Mad Morgan (19 page)

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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: Mad Morgan
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Night and shadows and rain upon the shuttered windows, rain leaked in through gaps in the roof, rain blown in through the broken windows and doorless facade of the warehouse, left puddles and rivulets on the floor of the warehouse where nearly a hundred raggedy men sprawled on pallets of straw. The downpour had driven all the prisoners inside from the adjoining compound. Upon the hard clay floors they'd built fires and arranged themselves for another evening of fitful sleep. The air within this makeshift prison was thick with the stench of sweat and dirt, of woodsmoke, and the fear of desperate men for whom imprisonment was a living hell.
The sights and smells opened an old wound in Morgan's psyche. Years of plunder and piracy had failed to exorcise the demons of his youth, purge the memories of a night long ago when his world had come to an end—the night when the Spanish raiders came and attacked his Welsh village and carried him off into captivity.
He struggled in his sleep, warred with the shadows of evil on this restless night in Panama City. It was difficult to rest while bruised and lost in the confines of Panama City, with the press of the bodies around him, where hopelessness permeated every grunt and groan. Despite his every wish to the contrary, an old nightmare was reborn.
 
 
He is running for his life, his lungs burn from the effort, he is running to warn his parents and the rest of the village that a ship flying the colors of Spain has anchored just offshore, and several longboats are unloading well-armed raiding parties on the coast of Wales. Morgan's village, in the moonlight, is just ahead; in his dream he can see his father's tavern. But the harder he tries to reach the door, the more the image drifts beyond the reach of his fingertips, receding beyond his grasp. He tries to shout a warning but his voice is little more than a whisper. Then the tavern bursts into flames, and the night reverberates with gunshots and the cries of the raiders, the clash of swords, someone knocks him to the ground and the last thing he hears is the splintering of timbers and the roar of the flames. He'll awaken in the hold of a prison ship to find his world has ended. But all this happened long ago. Things are different now.
Aren't they?
 
 
A few days had passed since his mock execution before the populace of the city, time passed in a hot blur of hard labor and harsh treatment. The Spanish guards had no use for slackers, and zealously applied the whip and gun butt to each and every unfortunate soul who paused in his labors or dallied too long by the water trough. Morgan escaped the worst of it; he kept his head down, avoided eye contact, and dutifully did as he was told.
Beans and rice were the staples of life, with a chunk of gristly meat thrown in for good measure. The slaves on the waterfront worked from dawn to dusk, ferrying the cargo from the piers to the warehouses. Filing through the city streets, they passed unnoticed among the good people of Panama City, who considered these unfortunate wretches nothing more than beasts of burden or worse, mere vermin to be put to use if possible, or shipped off to the inland mines.
In the stockade, among the prisoners themselves there was a pecking order, with the city's common criminals having the most power. Drunkards, brawlers, murderers, thieves, and rapists, no matter how heinous their crimes, were loyal subjects of King Carlos at least, and shown favoritism by the guards. Henry Morgan was considered a bloodthirsty brigand akin to the devil himself and was treated accordingly. Likewise, to their captors the Africans were black-skinned heathens capable of being trained to perform the most menial of tasks. Not even the good padres came to visit. The rebellious Kuna Indians fared even worse.
During the trek from Portobello, the captive natives were continually threatened and struck with riding crops and makeshift switches. The implacable warriors of the jungle were regarded as savage brutes, responsible for the deaths and maiming of many a Spanish wayfarer crossing the isthmus. From what Morgan could gather, the plantations were always under harassment by the natives. No one was ever truly safe. Overseers and slaves were found dead in the fields. Family members had been carried off by war parties who emerged from the jungle, struck quickly, and disappeared back into the rain forest. Occasionally, a military patrol ventured into the mangrove swamps east of Panama City; some never returned.
Morgan began to gain a healthy respect for the Kuna. Despite Spain's overwhelming military presence, these inscrutable redskinned devils refused to be conquered, and continued to defy those who had stolen their lands and driven them into the deadly wilds of the Panamanian jungle. The buccaneer felt a kinship for anyone who hated the Spanish as much as he did. As far as Henry Morgan was concerned, the heathen rascals couldn't be all bad.
 
 
“Henry …”
“Let me rest, Father. Or send me dreams of roast suckling pig, fry bread, and a tankard of bay rum.”
“Rest can wait. You'll have eternal sleep if you aren't careful. You'll leave your bones here.”
“No. I shall find a way to escape. Though it will gall me to leave empty-handed.”
“Gold, you've seen it?”
“The ransom of kings. I've borne it on my back. Silks and gold ingots, jars of spices and chests of jewels and jade.”
“Blood ransom,”
cautioned the ghost.
“Blood ransom.”
“The best kind,”
Morgan muttered in his sleep.
“Henry!”
The voice reverberated in his skull. Morgan bolted awake. Perspiration trickled down his cheeks. His brown hair was slick and wet with sweat. He lay in the dark corner of the warehouse, removed from the mass of prisoners, his back to the wall and near a barred doorway.
The hour was late. The rain droned on, masking the snores of the men scattered about the lower reaches of the great room. Something had awakened him, and not just the ghost of his father. His senses reached out; instincts that his years as a privateer had honed razor-sharp
gave him an edge over most ordinary men. He waited and watched, and in the distance the thunder rolled out of the sodden sky and rippled across the city, a faint wind haunted the narrow streets and alleys and made a welcome entry through the barred entrance. Beyond a row of shops and seashore cottages with red clay tile roofs, the streets of the waterfront were tantalizingly close.
Someone splashed through a mud puddle, an unwary step that gave them away. Morgan eased over on his side, peered through a larger open entrance and spied a pair of sentries walking abreast, crossing the compound through the slanted downpour. But the soldiers weren't the menace. Morgan shifted his position, turned on his side and froze. A number of prisoners, he counted five, had risen from their crude beds across the room and begun to warily pick their way among the slaves. From what he could tell, they looked to be a dangerous pack in the faint light; he caught a glimpse of makeshift clubs and the gleam of broken bottles.
Morgan glanced around, prepared to attract the attention of the guards, only to see the gate to the compound slowly shut behind the sentries as they entered their quarters. Nothing good was going to come of this. He returned his attention to the five men. Were they coming for him? If this was another of Don Alonso's little torments, Morgan figured he'd find out the painful truth soon enough.
Three of the men were of average height and wore coarse cotton shirts and ragged knee-breeches, their hair plastered to their heads, eyes ablaze in the shimmering glare of sheet lightning that filtered in from the prison yard. The other two were men of size, one especially was a big, hulking brute with bearded features who made no effort to conceal his approach.
None of the men wore shackles. Escape was impossible. With the sea on both coasts, the mountain road continually patrolled, and all around the city the unforgiving jungle and swamps infested with serpents and alligators and the warlike Kuna, where would the prisoners escape to?
The Africans watched impassively, their dull faces turning as the Spaniards moved among them. One of the five tripped over a three-legged stool, cursed and kicked it aside, making enough noise to wake the rest of the unfortunates. Being the lone Englishman, and cast among his mortal enemies, Morgan steeled himself for what was to come. He expected no help, and was bold enough to think he didn't need any.
The five Spaniards paused, exchanged glances, muttered among themselves as if they had momentarily become lost, then resumed their progress, attempting to move with caution as men will do when they are about a dark purpose. They quietly reached the midpoint of the room and then altered their course yet again and turned away from Morgan.
If not me, then who?
the buccaneer wondered. One of the five provided the answer. The lumbering brute Morgan knew as Tonio gestured toward the last of the Kuna prisoners who had survived the march across the isthmus. The tribesman's companions had been left behind, shot dead along the military road as they attempted to escape. This prisoner alone had been recaptured alive, despite his efforts to join his comrades in death. Imprisonment was the worst punishment imaginable for one who had lived his life free beneath the jungle's canopy of the trees and the stars.
The Kuna warrior opened his eyes. Instinct warned him. His feral gaze swept across the men advancing on him. He snarled as they approached.
Morgan saw the warrior rise to a crouching position, balance on the balls of his feet, muscles poised. He was smaller than Morgan or any of the five Spaniards confronting him. And though slight of build, the warrior looked as tough as whipcord. Still, he was sorely outnumbered: none of the Africans was going to lift a hand to help him; those of his tribe who had suffered capture were either dead or had been dragged off to the mines. One last warrior remained, and like
el Tigre del Caribe
, it was rumored he had a date with the hangman.
“Si,
it is him,” one of the Spaniards muttered. “I was right. This is Kintana.”
The warrior bristled at the sound of his name on the lips of his enemies.
“I am Kintana,” he hissed in Spanish. A warrior, yes, but a man without honor because he had been taken alive.
There was a time long ago, before the deaths of his children, when he had vowed to make the Spanish oppressors who had stolen his mountains and forests and sweet flowing streams regret their deeds and tremble at the sound of his name. For two decades he had raided and burned the outlying farms, threatened the plantations, ambushed the patrols sent to apprehend him, and left the severed heads of his enemies at the city gate.
But his foray against Portobello had proved a costly blunder. Kintana
and handful of men had survived that raid, to his shame. He almost welcomed the prisoners advancing on him. Death was preferable to the dishonor he felt.
One of the five reached for him. Kintana lunged and darted under the man's grasp, took a knee in the jaw, swung, and was borne back by the press of his attackers and forced against the stone wall. A fist slammed into the side of his jaw and sent a white hot flash of searing pain behind his eyes. He bit a hand, heard a yowl, a broken bottle gouged his thigh, a section of stool cracked his shin then his shoulder blade. Kintana grunted in pain.
Tonio lifted the warrior off the floor by his throat. The smaller man kicked and struggled to break the Spaniard's hold. He drove both feet into Tonio's belly. The big man grinned and tightened his hold on the warrior's throat. Kintana clawed at the viselike grip until he drew blood.
“Bastard,” Tonio cursed as his victim continued to struggle. The other four attackers attempted to get in a blow or two.
“Wring his neck,” another of the men chuckled.
“Twist his head off,” a third called out, and began to mock Kintana by mimicking a chicken. Suddenly the man ceased his taunt, groaned, and dropped to the floor, unconscious. Morgan stepped up and clubbed big Tonio across the back of the neck. The Spaniard shook off the blow.
The other three men turned to meet this new threat. Morgan ignored them and leaped astride Tonio's back and brought his forearm across the Spaniard's throat and closed off the big man's windpipe. Tonio slammed back against the wall, driving the man on his back into the stone. Morgan held on. Tonio clawed over his shoulder, flailed wildly. His friends attempted to drag the man from his back but were sent sprawling as Kintana leaped among them, scattering his attackers. He dodged a broken bottle and, snarling like a panther, fell upon the Spaniard closest to him and slashed him open with a jagged shard of glass. The man howled and retreated, cradling his right forearm..
“Tonio!” the other two called out, unsure of themselves.
But their companion had troubles of his own. The big man, unable to draw a breath, slowly sank to his knees. Morgan, still astride Tonio, used his leverage to drive the Spaniard face-first into the hard floor. The buccaneer rolled free of his opponent and jumped to his feet as Tonio struggled to prop himself up off the floor on his knees and fists.
Morgan kicked the brute in the side of the head. The big man grunted, flopped over onto his side and stayed down.

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