Mad Morgan (13 page)

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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: Mad Morgan
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ingston jail was a small blockhouse that had been built on the edge of the limestone promontory during Spain's occupation of the island. The place had served as a watchtower before the advent of Port Royal, for it overlooked the turquoise sea, and from its height a man could track the approach to the bay. But no one kept vigil over the bay this night. The half dozen soldiers Captain Hastiler had left in charge to guard the prisoner in the blockhouse sprawled around a blazing campfire, enjoying cuts of fresh roast pork, sliced mangoes, and baked breadfruit washed down with bottles of fine French wine from Henry Morgan's private reserve, a cache of stolen spirits the buccaneer kept locked away in a warehouse in Port Royal.
“Guard duty ain't half bad, if you asks me,” one of the marines muttered, uncorking another bottle. “Cut me off another strip of that hog, will you, Sergeant McCready?”
A barrel-chested Scot kneeling by the spit glanced over his shoulder at the underling who had spoken, considered the request, shook his head, declining, then carved a portion of roast pork onto his own plate. “The last time I looked you had two arms and two legs, Mister Blackthaw. Serve yourself unless someone's gone and put a ‘Your Worship' after your name.”
Robert McCready finished filling his plate with half a mango, stood and started toward the blockhouse. Grease from the carcass sizzled and popped as it dripped into the fire.
“If that's for our prisoner, best save your steps,” another of the men remarked as the sergeant walked past. Ethelred Plummer was a hatchet-faced son of a fishmonger who had joined the Royal Marines to escape from the monotony of life in the tiny coastal town of Mousehole. “I checked in on him. Looks like the Captain Morgan's gone and drunk himself to sleep. There's a bottle of rum, better'n half empty, by his bed. I doubt the man will stir a lick till morning.”
McCready glanced toward the front of the blockhouse, shrugged and returned to the circle of men around the fire. The lot of them were under his command, and when out of the public eye or the scrutiny of officers, treated McCready with a degree of familiarity unthinkable in everyday life. He had risen from their ranks, several times, and twice been returned after committing some drunken offense.
“Fair enough,” Blackthaw said, holding out his hand. “Since the pirate's indisposed I'll take the plate for you, Sergeant.”
“The devil you say,” McCready replied, and speared a chunk of pork with his knife. He stuffed the morsel in his mouth and wiped the drippings on the sleeve of the coat Blackthaw had draped over the stacked muskets.
“Hey now! On my oath, Sergeant …” Blackthaw exclaimed, his bunched, homely features plainly revealing his indignation. He tried to stand and confront the Scot but the ground seemed so soft and mushy, he settled back on his buttocks and held his head. “Damn Frog wine. At least with jack iron a man can feel his drunk coming on and has the time to get ready for it. This here brew is as sneaky as a damn Maroon.”
“Them savages will steal the coins off a dead man's eyes,” another of the men remarked, and the others nodded in accord, sharing a common opinion of the Jamaican natives who had fled Spanish occupation and forged an uneasy alliance with the British.
A breeze gusted up and over the edge of the bluff, bringing with it the smells of the sea and the sound of distant drums. It was the third night in a row that the ceremonial cadence filled the summer's night, summoning the Maroons to a lonely stretch of shoreline south of Kingston below the Hellshire hills.
“Listen to them. Will they never stop?,” said Plummer.
“Aye, when the last of their blood wine's been drunk and the last of their women impregnated,” McCready said, absentmindedly passing his plate of food over into Blackthaw's outstretched hands.
The Maroons, the descendants of runaway slaves who had intermarried
with the local Caribe inhabitants, lived in the mountains in the center of the island and came down from their secreted villages to trade with the English and to renew themselves in a ceremony by the sea. Three days of chanting and ritualistic dancing and sacrifice that culminated in a frenzy of heightened copulation appeased the Elder Gods and assured the fertility of the fields, the propagation of each family, and the prosperity of the village.
“I could help them there,” another of the men spoke up. The rest chuckled. They were far from home and the Maroon women were often exotic and appealing to even the most faithful of husbands. “You've seen 'em, eh, McCready?”
“I have,” the sergeant replied. But he said no more and the men knew better than to ask. So they sat in silence, listening to the crackling embers while the drums played on. The hypnotic rhythms stirred the fire in their eyes.
The warm wind swirled about them, set the flames dancing. It gusted past the men, rattled the shutters on Morgan's prison, moaned through the chinks in the log walls, tugged at the loose shutters on the roof, and disturbed the knotted rope hanging from the upstairs window at the rear of the blockhouse … the rope down which Morgan had made good his escape.
 
 
Elena Maria could not sleep. Three days in the company of Sir Richard Purselley had nearly driven her to distraction. And now the drums, the cadence of distant fertility rights, the sighing wind, it was more than she could endure. And then there was the memory of what might have been, how the heat from Morgan's body had warmed her through her clothes there in his house by the sea, he had held her in his arms, she had wanted him, with no thought of the consequences, wanting him, and the drums … the drums …
She rose from her bed and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the front drive. The wind tugged at her dressing gown, caught the folds and lifted them from her body, sent them streaming out like vapors. It was too warm. She undid the lace bows and shrugged free of the silken cotton dressing gown and allowed it to settle around her ankles. She stepped out of the clothes and stood naked in the night, arched her back, her breasts taut as the sea breeze caressed her. She ran her fingers through the thick strands of her hair, across her naked shoulders, then outstretched her arms to the starlit sky.
She shuddered, gripped the rail until her fingers turned white and bloodless, till they cramped. And only then did she release her hold on the iron and turn back to her room and walk across the cool palm wood floor and fling herself upon the four-poster bed. Her breathing was ragged at first then gradually settled. She tried to think of Don Alonso and realized she would never feel for him the primal urges coursing through her veins this night.
But I will pretend and it will be enough
. She ran her hand across her breasts, down across her flat belly, and lower still. She closed her eyes and gave herself to distant rituals played out unseen by a people she did not know.
And then she was no longer alone.
Elena Maria gasped and opened her eyes and looked toward the window as if drawn by some force too powerful to resist. She gasped. Henry Morgan stood on the balcony, filled the doorway, stepped into her bedroom. He shrugged out of his loose-fitting shirt. She made no effort to cover herself but remained supine. He knelt on the bed, one knee, his gray eyes burning with an animal lust as they ranged her body.
“How?”
“A rolled-up blanket on the cot in the blockhouse, a makeshift rope ladder discreetly lowered from a back window,” he said. He made no mention of the horse he had stolen, the clandestine ride through the deserted streets of Kingston. None of it mattered. Only the unfinished business between them.
The sight of her took his breath away, her perfect breasts, the pink crowns like ripe berries … he lowered his mouth to her, tasted her, rolled his tongue around her flesh. She inhaled sharply, her belly concave as he nibbled between her breasts and down below her rib cage, his lips and tongue enticing every curve and nook until her body began to spasm. She cried out and dug her fingers into his back and surrendered herself to the throbbing of the drums.
Morgan rose, looked toward the door leading off into the hall, waited, listening for footsteps in the hall, heard only the throbbing drumbeats in the dark. Elena Maria, lost in the passion of the moment, helped him strip away his clothes until he stood naked. Her teeth and tongue raked his flesh until he could no longer do anything else but have her.
“Ahorita,”
she moaned.
“Ahorita!”
Then she drew him down and he covered her body with his.
And they were one.
 
 
Near midnight, two horsemen approached one another along the shore road, a U-shaped trail that led out from Port Royal and wound past Morgan's house on the hillside above the bay, swept up from the peninsula, and cut through a thicket of royal palms and a grove of coconut trees at the base of the limestone bluffs midway between the Brethren's stronghold and Kingston proper.
“No good can come of endeavors done in the dead of night,” Sir Richard muttered to himself, recalling the words his grandfather, the Earl of Shrewsbury, once had told him. But now was not the time for a man's conscience to get the better of him. If there is a snake in the garden, kill it.
Purselley shifted nervously in the saddle; the distant drums unnerved him, made him jump at shadows. He gave his saddle pistols a reassuring pat. He chose to wait on horseback and allow the other man to approach through the slanted moonlight. The governor of Jamaica took a moment to peruse the bluff, hoping to catch a glimpse of the blockhouse on the promontory, but the trees obscured the skyline. No matter. Morgan was up there, imprisoned, but still dangerous. Three days had passed since his imprisonment, such as it was. Time and patience were wearing thin. Sooner or later Sir Richard must send Morgan to England to stand trial, release him back to the Brethren, or risk an all-out uprising among the denizens of Port Royal loyal to the pirate. The two men were playing a waiting game. And up until now Morgan had had the upper hand.
The second horseman walked his mount into the clearing, drew up and quickly appraised the situation, then cautiously approached. Thomas LeBishop tilted his wide-brimmed black hat back from his features. A sea breeze ruffled the black cloak draping the man's spare frame. His lace collar and sober visage were white as bleached bones.
Something stirred near the water's edge. The thicket seemed to pulse from a chorus of tree frogs whose incessant chirruping filled the night. Palm fronds rustled in the sea breeze, accompanied by the rhythm of the eternal tides.
“Well met, Sir Richard, though I would have preferred a measure of rum or perhaps a taste of the fruits of your wine cellar.”
“The governor's house is too public a place for what I have in mind.”
“Ah, then you have not invited me for tea and biscuits,” LeBishop
chuckled. He eased back in the saddle and rested a hand upon one of the pistols in his belt. It was not a threatening gesture but the pirate thought he heard a brace of muskets answer from somewhere off in the shadows. “Speak your piece, Sir Richard. Speak lively now. There's none to hear it save the sea … and she is one mistress who can keep a secret.”
The Black Cleric had seethed with curiosity ever since one of the governor's aides had delivered Purselley's request that the two of them should meet. This most unusual hour and place had been the governor's choosing. LeBishop had no wish to experience Morgan's fate, and said as much to Purselley.
“If you intend to charge me with piracy, be warned, I shall not go quietly.”
“I have the man I want. The problem is keeping him.”
“The problem is the man.”
“I am told you have no love for Henry Morgan.”
“He casts a long shadow. It could do with some trimming.”
Purselley nodded. “Yes, I agree.” He stroked his chin, pausing to choose his words, then tugged at his waistcoat and shifted his weight.
“What else have you learned?”
“That your loyalty can be bought and there is nothing you wouldn't do for the right price.”
LeBishop chuckled. “You've been talking to my mother,” he chided. Then his humor faded and his tone grew solemn. “Every man has his price, be he lord or commoner.” And he quoted from Romans. “‘As it is written, there is none righteous, no, not one.'”
Now, with the word of the Lord out of the way, it was time to make a deal.
 
 
Elena Maria reached out and felt the warm empty space alongside her and realized she was alone in the bed. The woman rose up on one elbow, saw Henry Morgan dressed but sitting on the edge of the bed. He had been watching her sleep.
“Your pardon, señorita—by your leave, I must return to prison.” He grinned. “I'd hate for the soldiers Sir Richard has posted to keep me under guard to get into trouble on my account.”
“You are going back?” Something else was different. The drums had stopped. The ritual was at an end. “You could stay with me a while longer.”

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