Mad Morgan (34 page)

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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: Mad Morgan
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Elena watched him leave with the ledger books. There was nothing she could say. And words were a waste of time. Action was called for. She turned, brushed her long black hair back from her face, and fixed her gaze on her father's old friend. Elena's lustrous green eyes held him bound as she spoke in a warm and seductive tone. “Gilberto, you will come with me. You have always been the one friend I could count
on. I shall need men to empty what I can of my father's warehouse and ferry the goods and gold out to one of the merchant ships in the bay. If we hurry we can save a good portion of it. But I need your help, now more than ever, my dear and trusted
aliado.”
Barba considered her request. It meant disobeying the governor's orders. Don Alonso wanted him back at the prison stockade, back guarding slaves and prisoners. But Gilberto Barba's allegiance had always been to the house of Saucedo. And he had never been able to refuse Doña Elena anything. If Morgan and his men got past the Plaza de las Armas, there would be no stopping them. Let the prisoners fend for themselves. The major ambled forward, galvanized into action. “Come, Señora, I will find you men,” said the portly officer. The cutthroats he had avoided could find them at any moment. “We will do what we can.”
“Harness the mare to the carriage,” Elena said. “I shall bring Consuelo and join you at the garden gate.” She leaned forward and kissed his grizzled cheek, then hurried from the room.
Barba blushed at the endearment and followed her out into the hall but proceeded past the stairway and moved quickly toward the rear door of the house. The rest of the servants were nowhere to be seen. It was obvious they were keeping close to their homes or had already fled the city. With no one about to report him, Barba lingered in the kitchen long enough to help himself to a bottle of wine left by chance on an oaken table near the cooking hearth. He drank as much as he could hold, barely pausing for a breath. He didn't know when he'd have such luck again. And when he had finished, the major tossed the empty bottle into the hearth and resumed his course.
Outside, the garden was devoid of life, sun-washed, with paths of crushed shell and stone that wound among patches of brittle weeds and dying shrubs. A flock of parakeets, their bright yellow-and-green plumage dazzling in the drooping limbs of a forlorn-looking willow, scolded the intruder as he crossed their domain. The air was thick with the stench of powdersmoke. Barba began to cough and had to pause to catch his wind, his great bulk rising and falling with the effort. He stared at the wrought-iron gate and beyond to the barn and carriage house.
Harry!
an inner voice commanded.
“Sí,”
he replied aloud, answering his own thoughts. He lumbered down the garden walk, favoring his wounded leg with every other step. His large hand caught the gate and shoved it open. He stepped into the alley.
To his immediate left, a pistol boomed. Something struck his skull with enough impact to twist him about so he could see his own skull fragments, blood, and gray matter smear the garden wall. Mercifully, the light in his eyes faded as Barba toppled like a felled oak, slid down the wall, his legs splayed behind him as the weight of his body dragged him to earth. His arm caught in a vine and kept him from slumping completely to the ground, but left him kneeling, his ruined face pressed to the garden wall.
Thomas LeBishop grinned in satisfaction, reloaded his pistol, stepped over Barba's garishly positioned corpse, and entered the garden just as Elena Maria emerged from the back door and hurried down the steps, oblivious to the major's fate. “I cannot find—” she said, and halted dead in her tracks.
She recognized the Black Cleric swooping toward her. She turned and made a break for the house. Her left foot found a large stone among the crushed seashells. Her ankle turned and she lost her balance, fell to her hands and knees, lost precious seconds, scrambled to her feet and tried to reach the back door in time. Too late. The man in black descended on her like a raven to its prey.
T
he red-haired Scot was dead. Poor Sergeant McCready, a damn good cook and a jolly soul. No prisoner could have asked for a better jailor.
Mother McCready … what have you done to yourself? Gone with your dreams
. Morgan knelt and closed the dead man's eyes, stepped past him and a half dozen other fallen English marines who had attacked a troop of Spaniards defending the Cathedral de Santa Maria.
Captain Hastiler had fought all the way to the top step before being bayoneted by a dying grenadier. Now a strange calm settled over the street and the church, although the bell in the tower overhead continued to ring ominously, to sound an alarm no longer needed. The citizenry, already routed from their complacent lives, had been sent through the streets.
Hastiler was sitting on the top step surrounded by dead Spaniards, his back to the pockmarked stone wall, his legs outstretched. The captain's powder-burned features held a vacant stare. The grenadiers had outnumbered the marines three to one. The corpses littering the church steps like discarded rag dolls testified to the furious melee that had transpired.
“Well met, Captain Morgan,” Hastiler said, blood trickling from his lips, spreading across the lower three buttons of his waistcoat.
“I would wish for a better meeting,” Morgan softly replied, kneeling by the officer. “Your men fought well.”
“The same cannot be said for your kind,” Hastiler muttered bitterly. “LeBishop had been at my side. But when we struck the Dons, the Cleric held his men back and let us take the first volley.”
Morgan frowned, regretting now he had ever brought LeBishop along. The man was as treacherous as a barrelful of black snakes. “I shall read the Black Cleric from his own book when next we meet.”
Hastiler nodded, taking comfort in Morgan's tone. “The devil and I will be listening.”
“I need to get into the church,” Morgan added. “The belltower will give me a good view of what awaits us in the plaza.”
“Knock and it shall be opened unto you,” Hastiler chuckled, then coughed pink froth. He looked at the remnants of his command standing among Morgan's buccaneers, then lowered his gaze to the Spanish dead. “It was a grand little fight. They outnumbered the lads but we took their measure and taught them something about the price of English honor.”
“That you did, Captain Hastiler,” Morgan told him.
The Englishman grimaced. “I leave a wife, Beatrice, in Kent. She's a good lass who deserved better than the likes of me.”
“She shall have your share of all we gain. You have my word on it.”
“That'll do,” the marine said, and closed his eyes. “That'll do.” His breath slowly escaped. And his chin sank to his chest.
Morgan felt Nell's hand upon his shoulder. He shrugged her aside. He had no time for tenderness. Morgan stood and crossed to the cathedral door and began to hammer on the wooden panel with the butt of his pistol.
“Open this door, or by heaven I shall burn the church and everyone in it!”
A series of protests could be heard within. Then he heard an iron latch slide back on the opposite side of the door. The heavy oaken panel creaked open. Morgan caught Nell by the arm and dragged her out of the open doorway as a ragged volley blasted the sunlight and wounded a pair of Kingston lads who were foolish enough to try and be the first into the church.
Morgan scowled and charged into the shadows. He glimpsed movement, emptied both pistols, heard screaming, saw a man stagger into the light, clutching his abdomen. Behind Morgan his crew arrived. Nell Jolly, Pierre Voisin, and Rafiki Kogi dashed into the shadowy interior. More gunfire ensued, followed by the clash of swords. The remaining grenadiers were no match for the buccaneers.
Morgan parried a bayonet thrust, escaped disembowelment, and
clubbed his assailant across the face. The man fell backward, unconscious, and knocked over a holy-water font. His companions met more violent ends, perishing by gun or blade or speared by pike. As the last of the defenders lay dying, Father Estéban hurried forward.
“Enough! Enough! Have you no shame? This is the house of God!”
Morgan blocked the priest's progress by stepping directly into his path. “It's my house now, padre.” Morgan took the priest by the arm and led him back toward the cluster of men, women, and children who had gathered around the altar in fear for their lives. “But God can have it back when I'm done with it.”
“Mercy, for heaven's sake,” cried the priest, placing himself in front of the families who had sought sanctuary in the church.
“You ask for what was never shown me,” Morgan snarled, his gray eyes cold as mist on a grave. “But a brigand will grant what your flock would not, padre. Keep them out of my way and none shall be harmed.”
Morgan turned away from the priest and the families under his protection, and stalked across the church to the ladder built into the tower alcove that led up to the bell. Evidently one of the Spaniards had been sounding the alarm, for the noise had ceased. With Nell and his crew looking on, Morgan borrowed a spyglass from Kogi then proceeded to scale the ladder up to the top of the tower.
Pierre Voisin took that moment to refresh himself. Fighting was hot, dirty, thirsty work. He walked down the aisle to the baptismal font, flashed a gap-toothed grin and winked at the cowering families who, despite Father Estéban's assurances, expected the worst at any moment. Then Voisin dunked his head into the pool of water. The little thief drank his fill, splashed the holy water over his neck and face, and emerged from his “bath” dripping and refreshed.
“Bastard,” one of the Spaniards hissed, an arrogant-looking merchant, his round belly pressed against the folds of his sleeping gown, his white hose fallen around his ankles.
“Mais oui,”
the Frenchman lamented. “With me, an unfortunate accident of birth.” He stepped up to the merchant and poked the tip of his dagger against the well-fed merchant's stomach. “But I see you are a self-made man.” The thief turned away from the altar and swaggered back down the center aisle of the church. Nell had finished reloading her weapons and was anxiously awaiting Morgan's return. The gunfire seemed distant now. Rafiki Kogi was standing in the
doorway, watching the street and the gathering force of buccaneers awaiting Morgan's orders. The African stepped aside and glanced toward the tower room as he permitted Israel Goodenough to enter and directed him to the tower alcove. The lanky gunner joined Nell at the base of the ladder.
“Kintana's here, and what's left of his men,” Goodenough reported, shouting up to the man above. “He said that the stockades have been opened. Most of the slaves and prisoners have taken to the bills but there are some who've joined us.” Goodenough cradled one of the bulky mortars. It was an ugly-looking weapon with a short barrel mounted to a stout-looking stock. The missiles themselves were fist-sized iron spheres, larger and heavier than grenades and packed with black powder and a fuse that ignited when the mortar was fired. It was a frightful weapon when fired into a group of men, and was capable of inflicting terrible damage both from the explosion and the iron splinters that would tear through flesh. “Calico Jack has showed up with the
patareros.”
“Good.” Morgan's voice drifted down from the tower. His boots scraped the rungs as he descended to the alcove floor. He removed the spyglass from his belt and returned it to Kogi. “Don Alonso has prepared a warm welcome for anyone attempting to storm the plaza,” the buccaneer informed his companions. He glanced at the grimed, powder-burned faces surrounding him. “This is it.” His voice had a hollow ring in the confines of the alcove. The painted visages of saints surrounded them, peering out from the whitewashed stucco walls. Well now, here were his disciples: no band of angels, but every one a true heart. “The city stands or falls in the next few minutes. How do you fare, my pretties?”
“I'm fresh as a daisy,” Voisin remarked, still dripping holy water. And everyone laughed, defusing the tension.
“I say we run out the guns,” Goodenough remarked. “Give ‘em a broadside and board 'em Captain.”
“Wakashambuliana!”
Kogi cried out. “We attack like wolves!” He leaped and slashed the air with his pike.
Morgan turned toward Nell Jolly, her beauty hidden beneath soot-streaked cheeks and a face of battle. The young woman might have counseled caution, but there was no way she would hold back now. She knew as well as anyone, they must conquer or die. “We don't have to accept Don Alonso's invitation,” Nell began. No one liked the idea of walking into a trap. But like the men around her, she
would follow Henry Morgan to hell and back if need be. “Then again, it would be a shame to disappoint the Dons after they've gone to so much trouble for us.”
The men around her murmured in agreement and closed around Morgan, who slipped the jeweled dagger from his belt. “I've a plan,” he said, and drew a rough diagram of the Plaza de las Armas upon the stucco wall, scratching his plan of battle across one of the more colorful frescoes, disfiguring poor St. Francis of Assisi as he communed with the doves.
 
 
Don Alonso paced the gallows like a captain on the deck of his ship. From the scaffold he could take in the entire plaza and the battle square his troops had formed. On two sides, north and south, the grenadiers in tricorn hats stood in firing ranks, their bayonets fixed. The dragoons and lancers, the feathers of their plumed caps aflutter, had been ordered to dismount, and defended the east and west flanks. The lancers had traded their ten-foot spears for muskets from the armory. The dragoons felt incomplete and only grudgingly agreed to fight afoot. The north and south flanks each had a nine-pounder artillery piece loaded with grapeshot. The artillery crews had stacked powder and shot behind each of the cannon. The field pieces were light enough to be brought around to protect whichever flank came under attack.
“Come on, then, show yourselves,” the governor shouted, intending to bolster the courage of his troops. “Stand at the ready, men of Spain. We shall carry the morning and Morgan will rue the day!” The sunlight struggled to break through a soot-colored haze that hung above the Plaza de los Armas and the waiting troops like a layer of ghosts. Men shifted nervously, their eyes began to sting. The officers moved among the troops, cautioning the men to check the priming pans of the muskets they carried. The weapons seemed to grow heavier with every passing minute.
Don Alonso struggled to breathe as the haze settled over the plaza. His men needed a clear field of fire. Not this damnable smoke. Why here? Why now? Was the Almighty conspiring against him?
Already, reports had reached him that the prison stockades had been attacked and the prisoners and slaves released to wreak havoc on the populace. So much for Major Barba. Worse news swiftly followed. The troops in other parts of the city had broken and joined the frightened populace in their efforts to escape the freebooters who pursued
them out onto the shore, killing them as they fled, chasing them to their boats or back into the forested coastline.
But Panama City could still be saved, here in the Plaza de las Armas. The governor tried to lick the inside of his mouth. Funny, the palms of his hands were wet with sweat, but his mouth was dry as sand. He stared at the low-roofed stucco barracks surrounding the plaza. The men he had stationed on the rooftops crouched low and tried not to reveal their presence. An eerie quiet descended over the plaza and the streets beyond. The calm lasted but a few seconds yet seemed an eternity, a stillness building in unbearable intensity.
And then it ended. Muffled blasts sounded from all sides as Israel Goodenough directed the fire from the
patereros
. Black iron spheres sailed in graceful arcs through the choking haze to land among the troops in their battle formation. Don Alonso recognized the sound of the mortars and flung himself to the gallows deck. Before his soldiers could scramble out of the way, the missiles exploded, gouging holes in the earth and showering the men with slivers of burning iron. Grenadiers and dragoons and lancers by the dozens fell writhing on the ground. Worse, one of the mortar rounds dropped next to one of the nine-pounder cannons among the powderkegs. A terrible blast sent men sprawling, and rattled the gallows frame so hard it nearly collapsed.
Then, in the wake of the explosions, came the blaring sea horns and the savage cries of the Brethren of the Black Flag. Don Alonso struggled to his feet, his ears ringing from the blast. He wiped a forearm across his eyes to clear his vision and watched in horror as his troops buckled and caved in toward the center of the square, firing as they retreated.
 
 
Morgan had instructed his men to use the drifting smoke for concealment, and massed his men behind the acrid haze. The explosions were the signal. He glanced at Nell, her features flush with excitement, then shouted for his men to follow him. “Do you want to live forever? Come on, you brine-soaked scalawags, steel your hearts for bloodshed and follow me.” A roar of approval erupted from the men around him; it was a cry that swept around the plaza. This was the moment of truth.

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