Mad Morgan (21 page)

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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: Mad Morgan
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“Once I could have loved you, señorita.”
“Love?” She responded to him, despite his unkempt features. There was something wild and animalistic and dangerous that drew her to him. Unfortunately, now was hardly the time or place. He would need a bath first, a change of clothes, but even then, she had a greater need for his more-lethal talents then she did for lust. Alas, and alas. “And now, Senor?”
“Now I think you will give the governor a wedding night he will remember till the day he he dies.” He straightened, winked at the major, who gruffly escorted him from the room and out into the rain. Leaving his prisoner in the coach under guard, Barba hurried back inside. Alone with the daughter of his oldest and most trusted friend, the major could not prevail against his curiosity.
“Well, Señorita?” he said.
“He will do as I ask.”
“Ah, can anyone deny you, Elena Maria?”
“Not for long.” The señorita's coquettish smile warmed the major's heart as she made her way to his side and kissed him on the cheek. Gilberto turned red from his neck to his scalp. “It is an injustice that you should be relieved of your post as commandante and placed in charge of prisoners, simply because Don Alonso wishes to appoint his own man to that post. My father never would have allowed it.”
“Don Alonso is the governor. He can do as he wishes,” Barba grumbled.
“Not for long. Señor Morgan will see to that.”
“And what then, after Morgan has struck?”
Elena Maria touched a finger to her lips, her brow furrowed as she pondered the situation. “I think my husband's murderer ought to die while trying to escape. And you shall be the heroic officer responsible. What say you, old friend?”
“It is only justice,” the major replied. “A man should answer for his crimes.”
 
 
Barba returned his prisoner to a side gate, a small opening in the compound wall barely large enough for a man to slip through. Morgan hesitated in the rain as Barba reached out and touched his arm. The rain had stopped, though the air was heavy with moisture. Barab took no chances but kept the double-barreled pistol trained on the buccaneer.
“There is nothing I would not do for the señorita,” the major told him. “I watched her grow from infancy to the beautiful woman she has become.”
Morgan started to make a comment about what he considered to be Elena's somewhat tarnished soul, but decided to keep his opinions to himself. After all, Morgan knew what it meant to be desperate. In a way, he could not blame her. What was a woman to do but use the only weapons at her command?
“On the day of Doña Elena's wedding, every bell in every tower throughout the city will proclaim the marriage. There will be a great fiesta to honor the governor and his new bride.”
“I should like to attend.”
The major ignored the buccaneer's remarks. “When you hear the bells and night falls, make your way to this gate and wait for me. I will come for you. Take care you do not alert the other slaves.”
“Be prompt,” Morgan said. “I hate to be late to a party.” He swung about and continued on through the gate, skirting a deep puddle of muddy water. Two musketeers materialized out of the night, and unbarred and then bolted the wrought-iron door as Morgan recentered the compound. Barba leaned out of the coach. Droplets glisten along the trim of his tricorn hat as he silently studied the man in the arched little entranceway. Then Morgan surreptitiously waved and vanished from sight.
“You'll have your freedom,” Barba muttered, easing his backside onto the bench seat and closing the door. He tapped on the ceiling
and the driver touched his whip to his team of matched sorrel geldings. The coach sped away from the warehouse and prison compound with such a quick burst of speed, the major was thrown back against the seat. He cursed and held on for a rough ride.
Morgan ambled across the empty prison yard and returned to his meager straw pallet, where he stretched out and tried to digest all that had happened. Unable to rest, he propped himself against the wall and listened to the sounds of the snoring men. He wished he could sleep but his mind was racing.
Elena Maria plagued his thoughts—the smell of her hair, the taste of her lips. Then he grinned; the food wasn't bad, either. Suddenly Morgan realized he was being watched. He searched the shadows; sheet lightning shimmered, reflecting a cold blue light in the warrior's eyes. Kintana stood and stalked over to the buccaneer, then squatted as if by a campfire.
“Who are you? Why did you stand with me, Anglais?”
“Because you were outnumbered. They might have killed you.”
“We are both dead men, you and I. What does it matter when or where? You should have stayed out of it. When the rope closes off my neck, my spirit will not be able to escape. Fool Anglais. I would have chosen to die in battle.”
“But would you choose not to die at all?”
“What are you saying?” Kintana's eyes were like coals smoldering beneath the ashes of a spent fire.
“I have an idea that just may save both our lives. Or get us killed. But then, why worry? Like you said, amigo. We are dead already.”
“Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto.
“Sicut erat
in
principio, et nunc, et semper, et in
sœcula sœculorum. Amen.”
B
y the decree of el gobernador, all prisoners and slaves were allowed a day of rest in honor of the governor's marriage. For the past week, Panama City had prepared for a wonderful celebration. Don Alonso let it be known he wished one and all to share in his happiness. A great fiesta had been planned. Streets were festooned with lanterns and ribbons. Smokehouses were raided and supplies of smoked ham and sausage and
cabrito
were confiscated; kitchens were put to good use and the cooks within saddled with countless demands for pies and custards and breads, and immense iron pots of stews.
On the morning of the wedding, while the governor and the nobles crowded the Cathedral de Santa Maria, a mass execution of chickens was under way to provide platters of roasted hens for the afternoon feasting. Planters and their families had drifted in from outlying farms and mining estates to partake in the festivities, curry the favor of the new governor, and to laud the wedding of Elena Maria de Saucedo.
“Otende nobis, Domine, misericordiam tuam.
“Et salutare tuum da nobis.
“Domine, exaudi orationem meam.
“Et clamor meus ad to veniat.”
The celebrant, Father Estéban Pinzón, sneaked a surreptitious peek at the bowed heads of the congregation that filled the Cathedral de Santa Maria. He was the shepherd and they were his flock, the bright and beautiful, these families of wealth and station,
criollos
, citizens of the New World who a lifetime ago came with their slaves and their empty ships, to claim the land, dig the hills and mountains, reap fortunes, and found dynasties on the backs of the native tribes.
Father Estéban knew it was the plunder of a dozen kingdoms—gold, silver, rare woods, coffee, and cacao—that built Panama City. But the lure of wealth also brought the message of Christianity and salvation to the heathens, and saving souls for Christ was a good thing. So the priest had chosen not to concern himself with the necessary evils of civilization, trusting in God to understand. Father Estéban genuflected at the foot of the alter and continued to recite the order of the liturgy. His acolytes turned toward the white-haired priest, whose craggy features and blazing eyes were to the populace the very image of the Divine, and responded.
“Introibo ad altare Dei.
“Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.”
The words were far older than the fabled city, protected by its walls and a bay bristling with redoubts and breastworks and enough cannons to sink any pirate fleet foolish enough to enter the bay. Don Alonso, kneeling at the bottom of the steps below the altar, was top-heavy for all the medals attached to the front of his coat. His silver-streaked hair was hidden beneath a periwig, a bead of sweat escaped from his scalp and stung his brown eyes, he blinked and tried to will away the discomfort. His coat was too tight. Now was not the time or place to fidget. He had to think of something else to take his mind off the perspiration and the oppressive heat.
The records in the library!
Don Alonso had spent many an afternoon poring over the ledgers and accounting books, detailing the enormity of wealth that was about to come under his direction. Before the week was out and the marriage bed grew cold, he intended to begin drafting instructions transferring significant portions of the gold and silver into his family's
coffers. For too long, Don Alonso had watched his own father depend on the kindness of the court of King Carlos. Things were going to change after today. His father's house would be financially restored.
Don Alonso glanced aside at the señorita kneeling beside him. He had never seen a woman look so radiant and desirable; she was the epitome of grace and beauty in her lace dress and shell comb and a mantilla of white silk to cover the wealth of her black tresses that the half-breed, Consuelo, had taken all morning to arrange. At least Old Witch-Eye was good for something.
Hurry
up,
priest! Look at
my bride. Was there ever a man so fortunate?
She filled his eyes. His heart beat wildly with renewed passion for this woman. What more could he ask for … a woman of beauty, wealth, with the voice of an angel.
“Adjutorum nostrum in nomine domini.
“Qui fecit cælum at terram.”
Elena Maria pretended to pray and plotted the governor's death. The Lord had always helped those who made the most of the opportunities presented to them. That's all she was doing, securing the house of Saucedo and all that was rightfully hers. She looked at him and smiled. Every night he had been at her hacienda, forsaking the governor's estate and the duties of his office. Responsibility would come if he were given the chance. But Elena Maria didn't have the time. She was not about to dally and see her birthright looted just so Don Alonso could return his own family to prosperity.
The children were singing, their melodic, high sweet voices floating above the distinguished gathering. They sounded like cherubs. It was like listening to sunlight, as if the glory of the morning and the warmth of the summer sun could be put into words and sung.
Her father had made many friends throughout his life and they had all come to wish her well and share her joy. Come the morrow and they'd be offering condolences. First she must endure the liturgy, then the binding of the marriage covenant; next, the fiesta, and an afternoon spent traveling throughout the city to be received by the populace. The celebration would last throughout the afternoon, but come nightfall Don Alonso had already promised to have his carriage whisk them away and back to the house of Saucedo. The governor's own estate was not as large or ostentatious. Don Alonso had already informed her the house of Saucedo would do nicely for their wedding night.
Elena Maria vowed the consummation of this marriage would never happen. She had seen to that. She glanced aside at the governor, his gold-embroidered tunic taut across his belly. Sweat glistened in his beard, trickled along his cheek and neck.
Suddenly she realized the priest had addressed her. What? She was supposed to respond. But what had he said? Father Estéban was staring at her.
“Amen,” she meekly tried. No one else had heard her. But her reply was obviously wrong, judging by the look on Father Estéban's face. He frowned and continued to recite the liturgy. She looked ahead to what was to come, the consecration and Eucharist and the solemn blessing of their union. And afterward a cage of doves would be set free to signal to the city that the ritual was concluded.
Then let the music begin, send the strolling troubadours along the boulevards. The mercado shall be given over to the musicians and the dancers and of course, the bride and groom. And elsewhere in the city, as night approaches, she would direct Major Gilberto Barba to pay a clandestine visit to the prison compound down by the waterfront and set the final act of this drama into motion.
The children began to sing anew, shattering her fantasy, and returning her to the solemn invocation of the Holy Liturgy. And now there was incense. The fumes wafted above the heads of the bride and groom, drifted over the congregation in the cathedral, to gather in thick sooty strands, binding the ankles of the carved saints.
The bride could feel her old nurse watching her with disapproval.
My dear Cousuelo, rest, easy. Be assured. All is well.
Elena Maria vowed she would endure the day. Come tonight, when Don Alonso came to her bed, roused and eager for a romp, he'd get more than he bargained for.
Martyrdom.
And Morgan, her beloved. Now, this was a bitter pill, for she really did care for him. His death would lie heavy on her heart—and be her cross to bravely bear.
“Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.”
“Lord have mercy.”
“Christ have mercy.”
“Lord have mercy.”

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