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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: Mad Morgan
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“If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were running away,” said Six Toes. The squat, heavyset buccaneer sensed a chill as Morgan turned his gray eyes toward the man and fixed him in a bleak stare. “But then, of course … uh … I do know you better.”
“Portugee don't mean any harm,” Dutch Hannah spoke up. She was a thick-featured woman, born large-boned, and like Anne Bonney, Dutch Hannah was as tough as any man who sailed beneath the Black Flag. She tilted back her floppy-brimmed hat and hooked a thumb in her wide leather belt. “We stand ready to follow you against the Dons or Purselley and his lot.”
“I've a crew of fifty men who'll come running, you just give the word,” Cockade Tom Penmerry added, dabbing at his lip with a silk kerchief. He was a slim, finely dressed, foppish individual, dangerous when angered, ruthless in battle. Of the captains, only Thomas LeBishop was absent. Morgan figured the Black Cleric would be glad to be rid of him for a time. As for the others, standing in the dark among this hard lot, Morgan could think of no finer band of fallen angels with whom to cast his fate.
Penmerry's remarks elicited a murmur of agreement from the group, and each captain offered to summon their crews and oust both the English and Spanish from the island. Hands dropped to sword hilts, coat flaps pulled back from pistol grips. They were going to talk themselves into a war if he didn't stop them. Morgan held up his hand and called for them to hear him.
“No trouble now. I've already spoke my piece to Will Jolly. But here it is, aboveboard and full to the wind. Jamaica is ours and we will not be driven from it. But we can never prevail against the might of England and Spain. This truce will not last. But I shall seize this momentary peace to address the English court. I have friends there and intend to oust Sir Richard Purselley without firing a shot or turning a friend into an enemy. We can be loyal to the Crown and still be free. But we shall not kiss the hem of Spain's coat.”
“More like the seat of the Don's britches, if you ask me,” said Anne Bonney. A chorus of laughter followed her remark. Morgan passed among them, feeling the camaraderie of these wayward souls. He reached the end of the pier and climbed down into the johnnyboat where two night-shrouded figures waited at the oars, reserved and ready to ferry him out to the
Santa Rosa.
“I should be going with you,” Sir William said, restating a quarrel they had already punished themselves with.
“Stay with your daughter,” Morgan said, taking his seat at the bow. “She will have a greater need than I.”
“See here, you young roister—” the physician began.
Morgan cut him short with a wave of farewell. At his command the oarsmen leaned into their work. The johnnyboat pulled away from
the pier. Morgan continued to search the landing, hoping that at the last minute he might spy Elena Maria coming to join him, calling his name.
 
 
The oars rose and dipped beneath the ebony surface of the bay, rippling the mirrored moonlight. An ominous silence closed around them. Morgan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and tried to avoid looking at the distant hills and the brightly lit governor's house.
“Hail you there, the
Santa Rosa!”
Morgan called out, cupping his hands to his mouth and trying keep his voice from carrying across the bay to the
San Bartolomeo
at the Kingston docks. On a night as still as this, anything was possible.
No reply came forth.
“Voisin, you little thief, bring the lantern around amidships. I'll climb the Jacob's ladder.”
No answer. Nothing. Morgan didn't like this.
He glanced over his shoulder at the oarsmen. “Draw up there, lads. Something's amiss. And until I get an answer, we're close enough to suit me.”
“But not enough to suit me,” one of the oarsmen replied. Morgan recognized the voice of Thomas LeBishop, thick with menace and directly behind him. Morgan reached inside his coat for one of his pistols as he turned to confront the Black Cleric.
“Rest easy now, Captain Morgan,” LeBishop said, and cocked the blunderbuss he had just lifted from beneath his feet. He'd concealed the weapon with a swath of sackcloth. The weapon was loaded with a lethal mix of roundshot; at close range the blast would cut Morgan in half.
“Appears ‘his high and mighty' is at a loss for words,” said Peter Tregoning, revealing himself to be the other oarsman. He chuckled and tilted back his tricorn hat then put his back into the oars, his strong arms pulling them across the water to the
Santa Rosa. “El Tigre
don't look like much right now.”
“And take that hand from your coat, Henry, nice and easy now,” LeBishop ordered. “If I see anything more than your empty fingers I'll blow a hole through your backbone.”
“What are you about, Tom?” Morgan glowered, folding his arms across his chest.
“Sir Richard's business,” LeBishop replied, jabbing the business
end of the blunderbuss between Morgan's shoulder blades as he reached around to retrieve the buccaneer's brace of pistols from beneath the flaps of his coat and drop them over the side. The flintlocks disappeared—
plunk
…
plunk
—beneath the stygian surface.
“You've made some low enemies in high places, Captain Morgan,” Peter Tregoning chuckled, relieved he wouldn't have to continue the pretense. The freebooter had feared discovery back at the pier.
“Sorry, Captain, this is nothing personal,” said the Black Cleric.
“It's always personal,” Morgan said.
“No. This night, I am merely a hireling,” LeBishop continued. “You are a threat to Sir Richard. So he has arranged to have you removed from the island. I daresay he has paid me most handsomely to place you beyond the reach of English justice. Though I shall not grieve for you, it troubles me to see you end this way. You and I should have settled our differences with cutlass and ax. But I can forgo the satisfaction of spilling your entrails.”
“Then to whom has Purselley delivered me?” Morgan knew the answer even as he asked it. “Would he betray his own countryman to Spain?” The buccaneer shook his head in disgust, then looked over the side of the boat at the water, his muscles tensed as he considered his options. There weren't many.
“I don't like what you're thinking,” LeBishop said. “Don't try it. One wrong move and we'll end it right here.”
“It will end,” Morgan said. “But not the way you think, by my oath.”
Tregoning pulled in the oars as the johnnyboat scraped the side of the brig below the gunports and eased beneath the rope ladder dangling close to the waterline. Something large with skin like silver chain mail splashed in the moonlight. Mysteries lurked beneath the tides, and men's hearts. “Up that ladder,” said LeBishop. “Climb, you proper bastard. Climb.”
Morgan stood and considered leaping over the side of the johnnyboat. But he had friends aboard the
Santa Rosa
and must learn their fate. He reached up and caught hold of the first rung and hauled himself out of the boat. “Another time …” he promised, looking over his shoulder at LeBishop.
“Another place?” LeBishop finished, and waved at the ladder. “Not so. ‘It is appointed unto men, once to die …'”
Morgan heard the johnnyboat pull away as he climbed up to the ship's rail. He could feel LeBishop's blunderbuss trained on his back. Morgan scrambled up the final rungs of the rope ladder and reached
the railing without incident, then dragged himself over the side and stood, unharmed, his pulse racing as he confronted a dozen Spanish musketeers. The Spaniards trained their long-barreled muskets in his direction. The welcoming detail parted to allow Don Alonso del Campo to saunter forward and confront the buccaneer. The governor of Panama stroked his close-cropped beard with one hand; in the other he held a short-barreled pistol.
“Well now, it would seem we have a guest.”
“Where are my men?”
“I have no use for them. I have everything I came for.” He motioned for Morgan to follow him. “I am not without a charitable nature.” The musketeers closed in; one of them immediately brought out a pair of shackles. Morgan pulled back, lashed out, caught one man by the throat and hurled him aside, but another soldier clubbed him in the small of the back with the butt of his musket, knocking the wind out of him. Morgan sank to his knees, gasping. Pain shot along his lower ribs. By the time he managed to catch his breath and regain his footing, the shackles had been fastened about his ankles.
Morgan glared at the chains, reached down and tugged at them. Don Alonso's crew hurried about the deck. He saw that the sails had been unfurled and the anchor weighed. The same could be said for the
San Bartolomeo
.
Sir Richard's party was a ruse—
Morgan surmised, disgusted with himself
—designed to trick me into thinking the Spaniards were being feted by the English governor while in reality Don Alonso and his crew were preparing to leave the same day as they arrived.
“I am told you have a friend in Sir Richard Purselley,” Morgan grumbled aloud, adding the governor's name to a mental list he kept in his mind's eye.
“Well now, I think we have something in common when it comes to Sir Richard Purselley—contempt.” Don Alonso opened a snuffbox, pinched a few grains of the contents and placed them in his nose and then sneezed. The sensation evidently pleased him. “But he serves a purpose. My purpose. Now, as for your men, do they come with us or do I leave them here? They could swim to shore. The decision is yours.”
At the governor's command, Morgan was brought before his shipmates. He was relieved to see them relatively unharmed. Israel Goodenough and Pierre Voisin and the remainder of their companions staggered toward the buccaneer.
“Captain Morgan, they were on us before we knew it,” the Frenchman
said. Voisin's gritty countenance was a welcome sight in a bad circumstance.
“Mon ami,
I swear we fought them tooth and nail.”
“Let them go,” Morgan told Don Alonso. “If it is me you are after, then so be it.
“Very well.” Don Alonso nodded and barked an order to the musketeers, who fell upon the buccaneers and began to bind their wrists before forcing them over the side. Several of the men tried to resist and were bayoneted for their troubles.
Morgan was momentarily caught off guard by Don Alonso's random brutality. Men he knew and had sailed with and fought alongside lay writhing on the deck, bleeding to death; others were bound and hurled into the bay, their cries ringing on the dead of the night as they kicked and twisted and tried to keep themselves afloat, only to inevitably sink beneath the still waters. The Spaniards laughed among themselves—they enjoyed their work and were amused by the antics of the drowning men.
As the musketeers attempted to deal with Israel Goodenough, Voisin, and the last of buccaneers, Morgan broke free and despite his shackles hurled himself upon the guards with enough force to drive several of the Spaniards back against their companions.
“Israel … Pierre … over the side, you beauties!” Before the Frenchman could protest, Morgan literally shoved the little thief over the railing. Israel caught Morgan by the arm and tried to pull him along as the Spaniards descended on them. Morgan twisted free and flung himself upon the musketeers coming to the aid of their
compañeros.
“Avast, you rum-humpers! I'll slit your throats and carry off your skulls!”
His efforts bought a precious few seconds, long enough for the rest of the freebooters to leap over the side of the
Santa Rosa,
dragging Israel with them. As they splashed into the sea, Spanish musketeers swarmed over Morgan and rushed forward to fire down at the men in the water. The stench of powdersmoke filled the air.
Morgan was hoisted to his feet and dragged before the governor. Don Alonso slapped his prisoner across the face. But Morgan would not look away. He continued to stare at the Spaniard, his head unbowed.
“You vex me,” Don Alonso said. He watched his soldiers blast away at the escaping freebooters. The musketeers were excellent marksmen, but the night was dark and the black waters hindered their aim. His soldiers fired and reloaded and fired again at the desperate targets bobbing on the surface of the bay. “But no longer. I shall have no
more trouble from you,” Don Alonso replied. “We must get under way,” he said, snapping at a gruff-looking boatswain who saluted and began to harangue the crew. “Prepare the rope for
Señor
Morgan. Toss the line over the yardarm. As soon as we clear the harbor we shall have him dance for us.”
A cheer rose from the throats of the
Santa Rosa's
crew. The breeze that filled the sail tugged at the hem of Purselley's dark purple coat and ruffled his wig. Across the bay, the frigate was under way as well, the
San Bartolomeo
angled about and ran up a full complement of sails as her crew followed the
Santa Rosa
out of the bay.

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