The sun emerged from the distant edge of the sea, burning through the
fine mist that hung on the horizon. Katherine was standing on the high
quartergallery, by the railing at the stern, the better to savor the
easterly breeze that tousled her hair and fluttered the cotton sleeves
of her seaman's shirt. The quiet of the ship was all but complete, with
only the rhythmic splash of waves against the bow and the occasional
groan from the masts.
She loved being on deck to watch the dawn, out of the sweltering gloom
of the Great Cabin. This morning, when the first light of day
brightened the stern windows, she'd crept silently from their narrow
bunk, leaving Hugh snoring contentedly. She'd made her way up to the
quarterdeck, where John Mewes dozed beside the steering house where he
was to monitor the weathered grey whipstaff, lashed secure on a course
due west.
Now she gazed out over the swells, past the occasional white-caps that
dotted the blue, and tasted the cool, moist air. During the voyage she
had learned how to read the cast of the sea, the sometimes fickle
Caribbean winds, the hidden portent in the color of clouds and sun.
She'd even begun practicing how to take latitude with the quadrant.
Suddenly a porpoise surfaced along the stern, then another, and
together they began to pirouette in the wake of the ship like spirited
colts. Was there any place else in the world, she wondered, quite like
the Caribbean? She never tired of watching for the schools of flying
fish that would burst from the sea's surface like flushed grouse,
seemingly in chase of the great barracuda that sometimes flashed past
the bow. And near the smaller islands, where shallow reefs turned the
coastal waters azure, she had seen giant sea turtles, green
leatherbacks and rusty-brown loggerheads, big as tubs and floating
languorously on the surface.
The wildness of the islands and sea had begun to purge her mind, her
memory. Fresh mornings like this had come to seem harbingers of a new
life as well as a new day, even as the quick, golden-hued sunsets
promised Hugh's warm embrace.
After Barbados they'd made sail for Nevis Island, and as they neared
the small log-and-clapboard English settlement along its southern
shore, the skies had finally become crystalline and dry, heralding the
end of the autumn rainy season. They lingered in the island's reef-
bound harbor almost three weeks while Winston careened the _Defiance_
and stripped away her barnacles, scorched the lower planks with burning
branches to kill shipworm, then caulked all her leaky seams with hemp
and pitch. Finally he'd laded in extra barrels of salt beef, biscuit,
and fresh water. They were all but ready to weigh anchor the day a
Dutch merchantman put in with word that the Commonwealth fleet had
begun preparations to depart Barbados.
Why so soon, they puzzled. Where were Cromwell's warships bound for
now?
Wherever the fleet's next destination, it scarcely mattered. The
American rebellion was finished. After word spread through Nevis and
St. Christopher that Barbados had capitulated, all the planters' talk
of defiance evaporated. If the largest English settlement in the
Americas could not stand firm, they reasoned, what chance did the small
ones have? A letter pledging fealty to Commons was dispatched to the
fleet by the Assembly of those two sister islands. That step taken,
they hoped Calvert would bypass them with his hungry army and sail
directly for Virginia, whose blustering royalists everyone now expected
to also yield without a murmur.
Still, after news came that the troops were readying to move out,
Katherine had agreed with Winston that they shouldn't chance being
surprised at Nevis. Who could tell when the Commonwealth's warships
might suddenly show themselves on the southern horizon? The next
morning they weighed anchor, heading north for the first two hundred
leagues, then steering due west. That had been six days ago. . . .
"You're lookin' lovely this morning, m'lady." John Mewes' groggy voice
broke the silence as he started awake, then rose and stretched and
ambled across the quarterdeck toward the bannister where she stood.
"I'd say there she is, sure as I'm a Christian." He was pointing south,
in the direction of the dim horizon, where a grey-green land mass had
emerged above the dark waters. "The pride of the Spaniards."
"What is it, John?"
"Why, that's apt to be none other than Hispaniola, Yor Ladyship. Plain
as a pikestaff. An' right on schedule." He bellied against the
bannister and yawned. "Doesn't look to have budged an inch since last I
set eyes on her."
She smiled. "Then that must mean we're nearing Tortuga. By the map, I
remember it's just off the north coast, around latitude twenty."
"Aye, we'll likely be raisin' the old 'Turtle' any time now. Though in
truth I'd as soon ne'er see the place again."
"Why do you say that?"
"'Tis home and hearth of the finest assembly of thieves as you're e'er
like to cross this side of Newgate prison. An' that's the fact of the
matter."
"Are you trying to make me believe you've actually been there, John?"
She regarded him carefully. John Mewes, she had come to realize, was
never at a loss for a story to share--though his distinction between
truth and fancy was often imprecise.
"Aye,'twas some years past, as the sayin' goes. When the merchantman I
was quartermaster on put in for a week to careen." He spat into the sea
and hitched up the belt on his breeches.
"What exactly was it like?"
"A brig out of Portsmouth. A beamy two master, with damn'd seams that'd
opened on us wide as a Dutch whore's cunny--beggin' Yor Ladyship's
pardon--which is why we had to put in to caulk her . . ."
"Tortuga, John."
"Aye, the Turtle. Like I was sayin', she's the Sodom of the Indies,
make no mistake. Fair enough from afar, I grant you, but try and put
in, an' you'll find out soon enough she's natural home for the rogue
who'd as soon do without uninvited company. That's why that nest of
pirates has been there so long right under the very nose of the pox-
rotted Spaniards. Mind you, she's scarcely more than twenty or thirty
miles tip to tip, but the north side's a solid cliff, lookin' down on
the breakers, whilst the other's just about nothing save shallow flats
an' mangrove thickets. There's only one bay where you can put in with a
frigate, a spot called Basse Terre, there on the south--that is, if you
can steer through the reefs that line both sides of the channel goin'
into it. But once you're anchored,'tis a passing good harbor, for it
all. Fine sandy bottom, with draft that'll take a seventy-gun brig."
"So that's how the Cow-Killers . . . the buccaneers have managed to
keep the island? There's only one spot the Spaniards could try and land
infantry, and to get there you've got to go through a narrow passage in
the reefs, easy to cover with cannon?"
"I'd say that's about the size of it. No bottom drops anchor at Tortuga
unless those rogues say you aye." He turned and began to secure a loose
piece of line dangling from the shroud supporting the mizzenmast. "Then
too there's your matter of location. You see, m'lady, the island lays
right athwart the Windward Passage, betwixt Hispaniola and Cuba, which
is one of the Spaniards' main shippin' lanes. Couldn't be handier if
you're thinkin' to lighten a Papist merchantman now and again. . . ."
Mewes' voice trailed off as he glanced up to see Winston emerge at the
head of the companionway, half asleep and still shirtless under his
jerkin. Following after him was Atiba, wearing a pair of ill-fitting
seaman's breeches, his bare shoulders glistening in the sun's early
glow. When he spotted Mewes, he gave a solemn bow, Yoruba style.
"_Ku abo_, senhor."
"Aye, _qu ava_ it is." Mewes nodded back, then turned to Katherine.
"Now, for your edification that means 'greetings,' or such like. Since
I've been teachin' him English, I've been pickin' up a few of the finer
points of that African gabble of his, what with my natural gift for
language."
"God's life, you are learning fastly, Senhor Mewes." Atiba smiled. "And
since you are scholaring my tongue so well, mayhaps I should cut some
of our clan marks on your mug, like mine. It is a damnable great
ceremony of my country."
"Pox on your 'damnable great ceremonies.'" Mewes busied himself with
the shroud. "I'll just keep my fine face the way it is, and thank you
kindly all the same."
Winston sleepily kissed Katherine on the forehead.
She gave him a long hug, then pointed toward the south. "John claims
that's Hispaniola."
"One and the same. The queen of the Greater Antilles. Take a good look,
Katy. I used to hunt cattle in those very woods. That mountain range
over in mid-island means we should raise Tortuga any time now." He
turned and began unlashing the whipstaff, then motioned Atiba forward.
"Want to try the helm for a while? To get the feel of her?"
"My damnable shoulder is good, senhor. I can set a course with this
stick, or cut by a sword, as better than ever."
"We'll see soon enough." He watched Atiba grasp the long hardwood lever
and test it. "I just may need you along to help me reason with my old
friend Jacques."
"Hugh, tell me some more about what he's like." Katherine took another
look at the hazy outline of Hispaniola, then moved alongside them.
"Jacques le Basque?" Winston smiled and thought back. Nobody knew where
Jacques was from, or who he was. They were all refugees from some other
place, and most went by assumed names--even he had been known simply as
"Anglais." "I'd guess he's French, but I never really knew all that
much about him, though we hunted side by side for a good five years."
He thumbed toward the green mountains. "But I can tell you one thing
for sure: Jacques le Basque created a new society on northern
Hispaniola, and Tortuga."
"What do you mean?"
"Katy, you talked about having an independent nation in the Americas, a
place not under the thumb of Europe? Well, he made one right over
there. We _boucaniers_ were a nation of sorts--shipwrecked seamen,
runaway indentures, half of them with jail or a noose waiting in one of
the other settlements. But any man alive was welcome to come and go as
he liked."
Katherine examined his lined face. "Hugh, you told me you once tried to
kill Jacques over some misunderstanding. But you never explained
exactly what it was about."
Winston fell silent and the only sound was the lap of waves against the
bow. Maybe, he told himself, the time has come. He took a deep breath
and turned to her. "Remember how I told you the Spaniards came and
burned out the Providence Company's English settlement on Tortuga? As
it happened, I was over on Hispaniola with Jacques at the time or I
probably wouldn't be here now. Well, the Spaniards stayed around for a
week or so, and troubled to hang some of Jacques's lads who happened in
with a load of hides. When we found out about it, he called a big
parlay over what we ought to do. All the hunters came--French, English,
even some Dutchmen. Every man there hated the Spaniards, and we decided
to pull together what cannon were left and fortify the harbor at Basse
Terre, in case they got a mind to come back."
"And?"
"Then after some time went by Jacques got the idea we ought not just
wait for them. That wed best try and take the fight back. So he sent
word around the north side of Hispaniola that any man who wanted to
help should meet him on Tortuga. When everybody got there, he announced
we needed to be organized, like the Spaniards. Then he stove open a keg
of brandy and christened us Les Freres de la Cote, the Brotherhood of
the Coast. After we'd all had a tankard or two, he explained he wanted
to try and take a Spanish ship."
"You mean he sort of declared war on Spain?"
"As a matter of fact, that's how it turned out." He smiled. "Jacques
said we'd hunted the Spaniards' cattle long enough; now we would hunt
the whoreson Spaniards themselves. We'd sail under our old name of
_boucanier_, and he swore that before we were through nobody would
remember the time it only meant cow hunters. We'd make it the most
dreaded word a Spaniard could hear."
John Mewes was squinting toward the west now, past the bowsprit.
Abruptly he secured a last knot in the shroud, then headed down the
companionway and past the seamen loitering by the mainmast.
"And that was the beginning? When the Cow-Killers became sea rovers and
pirates?" For some reason the story made her vaguely uneasy. "You were
actually there? A part of it?"
"I was there." Winston paused to watch Mewes.
"So then you . . . joined them?"
"No particular reason not to. The damned Spaniards had just murdered
some of ours, Katy, not to mention about six hundred English settlers.
I figured why not give them a taste back? Besides, it looked to be the
start of a grand adventure. We got together as many arms as we could
muster, muskets and axes, and put to sea. Us against the Spaniards . .
."
"Cap'n, care to come forward an' have a look?" Mewes was pointing at
the dark green hump that had just appeared on the horizon. "That looks
to be her, if I'm not amiss."
Winston turned to study the sea ahead of them. Just above the surface
of the sea was the tip of a large hump, deep green like a leatherback
turtle.
"Aye. Maybe youd best order all hands to station for the afternoon
watch, John." He reached back and kissed Katherine lightly. "Katy, the
rest of this little tale will have to wait. We've got to get ready now.
In truth, I don't exactly know how pleased my old friend Jacques is
going to be seeing me again after all these years."
As she watched him head down the companionway, she felt a curious
mixture of excitement and unease. Now, all at once, she was wondering
if she really did want to know what Hugh had been like back then.
Perhaps, she told herself, there are some things better just forgotten.
_"Bon soir, Capitaine_." A young man carrying a candle-lantern was
standing at the water's edge to greet their longboat as Winston, John
Mewes, and Atiba, backed by five seamen with flintlocks, rowed in to
the shallows. "Tibaut de Fontenay, _a votre service, Messieurs_. We
spotted your mast lights from up at the Forte. Since you seemed to know
the reefs, we assumed you had been here before. So you are welcome."
He appeared to be in his early twenties and was attired lavishly--a
plumed hat topped his long curls, his long velvet waistcoat was parted
rakishly to display an immaculate white cravat, and high, glistening
boots shaped his calves. The dull glow of the lantern illuminated an
almost obsequious grin.
Around them the dark outlines of a dozen frigates nodded in the light
swell, while lines of foam, sparkling in the moonlight, chased up the
shore. The _Defiance_ had been the last vessel to navigate Basse
Terre's narrow channel of reefs before the quick Caribbean dusk
descended.
"The name is Winston. Master of the _Defiance_." He slid over the
gunwale of the longboat and waded through the light surf. "Late of
Barbados and Nevis."
"_Bienvenue_." The man examined him briefly, then smiled again as he
extended his hand and quickly shifted to heavily-accented English.
"Your affairs, _Capitaine_, are of course no concern to us here. Any
man who comes in peace is welcome at La Tortue, in the name of His
Majesty, King Louis Quatorze of France."
"What the devil!" Winston drew back his hand and stared up at the
lantern-lit assemblage of taverns along the shore. "Tortuga is French
now?"
"_Mais oui_, for the better part of a year. The _gouverneur_ of St.
Christophe--the French side--found it necessary to dispatch armed
frigates and take this island under his authority. The Anglais
_engages_ planting here were sent on their way; they are fortunate we
did not do worse. But ships of all nations are always invited to trade
for our fine hides, brasil wood for making dye, and the most succulent
_viande fumee_ you will taste this side of Paris." He bowed lightly,
debonairly. "Or Londres. We also have a wide assortment of items in
Spanish gold for sale here--and we have just received a shipload of
lovely mademoiselles from Marseilles to replace the diseased English
whores who had come near to ruining this port's reputation."
"We don't need any provisions, and we don't have time for any
entertainment this stop. The _Defiance_ is just passing through, bound
for the Windward Passage. I'd thought to put in for tonight and have a
brandy with an old friend. Jacques le Basque. Know if he's around?"
"My master?" The man quickly raised his lantern to scrutinize Winston's
face. "He does not normally receive visitors at the Forte, but you may
send him your regards through me. I will be happy to tell him a
Capitaine Winston ..."
"What in hell are you talking about? What 'fort' is that?"
"Forte de la Roche, 'the fort on the rock,' up there." He turned to
point through the dark. On a hill overlooking the harbor a row of
torches blazed, illuminating a battery of eighteen-pound culverin set
above a high stone breastwork.
"When was that built? It wasn't here before."
"Only last year, Capitaine. Part of our new fortifications. It is the
residence of our _commandant de place_.
"Your _commandant_ . . ." Winston stopped dead still. "You've got a
governor here now?"
"_Oui_." He smiled. "In fact, you are fortunate. He is none other than
your friend Jacques. He was appointed to the post last year by the
Chevalier de Poncy of St. Christophe, administrator of all our French
settlements in the Caribbean." He examined the men in the longboat, his
glance anxiously lingering on Atiba, who had a shiny new cutlass
secured at his waist. "May I take it you knew Jacques well?"
"I knew him well enough in the old days, back before he arranged to
have himself appointed governor. But then I see times have changed."
"Many things have changed here, Capitaine."
"I'll say they have." Winston signaled for Atiba to climb out of the
longboat. "But my friend and I are going up to this 'Forte' and pay a
visit to Commandant le Basque, and you can save your messages and
diplomatic papers. He knows who I am."
De Fontenay stiffened, not quite sure how to reply. As he did, a band
of seamen emerged out of the dark and came jostling down the sandy
shore toward them, carrying candle-lanterns and tankards and singing an
English chantey with convivial relish.
_". . . We took aboard the Captain's daughter, And gave her fire 'twixt
wind and water . . ."
_
Several were in pairs, their arms about each other's shoulders. All
were garbed in a flamboyant hodgepodge of European fashions--gold rings
and medallions, stolen from the passengers of Spanish merchant
frigates, glistened in the lantern light. Most wore fine leather sea
boots; a few were barefoot.