Authors: Kerry Newcomb
Mad Morgan (5 page)
The Kuna half-breed was nervous. She who often counseled Elena had never felt so helpless. The tingling in her limbs served as a warning ; she had a premonition that disastrous events were about to be set into motion.
“I have served the house of Saucedo nearly as long as I can remember. I was born within the walls of the hacienda. When I was a child your father sent me to the priests. They baptized me, taught me about
the Christian god. And now I walk the path. But the Old Ones still speak in my soul. Spirits of earth and fire and wind warn me against what is to come. But what can I say to one so strong and willful? You must be wary of these men.”
the Christian god. And now I walk the path. But the Old Ones still speak in my soul. Spirits of earth and fire and wind warn me against what is to come. But what can I say to one so strong and willful? You must be wary of these men.”
“No matter what you think of Don Alonso del Campo, this marriage is a contract now between two families. Land ⦠wealth is not enough. I must have the name to be secure. But do not worry. No one shall ever take my inheritance. Not even the governor.” Elena patted Consuelo's arm. “You are correct, though. An old nurse's advice is powerless in the face of politics.”
Consuelo shook her head and sighed. The señorita's remarks did not sit well with her. But she could not put a name on her fears. If only the
Santa Rosa
had not been damaged by fire. If only they had not put into port, but been able to continue on home â¦
Santa Rosa
had not been damaged by fire. If only they had not put into port, but been able to continue on home â¦
“Last night I dreamt of the road leading past the graveyard in Panama,” Elena said, staring dreamily into the mirror.
“Si.
The path of tears,” Consuelo nodded. She blessed herself with the sign of the cross, then placed a hand on the stone talisman she wore about her neck to ward off evil.
The path of tears,” Consuelo nodded. She blessed herself with the sign of the cross, then placed a hand on the stone talisman she wore about her neck to ward off evil.
“In my dream,” Elena continued, “I saw the road was covered with a pink cloth and set with platters of food, glasses of wine, plates of fruits and cakes. There were people in the ditches beside the road, all the nobles and their ladies, squatting in the dirt, feasting on the banquet I had almost ridden over in my carriage. They were finely dressed, all of them
peninsulares,
eating and drinking. Some of them recognized my carriage, they welcomed me and bid me join them, in the ditch, in the shadows of the tombstones.” She gazed frankly at the nurse. “What does it mean, mamacita?”
peninsulares,
eating and drinking. Some of them recognized my carriage, they welcomed me and bid me join them, in the ditch, in the shadows of the tombstones.” She gazed frankly at the nurse. “What does it mean, mamacita?”
Consuelo Navarro ceased brushing the woman's hair. The breeze in the window died. After a long pause, the nurse resumed her labors. Then she spoke.
“Pequeña niña
⦠every banquet has its price.”
⦠every banquet has its price.”
Â
Â
Pablo Morales stood aside and with trembling hand indicated the wrought-iron gate that opened into the walled courtyard. Morgan brushed past the Spaniard and forced the gate open, begrudging the way it creaked on its hinges. He stalked through the entrance, his sharp eyes scouring the shadows and the apartment balconies that ringed the courtyard on three sides.
Morgan scrutinized the walled garden, his muscles poised, every
sense heightened. It was impossible to move quietly along the pathway of crushed conch shells. The debris crunching underfoot seemed deafening to Morgan as he led his shipmates along the footpath and cautiously approached the brass-trimmed front door. Thank heaven for the music of the harp. He took note of the lamplight shining from behind the drawn curtains. Harps? Perhaps the angels were welcoming them into a trap.
sense heightened. It was impossible to move quietly along the pathway of crushed conch shells. The debris crunching underfoot seemed deafening to Morgan as he led his shipmates along the footpath and cautiously approached the brass-trimmed front door. Thank heaven for the music of the harp. He took note of the lamplight shining from behind the drawn curtains. Harps? Perhaps the angels were welcoming them into a trap.
He glanced toward the windows where a faint trickle of illumination filtered into the yard. Something stirred near his foot. He dropped a hand to one of the pistols jutting from his belt, heard purring, and relaxed as a calico cat emerged from beneath a cane-backed chair. The animal was accustomed to visitors and hungry for attention. It arched its back and brushed the pirate's trouser leg, rubbing its ears and whiskers against Morgan's boot.
“What do we have here?” Henry chuckled. He knelt and stroked the animal's back. The feline continued to purr, and after a few more caresses allowed the buccaneer to scoop the creature up into the crook of his arm. It was a large, well-fed cat, too fat and lazy to be bothered chasing the rodents that infested the back alleys. It was accustomed to being handled and accepted the well-armed stranger in the garden without suspicion.
“I hope the women are as willing,” Pierre Voisin said, observing the affectionate feline. “But then, I am Voisin, so how can they refuse, eh?” The Frenchman studied the darkened windows, the innocent-looking balconies happily devoid of marksmen. He clapped young Morales on the shoulder. “Well done,
mon ami.
I am in your debtâyou are Pierre's good friend, unless, of course, this is a trap, and then I will gut you like a fish.”
mon ami.
I am in your debtâyou are Pierre's good friend, unless, of course, this is a trap, and then I will gut you like a fish.”
Behind the Frenchman and his prisoner, Thomas LeBishop and a dozen freebooters crowded through the entrance. The rest waited in the street. They were a salty lot, eager to explore the pleasures Maracaibo had to offer. The Inn of the Palms looked as good a place to start as any.
A stone pool flanked by mango trees dominated the center of the courtyard, and water lilies drifted on the still surface of the water. Fished darted and splashed among the moss and lily pads. Up ahead, winged beetles, mayflies, and ashen-colored moths whirred and fluttered in suicidal formations about the lanterns hung to either side of the front door. Firelight played upon wall carvings that depicted buxom maids frolicking by moonlight amid finely-wrought vines and flowers.
Tregoning, Thomas LeBishop's first mate, tripped over a clay jug, stumbled and skinned his knees on the cobblestones. Several of the men behind him laughed at the fallen man's antics. The column brought up sharply. Cutlasses clattered as two men collided with one another. Morgan glanced around at his company of rogues and freebooters, brought his finger to his lips, his expression stern. After a last moment of jostling for position, the men grew quiet.
When had the harp ceased to play?
Morgan turned his back on them and tried the iron knocker on the door. He rapped three times, waited, then repeated the process. The cat in his arms began to meow. He pressed his ear to the door panel and managed to hear a woman issue orders, apparently to her husband. Morgan cringed at the sound of her brassy voice.
Lord spare me from such a fate
. The woman continued to admonish her husband until the poor sod acknowledged defeat and agreed to answer the door. Morgan could hear the man muttering to himself, a litany of complaints that increased in volume as he approached from the opposite side of the door.
Lord spare me from such a fate
. The woman continued to admonish her husband until the poor sod acknowledged defeat and agreed to answer the door. Morgan could hear the man muttering to himself, a litany of complaints that increased in volume as he approached from the opposite side of the door.
“Miguel Gonzales and his wife Rita,” Pablo whispered. After identifying the cantankerous couple, the Spaniard retreated and tried to lose himself among the pirates.
“The hour is late,” Gonzales growled from the other side of the door. The proprietor was prepared to take his displeasure out on whomever had disturbed his sleep.
“And my purse is heavy with doubloons, señor,” Morgan replied. “I have been at sea since leaving Cadiz and endured the rough company of common seamen for lo these many weeks. I am Don Medino Escutia, secretary to His Majesty King Carlos II. Do you deny me comfort and the solace of a warm fire and a bottle of your finest Madeira? I am inclined to be generous, but perhaps my gold will spend easier elsewhere.” The cat in Morgan's arms grew nervous and began to struggle and escape the pirate's grasp, but Morgan caught the cat behind the neck and managed to bring the nervous feline under control. The truce was illusoryâthe animal began to howl in protest.
“No! No, Don Estéban. Your pardon, I beg you.” Gonzales was awake now and loath to offend any man of rank. The inn depended on the patronage of the landed gentry and the occasional titled visitor who preferred not to associate with common soldiers and seamen. “Only, the hour is late. Pardon, I say! A warm fire you shall have, and my wine cellar is well-stocked. And if you wish, I can provide you the
company of some of the most beautiful women in all of Maracaibo: Nubian temptresses, Kuna native girls, taut and tight to the touch;
criollos
with skin like silk and wishing only to please ⦠Curse this catch. Just a minute. One minute, señor,
por favor
.” The innkeeper continued to fumble with the latch.
company of some of the most beautiful women in all of Maracaibo: Nubian temptresses, Kuna native girls, taut and tight to the touch;
criollos
with skin like silk and wishing only to please ⦠Curse this catch. Just a minute. One minute, señor,
por favor
.” The innkeeper continued to fumble with the latch.
Voisin, peering through a crack in one of the shutters along the front of the inn, suddenly abandoned his post and hurried back to Morgan's side. “There are soldiers withinâI counted three but there may be more.”
Morgan glanced back at the Spanish sentry. “You did not say anything about soldiers here.”
Pablo gulped and took a step backward, only to be brought up sharply by a line of cutthroats who were not about to let him pass. The Spaniard gulped and glanced around at the hardened faces of the men surrounding him. He reluctantly faced Morgan yet again.
“General Vega's personal guard,” he confessed. “Usually four musketeers. But Don Alonso may have his own escort.”
“If you are lying or have not told me all you know, I swear it will not go well for you,” Morgan said, his storm-gray eyes narrowing.
“No, señor, on my oath, I have told you everything.” Pablo eyed the cat that Morgan continued to calm. The prisoner was confused by the man's behavior. “Señor Morgan, if the governor or General Vega are elsewhere it is not my fault,” Morales protested. “I do not know which rooms Don Alonso or the señorita have taken. But el commandante's quarters are at the top of the stairs, the fifth door down. I know, though I have never visited there. General Vega has taken my woman to his bed.” The young man's features tightened, his voice turning bitter. “I have watched them from the street, on the balcony. I tell you true, el commandante is the last man I would protect.”
The latch slid back at last. The door opened. “Welcome, Señor Estéban Escutia! Consider my house as your own.” A swarthy little man with pockmarked skin, the scrawl of his lips hidden beneath a thick black moustache, appeared in the doorway.
Morgan kicked him in the chest and sent him flying backward into the spacious foyer. He followed the man into the foyer and in a matter of seconds assessed the situation. A broad staircase lay before him. To his left lay the dining room and beyond it, the kitchen, where Rita Gonzales shrieked in horror at the sight of the pirates. In the long, open sitting room to the right, a pair of surprised Spanish soldiers fumbled for their muskets and attempted to bring the weapons to bear on the intruder.
Morgan gave the cat's tail a savage tug. The animal howled, bared its claws. Morgan tossed the animal at the soldiers. The terrified creature landed on the first man and raked his face and neck, then leaped onto the second man and caused him to fire his musket into the ceiling, blowing away a chunk of the wood. Morgan picked up an end table and knocked the closest man senseless. Another pirate brushed past him, leaped a brocaded couch, and took the second soldier down.
Morgan reversed his course and ran to the stairway. He took the first few steps in stride, glanced up, and saw a soldier draw a bead on him. “Strike your colors, lad, I offer you quarter.” The soldier hesitated. Some inner sense caused Morgan to fling himself to the stairway. The soldier pulled the trigger, loosing a blossom of fire and a deafening boom in the confines of the house. The slug whirred past the pirate chieftain. Morgan heard a man groan, and looked over his shoulder. LeBishop was a few paces back. He had dragged the innkeeper in front of him, using the smaller man as a human shield. Gonzales clutched at the bloodstain spreading across his chest. His legs went slack as the Black Cleric tossed him aside.
Morgan charged up the remaining flight of the stairs.
“Mercy, señor,” the soldier called out. “I surrender.”
Morgan rounded the corner, ducked back as a second shot lit the darkness. It was a wild shot, taken as the soldier retreated down the hall. Henry Morgan cursed. “That's twice, on my oath!” He drew one of his pistols, stepped into the hall, and advanced on the Spaniard who was attempting to reload for the second time. Seeing the pirate bearing down on him, and having no time for a third try, the soldier tossed his musket aside.
“I accept your quarter, señor.”
“Too late,” Morgan snarled, and shot the man through the heart.
Â
Â
The door to Elena's apartment crashed back against the door. Morgan entered the drawing room, saw the bedroom door slightly ajar. He crossed the room, knocked upon the wooden panel, and stepped aside. Gunshots followed. A pair of holes appeared in the center of the door. Wooden splinters littered the ground at his feet. Morgan peered through one of the holes and grinned at the sight of the women. The half-breed nurse looked to be a hag, but the señorita kneeling on her bed, smoking pistol in her hand, made his blood boil.
Morgan kicked the door open, stepped in and bowed, sweeping his hat before his chest.
“Elena Maria de Saucedo, permit me to introduce myself. I am Henry Morgan, a privateer and captain of the
Glenmorran.
And you, my dear lady, are my guest.”
Glenmorran.
And you, my dear lady, are my guest.”
Elena Maria studied the dashing figure before her with a certain amount of incredulity. He seemed wholly oblivious to the shouting, the pistol shots, the crash of doors echoing throughout the Inn of the Palms. He behaved like a suitor, as if presenting himself to her for the first time. She was surprised he knew her by name. But then he must also be aware of Don Alonso.
“Your
prisoner,
don't you mean?”
prisoner,
don't you mean?”
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