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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

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Paloma stirred from his drowsy state on hearing his name spoken. The wind's warm breath fanned the corporal's grizzled features as he unfolded a piece of paper he had been making marks on throughout
the day. Corporal Paloma cleared his throat and then checked his totals. “I counted two hundred and thirty-six men crossed from Morgan's ships to the shore. None returned.”
“Then what are they waiting for?” Don Alonso grumbled. The sooner he taught this brigand a lesson, the better.
 
 
“What are we waiting for,
mon ami?”
said Voisin, crouched on the steps leading to the upper deck. Most of the crew waited in the stifling heat below, having retired to the gundeck to keep themselves out of sight. The few dozen men Morgan had used in his ruse, after hours of crossing and recrossing the bay, had finished their task. Concealed in the longboats, they had returned from shore and scurried like rats up ropes lowered to them from the open ports on the gundeck.
Morgan moved among his crew. Quarrels died when he passed. Men took courage from him though he seemed unaware of the pirates crowding the deck. He offered no words of comfort to stiffen their spines and prepare them for the fact that he was gambling with their lives. Yet there was a stillness about him, a calm at the center of a storm. And on this ship of iron men, all eyes were upon him. Voisin spoke for them all. What was he waiting for? When were they going to make a break for the open sea? When?
Morgan took no notice of the crew. He was listening to the ship. It spoke to him in the creak of timber head and deck beam, in the way she settled in the water and drifted on the oncoming waves. He paused by the door to the captain's cabin, placed his hand upon the latch, then hesitated. Within the cabin itself, Elena Maria brought her finger to her lips. Consuelo fumed and fidgeted but held her counsel. Elena placed the palm of her hand upon the door. The wood felt warm to the touch, as if a fire raged close by. She trembled, not out of fear, but excitement. Another woman might have bemoaned her fate. Elena Maria intended to make the most of her present predicament. A man as resourceful and daring as Henry Morgan did not come along every day of the week. There had to be a way to turn this encounter with
el Tigre
to her advantage.
Morgan knew she was close by. And he might have succumbed to his baser instincts. But now was hardly the time or place. There would be other opportunities, providing the Spanish gunners didn't send them all to the bottom of the bay. He continued across the deck, nudged Voisin aside, and climbed the steps. There, on the fringe of sunlight and shadow he waited, his soul reaching out to the ship and
the sea and the good wind. And when the men below did not think they could endure another moment he turned to them, eyes ablaze, his limbs poised like a cat about to pounce. Then he grinned and bounded out onto the upper deck and with arms outstretched to embrace this moment of truth, exclaimed, “Now!”
 
 
A ragged volley erupted from the seaward ramparts. The sound startled the defenders manning the walls to either side of the main gate. Don Alonso grabbed up his musket and sword and prepared to repulse the brigands as they charged from the underbrush. He peered over the battlements as Captain Muñez was in the process of leading a force of skirmishers into the woods to determine the state of Morgan's buccaneers. The roar of the cannons sent the captain and his men scurrying back to the safety of the fortress. Don Alonso searched the underbrush, expecting to find a full-scale assault under way.
Then came the daunting realization that the ragged fire hailed from the ramparts overlooking the bay. Sweat glistened in his close-trimmed beard; above that bristly line of salt-and-pepper hairs, the governor's cheeks paled. He stared down at Muñez, who had reached the same conclusion. The few remaining twelve-pounders on the seaward walls kept up their pitiful barrage—too few, too late.
“No,” Don Alonso muttered. “No!” It was impossible! They had seen with their own eyes, boat after boat of pirates ferried to shore. Morgan wouldn't leave his men behind. What was happening? Perhaps a feint to draw attention from the gate. Maybe … yes …
Muñez left his men by the gate and dashed across the compound, past a stone magazine, barrack, a smithy, el commandante's quarters during his infrequent visits to the island. Don Alonso tersely instructed the gun crew to continue to prepare for an assault on the gate. Then the governor quit his post and began to make his way around the perimeter of the fortress. He kept to the walkways, the longer route, for the walls were irregular and built at angles to themselves to facilitate a crossfire on an attacking force. His borrowed clothes, ill-fitting at best, were patched with sweat by the time he reached an empty gun emplacement where Captain Muñez stood leaning on the battlement, dumbstruck, a spyglass gripped loosely in his hand. He turned as Don Alonso approached. The younger man was almost in tears. His lower lip quivered. For a moment Don Alonso thought the officer was about to strike out at him.
“What have you done,
Gobernador?”
He held out the spyglass.
Don Alonso took the instrument. The sun was a molten orange ornament balanced on a riff of rose-tinted cloud and sinking toward the low hills beyond Maracaibo. The air smelled of salt, of decaying seaweed, of defeat. The two sloops were already through the entrance to the bay. The
Santa Rosa
was still within range; unfortunately, the guns that could have been brought to bear on the brig had been loaded with grapeshot and hauled across the fort to defend against an attack by land that didn't exist.
The governor peered through the spyglass at the brig. He could see Elena Maria, standing on deck, bound for Jamaica, and there was nothing to do but watch helplessly. She was looking at him. He could imagine the accusation in her eyes. The governor shifted his stance, swept the deck, then came to rest on Henry Morgan himself.
The pirate was standing on the rail in full view of the defenders, an easy target for a twelve-pounder. But the angle was wrong. And Morgan knew it. He made a pretty target, with his shirt open to the waist and his bronze chest naked to the sun, his long hair streaming in the wind like the mane of a great beast.
“I am
el Tigre del Caribe
, the scourge of the Dons, beholden to none, a brethren of the Black Flag. The sea calls me by name. Gold is my destiny.
Adiós,
Señor del Campo. I will wait for you and your gold in Port Royal!”
And with that the pirate captain bowed courteously, swept an imaginary hat across his chest, flashed a broad grin, then bounded to the deck and began to issue orders to his crew.
The governor turned livid. This would not end here. As soon as one of the overdue warships put into port, Don Alonso vowed, he would take up the pursuit.
I will bring this brigand back in chains or see him die by my hand
.
He smashed the spyglass across the corner of the parapet; the impact shattered the lenses and bent the brass casing. He glared at the young captain, squared his shoulders, drew himself upright, and assumed the dignity of his station. The brash young officer retreated from the aristocrat's cold, emasculating glare.
“What have I done?” said Don Alonso. “On the contrary. What have
you
done, Captain Muñez? It appears you have allowed Henry Morgan to escape.”
W
e are Brethren of Blood,
we are sons of the sea.
We are children of havoc
and born to be free.
Morgan sailed from the bay on the wings of the wind.
Fare you well, Maracaibo, should he ne'er come again.
Too late for your pistols and swords that are keen
For he's stolen your treasures and captured your queen.
F
rom his perch astraddle the fore topgallant, on a yardarm sixty feet above the deck, Henry Morgan opened his arms to the crossbreeze swelling the canvas sail beneath him. The brig swayed and trembled, connecting him to the pulse of the mysterious deep. No man was his master, no fate held him bound. His future was now, and that was enough. Every raid was like being plunged into the depths of darkness, every return was like being born anew. He lived by his courage and his cunning and, of course, his luck. Morgan's luck. He vowed to never get so old that regrets outnumbered his dreams.
 
 
Thomas LeBishop, standing amidships on the upper deck of the
Jericho
, looked back at the Spanish brig and the captain in the rigging. The Black Cleric scowled and grumbled, “Reckless fool,” beneath his breath. He could only hope Morgan would make a misstep and fall and break his blasted neck.
“Look at him, Mister Tregoning. Ever since that damn Welshman arrived in Port Royal …” LeBishop scowled, leaving the statement unfinished. For the past ten years he'd watched his own influence erode while Morgan flourished, returning time and time again with the hold of his sloop filled to the gunwales with plunder. Well, no more. Morgan had served his purpose, LeBishop told himself, the wind fluttering the hem of his black coat as he drew a worn leather-bound
Bible from the same coat pocket in which he kept a heavy-bore pistol with a cut-down barrel for close-in killing.
“‘As by one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin …'” he read aloud. The Black Cleric glanced around at the hardened rogues who sailed beneath his flag. Every man jack of them was eager to squander his ill-gotten gain in the fleshpots of Port Royal. LeBishop continued to read. “‘ … so that death passed upon all men.'”
“What does it mean, Cap'n?” asked Tregoning. The quartermaster's flinty gaze never left the crew as they tended to the sailing of the ship. The
Jericho
was running with full sail to the wind, slicing through the gnarled sea.
“That is for me to know, old friend, and Henry Morgan to find out.” LeBishop returned his Bible to his coat pocket and exchanged it for a small glass flask of brandy from his waistcoat pocket. He took a drink. It would be the first of many.
 
 
At the
Glenmorran'
s stern, Sir William leaned his elbows on the rail, lit his pipe from a length of burning hemp, and contented himself to watch the brig churning across the wake of the sure, swift sloop. Israel Goodenough made his way aft to join his friend. The sea was choppy and hammered against the hull and the helmsman kept the
Glenmorran
leaning into the wind.
“Is that Henry on the foremast?” Goodenough asked, fishing in his pocket for his own clay pipe. He removed his hand and stared at the trace of tobacco on his fingertips and frowned, trying to remember where he had last set it down.
“Who else?” Sir William grumbled. He straightened, pursed his lips, clasped his hands behind his back, and shook his head, muttering a sigh of disapproval, as if he were a schoolmaster watching the perilous antics of a favorite pupil.
“Let the younkers risk their necks, I tell him. He's too old for climbing around the rigging like a powder monkey. It's easy enough for a young man to lose his purchase. One careless move and what would our captain do then?”
“Fly,” the gunner chuckled, “I have no doubt.” He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt, dabbed the perspiration from his brow. He stared down at his callused, scarred hands disfigured by brawls and powder burns. Two of his fingers were crooked where the recoil of a nine-pounder had slammed into his fist. “But old? That's
us, friend. Getting too old for boarding parties and duels and outrunning Spanish gunships.”
“But not for a homecoming. There'll be a carnival tonight in Port Royal,” Sir William observed with a wink and a nod.
“And a time for serious sinning. But Henry would do well to watch himself. I seen how he looks at the señorita. And, I imagine, so has Nell,” said Goodenough.
“My daughter has had a quick fuse since she set her sights on Henry Morgan.”
“Gunsights, if he ain't careful,” Goodenough retorted. He made his way over to one of the swivel guns mounted astern. It was a Spanish piece, forged in the ironworks of Seville. The gunner appreciated the craftsmanship that went into the two-foot-long barrel and forked mount. The Spaniards made fine weapons. They were a pleasure to steal.
He loaded the swivel gun with gunpowder and cloth wadding then dusted the fire-hole with fine-grain priming. He took the length of smoldering hemp from Sir William and touched the glowing tip to the gunpowder. The fire-hole ignited, flared, the swivel gun roared its salute in the direction of the brig. All hands on the deck of the
Glenmorran
bolted upright, startled from their labors by the blast and the cloud of black smoke billowing from the stern gun.
 
 
Morgan heard the swivel gun boom, and swung down to the shrouds, caught hold on the whipcord rigging, and leaned out to wave in the direction of the
Glenmorran.
He shouted down to his crew and gave orders to return the salute. The gunners were only too happy to comply, and loosed a volley that thundered across the bay.
“Take that, Israel Goodenough!” Morgan shouted, although he knew his friend could not hear him. Morgan seemed immune to the precariousness of his position. With his dark brown hair streaming in the wind, his features washed in the burnished light, the captain welcomed this journey's end. A great sense of accomplishment and elation welled in his heart. He looked beyond the sloop and his spirit soared as the island of Jamaica rose like the first glimpse of paradise over the horizon. Lush forests, jagged hills, waterfalls spilling down from alabaster bluffs, a pearl-white shore bathed in the light of afternoon. Here was refuge for the weary buccaneer, a safe port for the Brethren of the Black Flag, and the lair of
el Tigre del Caribe.
After eight days and nights spent constantly on their guard, searching
the horizon for pursuing Spanish frigates, the jumble of houses, taverns, shops, and brothels of Port Royal were a sweet sight. Even the threatening line of thunderheads building behind the Blue Mountains failed to mar the island's welcome beauty.
“Shall I call out, Captain?” asked Rafiki Kogi, leaning over the edge of the crow's nest that capped the main mast. Like Morgan, the African was stripped to the waist. His ebony flesh soaked in the warmth of the afternoon. He tossed a spyglass to Morgan.
“By all means, Mister Kogi,” said Henry Morgan. He more closely resembled a common seaman then the master of a ship. He'd exchanged his finery for a pair of breeches cut from a rough red nap; about his waist was a broad leather belt from which dangled a satchel of silver coins stamped with the likeness of the Spanish crown. He maneuvered, sleek and nimble-footed as a cat, through the intricate tangle of whipcord and brass grommets and panels of extra sail.
“Land ho!” the African bellowed.
A cry of enthusiasm drifted up to them from below. Hatches were opened and the men on the gundeck scrambled up into the sunlight to catch a sight of home and hearth. The crew of the
Santa Rosa
cheered and slapped one another on the back, shouted a salute to Morgan. Blue glass bottles of rum were passed around and everyone had a chance to drink a toast to the gods of sea and sky who had brought them safely to Port Royal. As the
Santa Rosa
entered the bay, a flotilla of outriggers, johnnyboats, and skiffs pulled away from shore. Most of the craft were piloted by the local youth, the bastard offspring of buccaneers who called Port Royal home. They came on in every manner of craft, young hellions to a fault, eager to prove their worth, born with the sea in their blood and a thirst for youthful adventure—boys and girls together, all of them eager to be first to reach the ships before they docked. At first the youth started for the
Glenmorran,
but then someone noticed Morgan atop the rigging of the
Santa Rosa
, and the makeshift flotilla altered its course for the brig.
Morgan waved to the throng. And yet even as the smaller boats narrowed the gap between their crafts and the oncoming brig, an innate sense of caution caused the freebooter to make a quick appraisal of the ships in the bay, the redoubts and batteries whose guns protected the entrance to the harbor and the waterfront with its familiar conglomeration of shops, taverns, brothels, and rooming houses that the civilized world had dubbed “the wickedest place on earth.” Among these narrow winding crowded streets, anything could be had for a price, every desire fulfilled, every thirst slaked. Its
populace was free to fight or run, buy or sell, be drunk or sober, however they pleased. A revel could be counted on to last round-the-clock. But these weren't mere free souls celebrating an innocent way of life that placed them outside the stranglehold of kings and courts and decrees: violence had become a way of life; the night-shrouded alleys were often sites of last resort, and home to the quick and the dead.
Port Royal was wild and untamed, a place of sin, beyond the rule of law, where rum flowed free, where every man was master of his fate, and the women were as good as gold … or pieces of eight, or pearls, emeralds, rubies, or bartered bolts of silk, sacks of sugar, bales of tobacco, kegs of cocoa …
The island's hidden valleys and forest-covered mountain ranges were bordered by limestone cliffs whose base the tides had eroded into a white sandy shore. The bay's dark sapphire surface lightened in hue the closer one came to land, until the shallows were all but translucent and sunlight plunged to the seafloor. The sky was filled with a swirl of gulls and terns flashing white against the sky. Brown pelicans in flocks and alone dove into the sea, then, with their great wings pummeling the air, emerged from the surf with the catch of the day wriggling in their beaks.
Morgan satisfied himself that all was well. He looped a length of rope around his wrist, then, once secured to the yardarm, leaned out until he could see the Frenchman at the helm. He noticed the women had also arrived on deck. Doña Elena cut a fine figure even from this height.
“Monsieur Voisin! See you follow the
Glenmorran
into the bay—ease past the ships of our good brothers. This brig carries a deep draft. Best we anchor offshore. Bring us in past the
Sea Witch
. Take care we don't crowd Calico Jack. That tub of his needs a good bit of room to come about.”
“With pleasure,
mon capitaine,”
Voisin shouted back. He knew the shallows and reefs like the back of his hand, and pointed the bow of the
Santa Rosa
toward the southern shore at a point about fifty yards out from the dockside where the stonewalled warehouses crowded the waterfront.
Port Royal and its helter-skelter maze of narrow streets dominated the peninsula bordering the south side of the bay. The infamous stronghold, with its brightly painted limestone-and-wood buildings, was awash with activity. As the great sea bell on the tip of the peninsula began to peal, signaling the return of Morgan and his crew, the
denizens of Port Royal crowded into the narrow streets. Not even the menacing sky could dim the enthusiasm that greeted Morgan's arrival. His return called for a festival. The prodigal town was eager to welcome
el Tigre del Caribe,
for he was one of their own.
 
 
Sir Richard Purselley, governor of Jamaica, whom the gods favored with warm eyes, an aquiline nose, a generous smile, and a heart as cold as the gold he coveted, paced the terrace in front of the governor's house, paused to adjust his periwig, brushed a curious bee from the cup of bloodred Bordeaux his Maroon servant had set out for him, and then took a seat upon the high-backed wooden throne built to his specifications by a local artisan.
“Well, Captain, do you hear that?” He tilted his wineglass in the direction of the peninsula and the pealing bell. The bells atop the church of St. Bernard in Kingston took up the call. “Sounds like a bloody coronation. Do you think it's Morgan?” He glanced over at the English officer standing close at hand.
“We'll know soon enough.” Alan Hastiler—his square-jawed, honest features wearing a mask of seriousness—leaned his yeoman's hands upon the stone railing as he studied the bay. A Northumberland childhood had little prepared the British marine for the Caribbean. At first he had dreaded this placement. But it hadn't taken long for the island to work its magic on him. The warm trade winds, the music, the exotic foods, the sunlight and hills and heady perfume from the flowers that seemed always in bloom and pervaded every aspect of life, had tempered his rigid English upbringing.
It had become a daily struggle to remind himself that he and his marines were charged with enforcing English law and ensuring order and the English way of life in Jamaica. Granted, paradise may have rounded some of his ‘edges', but he was still the same servant of King and Country.
Captain Hastiler stared at the wineglass in the governor's hand and its companion on the tray and licked his lips. It was rumored the governor kept a fine cellar. But Hastiler knew hell would have to freeze over before the foppish aristocrat, seated on his “throne,” offered him a taste of his wine. Until that time or the world should end, the governor of Jamaica imbibed alone.

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