Mad Morgan (23 page)
Authors: Kerry Newcomb
Elena Maria cautiously approached the door. She took a deep breath, cleared her throat, steeled herself for the bloodbath within.
Blood and bones were the price of freedom. So be it. She had done what had to be done.
Blood and bones were the price of freedom. So be it. She had done what had to be done.
The door opened at her touch and she entered the garden house, continued through the anteroom and stepped into the lamplit chamber. She froze in her tracks, her mind struggling to take in the scene: the fire cheerfully ablaze in the hearth, the oaken table set with platters of
pan dulce
, marzipan truffles, honey-spice tarts, and a china teapot.
pan dulce
, marzipan truffles, honey-spice tarts, and a china teapot.
No! No! Where are they? Morgan?
There should have been signs of a struggle, a pool of blood, the air reeking of powdersmoke, Gilberto Barba standing over the bodies of both men. That had been there plan.
Don Alonso del Campo sat on the edge of the four-poster bed, his tunic and shirt and waistcoat tossed across a nearby chair along with his waist sash. He drained a glass of wine, spilling some of the vermilion droplets onto his naked chest. Elena Maria reached out to steady herself. The room reeled for a moment and she almost fainted. The color drained from her features. Her limbs went rigid.
He betrayed me! No! It isn't possible. Morgan betrayed me. How did he know? Damn his eyes. But it couldn't be.
And yet, anything was possible.
“Well met,
mi amor,”
Don Alonso said in his most seductive tone of voice. Rising from the bed, he ambled across the room toward the benumbed young woman, his new bride. “I promise you a night to remember.”
mi amor,”
Don Alonso said in his most seductive tone of voice. Rising from the bed, he ambled across the room toward the benumbed young woman, his new bride. “I promise you a night to remember.”
And reaching out, he took her in his arms and led her to bed.
Y
ou are a mad animal,” Gilberto said, his speech slurred. The lump on his skull resembled a miniature volcano. Blood clotted the swollen knob like a dried lava flow. The major held up his bound wrists.”You have tied this too tight. It hurts. And my hands are numb.”
ou are a mad animal,” Gilberto said, his speech slurred. The lump on his skull resembled a miniature volcano. Blood clotted the swollen knob like a dried lava flow. The major held up his bound wrists.”You have tied this too tight. It hurts. And my hands are numb.”
“Quiet,” Morgan snapped, and yanked the man's bound hands down and out of sight. Though he had discarded his prison rags for the green coat, white trousers, and calf-high boots of a Spanish grenadier, the bound officer behind him might attract unwanted attention.
“If you are caught you will be hanged as a spy,” Barba warned.
Morgan laughed and gingerly touched the raw, puckered scar tissue on his neck. “Really? Now I
am
afraid.” He flicked the reins and continued his survey of the city, proceeding along a shrouded avenue and past the third cathedral he had seen that night. This church was smaller than the Cathedral de Santa Maria and less ornate which seemed to befit the fact it was dedicated to St. Francis of Assisi.
am
afraid.” He flicked the reins and continued his survey of the city, proceeding along a shrouded avenue and past the third cathedral he had seen that night. This church was smaller than the Cathedral de Santa Maria and less ornate which seemed to befit the fact it was dedicated to St. Francis of Assisi.
Since his escape, Morgan had avoided a direct flight from the city. With Barba slumped unconscious beside him in the carriage, Morgan risked capture for the opportunity to study the port's defenses. For the better part of an hour he had guided the carriage through the gloom, noting how the warehouses containing most of the fabled
wealth of the city seemed concentrated near a massive redoubt bristling with cannon and, from the glow of the coals in the braziers, well-manned by Spanish troops.
wealth of the city seemed concentrated near a massive redoubt bristling with cannon and, from the glow of the coals in the braziers, well-manned by Spanish troops.
Driving back through the center of town he followed the line of battlements, rock walls eight to ten feet in height, that protected the city from a landward assault, although any approach from Portobello over the military road would involve constant skirmishes with the troops stationed throughout the route, rendering a surprise attack on the city nigh impossible.
The southeastward approach across the densely wooded San Blas Mountains and down through the swamp and bayou country seemed the least defended, and with good reason. Only a fool would attempt to bring a force through an impenetrable jungle. From what Morgan had seen on entering the city, the bayous provided precious little solid ground on which to mass an assault and, should an attack fail, the swampland was a deathtrap with no room to make a quick and orderly retreat.
When Barba regained his senses he assumed the buccaneer was lost and, keenly aware of the pirate's reputation as a murderous villain, immediately began to pray for an opportunity to escape. However, Morgan didn't miss much, and kept a pistol handy. So Gilberto watched the familiar sights of the city roll by, all the shops and taverns and even the well-lit estates where the perhaps the new governor had made a brief visit with his new bride and received the accolades of the gentry and enjoyed a toast to the happy couple's health and prosperity; yet the major dared not call out, aware the first word would also be his last.
Growing anxious now to depart the city, Morgan took a shortcut across a spacious plaza which during the day would be crowded with merchant stalls and their customers. The iron-rimmed wheels clattered on the cobblestones as the carriage sped toward the
mercado
. A guard hailed him from the darkness. Morgan jabbed the twin gun barrels into Barba's side.
mercado
. A guard hailed him from the darkness. Morgan jabbed the twin gun barrels into Barba's side.
“Answer him.”
“No,” Gilberto muttered.
“Suit yourself,” Morgan said with shrug. “When you get right down to it, I don't give a damn. Here and now, or face it laterâit's all the same. But I'll die hard. And I won't die alone.”
Gilberto Barba didn't like the sound of that. He considered his options, found he had none, then shouted out his name and told the
sentry he was about the governor's business. The sentry called back that he would also like his turn with “the governor's business” this night. Both men had a hearty laugh.
sentry he was about the governor's business. The sentry called back that he would also like his turn with “the governor's business” this night. Both men had a hearty laugh.
And the carriage rolled onâdown the Via España, past an armory and barracks, past a detachment of drunken lancers on their way from one brothel to the next, skirted another plaza and the gallows where Morgan had endured the terrible pretense of his own execution and the derision of the crowdâwinding through the mist-cloaked streets until they came at last to the main gate, two great oaken doors secured with a timber and a pulley system to raise and lower the massive wooden beam that barred the entrance.
Morgan braked a few yards from the gate, and waited as two weary-looking figures shambled out of the shadows, rubbed their eyes and shouldered their muskets and peered at the occupants of the carriage.
“Abra las puertas,”
Barba called out.
Barba called out.
“Is that you, Major?”
“SÃ.
Open the gates.”
Open the gates.”
“But the hour is late, Señor.”
Gilberto winced as a pistol barrel dug into his side. “Do you question me?”
“No, no, Major, never,” one of the men blurted out.
“Then be quick about it.”
“SÃ,
as you wish,” the other gatekeeper replied, awake now and hoping to defuse the situation before he and his compadre both wound up in trouble. He grabbed a nearby rope and dug in his heels and gave a hearty downward tug. The wooden timber barring the doors rose on its iron hinge and settled into an upright position. Then each man trotted out to a door and walked them open. Freedom beckoned beyond the walls, in the black of night. Sweet freedom. His luck had held again.
as you wish,” the other gatekeeper replied, awake now and hoping to defuse the situation before he and his compadre both wound up in trouble. He grabbed a nearby rope and dug in his heels and gave a hearty downward tug. The wooden timber barring the doors rose on its iron hinge and settled into an upright position. Then each man trotted out to a door and walked them open. Freedom beckoned beyond the walls, in the black of night. Sweet freedom. His luck had held again.
Morgan relaxed.
“A las armas!”
Barba shouted suddenly and, snatching the reins from Morgan's hands, leaped from the carriage, tripped, and went sprawling in the street. “Here is Morgan the pirate.
Matelo!
Kill him!”
Barba shouted suddenly and, snatching the reins from Morgan's hands, leaped from the carriage, tripped, and went sprawling in the street. “Here is Morgan the pirate.
Matelo!
Kill him!”
Morgan leaped from the carriage as a musket roared and a tongue of flame spat toward him out of the gloom. The buccaneer hit the ground, rolled, scrambled to his feet, and charged toward the sentry who had fired upon him. Morgan heard a scramble of footsteps and realized a third sentry had been watching them from the shadows. Morgan fired in the direction of the soldier. The Spaniard yelped and
stumbled away from the wall. A flash of priming powder preceded the roar of a musket and something white-hot grazed Morgan's side, glanced off a rib, passed through his torso, and ricocheted off a spoke of the carriage wheel. The impact sent the buccaneer reeling against the carriage harness. The mare shied and tossed its head. Morgan gritted his teeth, growled and charged his assailants. He drove in close and fired at the dimly seen figures in the mist. One of the soldiers groaned and sagged against a rain barrel, his musket clattered to the ground. He twisted and clutched at the rim before his strength gave way and he slumped to the ground.
stumbled away from the wall. A flash of priming powder preceded the roar of a musket and something white-hot grazed Morgan's side, glanced off a rib, passed through his torso, and ricocheted off a spoke of the carriage wheel. The impact sent the buccaneer reeling against the carriage harness. The mare shied and tossed its head. Morgan gritted his teeth, growled and charged his assailants. He drove in close and fired at the dimly seen figures in the mist. One of the soldiers groaned and sagged against a rain barrel, his musket clattered to the ground. He twisted and clutched at the rim before his strength gave way and he slumped to the ground.
Another shot stabbed through the mist. Morgan could hear Barba shouting for someone to come and untie his hands. The major continued to keep a tight grip on the reins to prevent the mare from bolting. Morgan touched his side. His hand came away sticky. He could feel the blood soaking into his shirt and woolen breeches.
I have to finish this, and soon.
I have to finish this, and soon.
He closed in with the man who had wounded him. The grenadier dragged a saber from its sheath and lunged at the buccaneer. Morgan threw his empty pistol in his attacker's face and darted out of harm's way as the Spaniard attempted to decapitate him. The blade bit into the door.
Morgan kicked the soldier in the gut, drew the
miqulet,
checked the third sentry and saw the man was preoccupied with reloading his musket, swung back around and pulled the trigger. The small-bore pistol misfired.
miqulet,
checked the third sentry and saw the man was preoccupied with reloading his musket, swung back around and pulled the trigger. The small-bore pistol misfired.
“Damn!” Morgan the slashed the swordsman across the face with the pistol. The brass lock opened a gash in the soldier's cheek. Droplets of blood spattered in all directions. Morgan cast aside the pocket pistol. His hand closed around the hatchet in his belt. The Spaniard clutched his ravaged cheek and howled in pain as he wrenched the saber from the door. “Bastard. Now you will pay,” he grumbled, and pressed the attack.
Morgan ducked beneath the slashing blade and sank the hatchet in the Spaniard's chest. The effort sent a wave of pain through the buccaneer. But the Spaniard only seemed to sigh and make a clumsy swipe with the saber. Morgan caught the man by the wrist and tore the saber from his weakened grasp.
“You have killed me,” the soldier muttered and, turning, staggered off down the Via España, managing a few paces before toppling into the mist.
The third sentry brought his rifle to bear. He had no target, only
the swirling tendrils of mist and the dark. “Show yourself!” He thought he saw something, turned, held his fire.
the swirling tendrils of mist and the dark. “Show yourself!” He thought he saw something, turned, held his fire.
“Careful,
hombre
, he is the devil,” Barba muttered. “Come, bring your knife and cut my hands free.”
hombre
, he is the devil,” Barba muttered. “Come, bring your knife and cut my hands free.”
“SÃ,”
the grenadier replied. He wasn't afraid of any man, but
el diablo
was something else entirely. “Where are you, Major?”
the grenadier replied. He wasn't afraid of any man, but
el diablo
was something else entirely. “Where are you, Major?”
“By the carriage. Hurry.”
The sentry heard a noise off to his right. He tracked the sound with his musket, his finger poised on the trigger. He could make out the open gate, the brooding backdrop of the wall against which the fog swelled and settled, utterly blanketing some sections; in others, patchy at best.
“You'll have to do better than that,” the Spaniard called out. Was that the crunch of a bootheel behind him?
Cold steel stung his thigh.
The grenadier twisted around and slashed wildly with his musket, clubbed the curling vapors, sensed movement and brought the musket to bear and almost shot the mare. He held his fire at the last second, received another cut and howled in pain, began to stumble around in an ever-tightening circle.
Morgan charged past the mare, and with the saber caught the end of the musket barrel and tilted it up as the Spaniard pulled the trigger. The musket discharged into the air. Morgan slashed the man across the chest, the back, the chest again. The Spaniard twisted and turned and writhed in agony as the steel blade carved him like a side of beef on a spit and left him sprawled and spilling his bodily fluids onto the hard-packed earth.
Morgan stumbled forward, braced himself on the saber, his strength momentarily spent, everything blurred for a few gut-wrenching seconds, and his legs turned watery. He experienced a few seconds of panic until his vision cleared. Then his sight returned, all was restored: the blackness of the road ahead, the ghostly tendrils of fog, the stench of powdersmoke, and Major Gilberto Barba. The Spaniard, gasping and kneeling, raised his hands in a futile attempt to shield himself from the buccaneer's retribution.
Morgan staggered toward him. Gilberto shrank back against the carriage. He scrambled to his feet, turned and broke for the street. The noise of the skirmish had alerted the inhabitants of the houses and shops a few blocks from the gate. Shutters were flung open and lanterns appeared in the windows, men with guns in the doorways. The major tripped over one of the dead grenadiers and fell on his face.
Morgan intercepted the officer, dragged him up onto his feet and back toward the entrance, forcing him against the outer wall of the small guardhouse from which two of the sentries had emerged.
The buccaneer jabbed the business end of the saber against the major's round belly, then dragged it up, severing the brass buttons from his jacket, until the pointed tip came to rest nestled in the hollow of the officer's throat.
“I will ask, and ask only once. If I think you are lying, I will pin you to the door and leave you for the carrion birds.”
Barba recognized the desperation in the buccaneer's voice. And desperate men were capable of rash and dangerous acts. Gilberto tried to swallow. His Adam's apple bobbed against the pointed tip digging into his flesh. He coughed and nearly impaled himself.
“Por favor, Señor.
You cannot blame a man for trying to escape,” he blurted out, expecting each breath to be his last.
You cannot blame a man for trying to escape,” he blurted out, expecting each breath to be his last.
“Shut up!” Morgan hissed.
“SÃ.”
“After I killed the governor, what then?”
Gilberto grew pale and stalled for time. “Señor, I don't understand ⦔
“I am not blind. I have seen the
Castille
from the waterfront. I asked among the other slaves and learned it has no crew but a token guard, and it is in no shape to depart. No water has been brought aboard, nor provisions of any sort. What were Doña Elena's plans for me?”
Castille
from the waterfront. I asked among the other slaves and learned it has no crew but a token guard, and it is in no shape to depart. No water has been brought aboard, nor provisions of any sort. What were Doña Elena's plans for me?”
White-hot pain engulfed Morgan. He sucked in his breath to keep from screaming. Instead, he narrowed his focus, willed his hand steady; a loss of balance would prove fatal to the major.
“The señorita's plans?” Barba knew the altercation had not gone unnoticed. Help had to be on the way. If he could only stall for time, he might yet redeem himself.
“I have no more patience.” Morgan seemed to read the officer's thoughts. He growled and forced the man to his knees yet again. “Join your compadres in hell.”
“No, wait, I speak. I speak.” Gilberto opted for the truth, hoping it would set him free. “After you were done with the governor, I was to ⦠to ⦔ Barba gulped. Words failed him.
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