slave trader a gift of the woman. Ah, but the Carolinan might suspect a ruse. Well, then, sell him all of the women, Raven among them. There would be other women for Navarre to groom for his private markets. The loss of the gold they would bring was a small price to pay to be rid of the Choctaw breed.

Tomorrow, then. Callaghan was departing and Raven with him. And until she was safely aboard the slave trader’s brig, Orturo Navarre resolved to keep his distance.

“My captain,” said NKenai, his ebony features glistening with moisture. “We must hurry. The rain…”

Navarre glanced about and wondered how long he had been standing in the middle of the path, lost in his thoughts while the rain increased in intensity. A regular cloudburst was upon them now. He tilted his head and allowed the rain to wash his leathery features, and felt the pain lessen. The serpent was sleeping. The Cayman breathed a sigh of relief and quickened his pace, forcing NKenai and his detachment of well-armed bodyguards to hurry if they wanted to keep pace with their fierce-looking captain.