De Fontenay started purposefully up the road. About six hundred yards
from the shoreline the steep slope of a hill began. The climb was long
and tortuous, and the young Frenchman was breathing heavily by the time
they were halfway up.
"This place is damnable strong, senhor. Very hard to attack,
even with guns." Atiba shifted the cutlass in his belt and peered up
the hill, toward the line of torches. He was moving easily, his bare
feet molding to the rough rock steps.
"It could never be stormed from down below, that much is sure." Winston
glanced back. "But we're not here to try and take this place. He can
keep Tortuga and bleed it dry for all I care. I'll just settle for some
of those men I saw tonight. If they want to part company with him . .
."
"Those whoresons are not lads who fight," Atiba commented. "They are
drunkards."
"They can fight as well as they drink." Winston smiled. "Don't let the
brandy fool you."
"Your _brancos_ are a damnable curiosity, senhor." He grunted. "I am
waiting to see how my peoples here live, the slaves."
"The _boucaniers_ don't cut cane, so they don't have slaves."
"Then mayhaps I will drink with them."
"You'd best hold that till after we're finished with Jacques, my
friend." Winston glanced up toward the fort. "Just keep I your cutlass
handy."
They had reached the curving row of steps that led through the arched
gateway of the fortress. Above them a steep wall of cut stone rose up
against the dark sky, and across the top, illuminated by torches, was
the row of culverin. Sentries armed with flintlocks, in helmets and
flamboyant Spanish coats, barred the gateway till de Fontenay waved
them aside. Then guards inside unbolted the iron gate and they moved up
the final stairway.
Winston realized the fort had been built on a natural plateau, with
terraces inside the walls which would permit several hundred musketmen
to fire unseen down on the settlement below. From somewhere in the back
he could hear the gurgle of a spring--meaning a supply of fresh water,
one of the first requirements of a good fortress.
Jacques had found a natural redoubt and fortified it brilliantly. All
the settlement and the harbor now were under his guns. Only
the mountain behind, a steep precipice, had any vantage over Forte de
la Roche.
"Senhor, what is that?" Atiba was pointing toward the massive boulder,
some fifty feet wide and thirty feet high, that rested in the center of
the yard as though dropped there by the hand of God.
Winston studied it, puzzling, then noticed a platform atop the rock,
with several cannon projecting out. A row of brick steps led halfway up
the side, then ended abruptly. When they reached the base, de Fontenay
turned back.
"The citadel above us is Jacques's personal residence, what he likes to
call his 'dovecote.' It will be necessary for you to wait here while I
ask him to lower the ladder."
"The ladder?"
"_Mais oui_, a security measure. No one is allowed up there without his
consent."
He called up, identified himself, and after a pause the first rungs of
a heavy iron ladder appeared through an opening in the platform. Slowly
it began to be lowered toward the last step at the top of the stair.
Again de Fontenay hesitated. "Perhaps it might be best if I go first,
Messieurs. Jacques is not fond of surprises."
"He never was." Winston motioned for Atiba to stay close.
De Fontenay hung his lantern on a brass spike at the side of the
stairs, then turned and lightly ascended the rungs. From the platform
above, two musketmen covered his approach with flintlocks. He saluted
them, then disappeared.
As Winston waited, Atiba at his side, he heard a faint human voice, a
low moaning sound, coming from somewhere near their feet. He looked
down and noticed a doorway at the base of the rock, leading into what
appeared to be an excavated chamber. The door was of thick hewn logs
with only a small grate in its center.
Was that, he wondered, the dungeon Bartholomew called Purgatory?
Suddenly he felt an overwhelming sense of anger and betrayal at what
Jacques had become. Whatever else he might have been, this was the man
whose name once stood for freedom. And now . . .
He was turning to head down and inspect Purgatory first-hand when a
welcome sounded from the platform above.
"_Mon ami! Bienvenue_, Anglais. _Mon Dieu, il y a tres long-temps!_ A
good ten years, _n 'est-ce pas_?" A bearded face peered down, while a
deep voice roared with pleasure. "Perhaps you've finally learned
something about how to shoot after all this time. Come up and let me
have a look at you."
"And maybe you've improved your aim, Jacques. Your last pistol ball
didn't get you a hide." Winston turned back and reached for the ladder.
"_Oui_, truly it did not, Anglais. How near did I come?" He extended a
rough hand as Winston emerged.
"Close enough." Winston stepped onto the platform of the citadel.
In the flickering torchlight he recognized the old leader of the
_boucaniers_, now grown noticeably heavier; his thick beard, once black
as onyx, was liberally threaded with white. He sported a ruffled
doublet of red silk and had stuffed his dark calico breeches into
bucket-top sea boots of fine Spanish leather. The gold rings on several
fingers glistened with jewels, and the squint in his eyes was deep and
malevolent.
Le Basque embraced Winston, then drew back and studied his scar. "_Mon
Dieu_, so I came closer than I thought. _Mes condoleances_. I must have
been sleepy that morning. I'd fully intended to take your head."
"How about some of your French brandy, you old _batard_? For me and my
friend. By the look of things, I'd say you can afford it."
"_Vraiment_. Brandy for the Anglais . . . and his friend." The
boucanier nodded warily as he saw Atiba appear at the top of the
ladder. After a moment's pause, he laughed again, throatily. "Truly I
can afford anything. The old days are over. I'm rich. Many a Spaniard
has paid for what they did to us back then."
He turned and barked an order to de Fontenay. The young man bowed, then
moved smoothly through the heavy oak doors leading into Jacques's
residence. "You know, I still hear of you from time to time, Anglais.
But never before have we seen you here, _n 'est-ce pas_? How have you
been?"
"Well enough. I see you've been busy yourself." Winston glanced up at
the brickwork house Jacques had erected above the center of the rock.
It was a true citadel. Along the edge of the platform, looking out, a
row of nine-pound demi-culverin had been installed. "But what's this
talk you chased off the English planters?"
"They annoyed me. You know that never was wise. So I decided to be rid
of them. Besides, it's better this way. A few were permitted to stay on
and sail for me, but La Tortue must be French." He reached for a
tankard from the tray de Fontenay was offering. "I persuaded our
_gouverneur_ up on St. Christophe to send down a few frigates to help
me secure this place."
"Is that why you keep men in a dungeon up here? We never had such
things in the old days."
"My little Purgatory?" He handed the tankard to Winston, then offered
one to Atiba. The Yoruba eyed him coldly and waved it away. Jacques
shrugged, taking a sip himself before continuing. "Surely you
understand the need for discipline. If these men disobey me, they must
be dealt with. Otherwise, no one remembers who is in charge of this
place."
"I thought we'd planned to just punish the Spaniards, not each other."
"But we are, Anglais, we are. Remember when I declared they would
someday soil their breeches whenever they heard the word '_boucanier'_?
Well, it's come true. They swear using my name. Half the time the
craven bastards are too terrified to cock a musket when my men board
one of their merchant frigates." He smiled. "Everything we wanted back
then has come to pass. Sweet revenge." He reached and absently drew a
finger down de Fontenay's arm. "But tell me, Anglais, have you got a
woman these days? Or a _matelot_?" He studied Atiba.
"An Englishwoman is sailing with me. She's down on the _Defiance_."
"The _Defiance_?"
"My Spanish brig."
"_Oui_, but of course. I heard how you acquired it." He laughed and
stroked his beard. "_Alors_, tomorrow you must bring this Anglaise of
yours up and let me meet her. Show her how your old friend has made his
way in the world."
"That depends. I thought we'd empty a tankard or two tonight and talk a
bit."
"_Bon_. Nothing better." He signaled to de Fontenay for a refill, and
the young man quickly stepped forward with the flask. "Tonight we
remember old times."
Winston laughed. "Could be there're a few things about the old days
we'd best let be. So maybe I'll just work on this fine brandy of yours
and hear how you're getting along these days with our good friends the
Spaniards."
"Ah, Anglais, we get on very well. I have garroted easily a hundred of
those bastards for every one of ours they killed back then, and taken
enough cargo to buy a kingdom. You know, if their Nuevo Espana Armada,
the one that ships home silver from their mines in Mexico, is a week
overdue making the Canary Islands, the King of Spain and all his
creditors from Italy to France cannot shit for worrying I might have
taken it. Someday, my friend, I will."
"Good. I'll drink to it." Winston lifted his tankard. "To the
Spaniards."
Jacques laughed. "_Oui_. And may they always be around to keep me
rich."
"On that subject, old friend, I had a little project in mind. I was
thinking maybe I'd borrow a few of your lads and stage a raid on a
certain Spanish settlement."
"Anglais, why would you want to bother? Believe me when I tell you
there's not a town on the Main I could not take tomorrow if I choose.
But they're mostly worthless." He drank again, then rose and strolled
over to the edge of the platform. Below, mast lights were speckled
across the harbor, and music drifted up from the glowing tavern
windows. "By the time you get into one, the Spaniards have carried
everything they own into the forest and emptied the place."
"I'll grant you that. But did you ever consider taking one of their
islands? Say . . . Jamaica?"
"_Mon ami_, the rewards of an endeavor must justify the risk." Jacques
strolled back and settled heavily into a deep leather chair. "What's
over there? Besides their militia?"
"They've got a fortress and a town, Villa de la Vega, and there's bound
to be a bit of coin, maybe even some plate. But the harbor's the real .
. ."
"_Oui, peut-etre_. Perhaps there's a sou or two to be had there
somewhere. But why trouble yourself with a damned militia when there're
merchantmen plying the Windward Passage day in and day out, up to their
gunwales with plate, pearls from their oyster beds down at Margarita,
even silks shipped overland from those Manila galleons that put in at
Acapulco . . .?"
"You know an English captain named Jackson took that fortress a few
years back, and ransomed it for twenty thousand pieces-of-eight? That's
a hundred and sixty thousand _reals_. "
"Anglais, I also know very well they have a battery of guns in that
fort, covering the harbor. It wouldn't be all that simple to storm."
"As it happens, I've taken on a pilot who knows that harbor better than
you know the one right down below, and I'm thinking I might sail over
and see it." Winston took another swallow. "You're welcome to send
along some men if you like. I'll split any metal money and plate with
them."
"Forget it. Anglais. None of these men will . . ."
"Wait a minute, Jacques. You don't own them. That was never the way. So
if some of these lads decide to sail with me, that's their own affair."
"My friend, why do you think I am the _commandant de place_ if I do not
command? Have you seen those culverin just below us, trained on the
bay? No frigate enters Basse Terre--or leaves it--against my will. Even
yours, _mon ami_. Don't lose sight of that."
"I thought you were getting smarter than you used to be, Jacques."
"Don't try and challenge me again, Anglais." Jacques's hand had edged
slowly toward the pistol in his belt, but then he glanced at Atiba and
hesitated. "Though it's not my habit to kill a man while he's drinking
my brandy." He smiled suddenly, breaking the tension, and leaned back.
"It might injure my reputation for hospitality."
"When I'm in the fortress overlooking Jamaica Bay one day soon, I'll
try and remember to drink your health."
"You really think you can do it, don't you?" He sobered and studied
Winston.
"It's too easy not to. But I told you we could take it as partners,
together."
"Anglais, I'm not a fool. You don't have the men to manage it alone. So
you're hoping I'll give you some of mine."
"I don't want you to 'give' me anything, you old whoremaster. I said we
would take it together.
"Forget it. I have better things to do." He smiled. "But all the same,
it's always good to see an old friend again. Stay a while. Anglais.
What if tomorrow night we feasted like the old days, _boucanier_ style?
Why not show your _femme_ how we used to live?"
"Jacques, we've got victuals on the _Defiance_."
"Is that what you think of me?" He sighed. "That I would forgo this
chance to relive old times? Bring this _petite_ Anglaise of yours up
and let her meet your old _ami_. I knew you before you were sure which
end of a musket to prime. I watched you bring down your first wild
boar. And now, when I welcome you and yours with open arms, you scorn
my generosity."
"We're not finished with this matter of the Spaniards, my friend."
"_Certainement_. Perhaps I will give it some consideration. We can
think about it tomorrow night, while we all share some brandy and dine
on _barbacoa_, same as the old days. As long as I breathe, nothing else
will ever taste quite so good." He motioned for de Fontenay to lower
the iron ladder. "We will remember the way we used to live. In truth. I
even think I miss it at times. Life was simpler then."
"Things don't seem so simple around here any more, Jacques."
"But we can remember, my friend. Humility. It nourishes the soul."
"To old times then, Jacques." He drained his tankard and signaled for
Atiba. "Tomorrow."
"_Oui_, Anglais. _A demain_. And my regards to your friend here with
the cutlass." He smiled as he watched them start down the ladder. "But
why don't you ask him to stay down there tomorrow? I must be getting
old, because that sword of his is starting to make me nervous. And we
wouldn't want anything to upset our little _fete_, now would we, _mon
frere_?"
* * * * *
Katherine stood at the bannister amidships. Serina by her side, and
studied the glimmer of lights along the shore, swaying clusters of
candle-lanterns as seamen passed back and forth in longboats between
the brothels of Tortuga and their ships.
The buccaneers. They lived in a world like none she had ever seen. As
the shouts, curses, songs, and snatches of music drifted out over the
gentle surf, she had to remind herself that this raffish settlement was
the home of brigands unwelcome in any other place. Yet from her vantage
now, they seemed like harmless, jovial children.
Still, anchored alongside the _Defiance_ were some of the most heavily
armed brigantines in the New World--no bottom here carried fewer than
thirty guns. The men, too, were murderers, who killed Spanish civilians
as readily as infantry. Jacques le Basque presided over the most
dreaded naval force in the New World. He had done more to endanger
Spain's fragile economy than all the Protestant countries together. If
they grew any stronger, the few hundred men on this tiny island might
well so disrupt Spain's vital lifeline of silver from the Americas as
to bankrupt what once had been Europe's mightiest empire. . . .
The report of a pistol sounded from somewhere along the shore, followed
by yells of glee and more shots. Several men in Spanish finery had
begun firing into the night to signal the commencement of an impromptu
celebration. As they marched around a keg of liquor, a cluster of
women, prostitutes from the taverns, shrieked in drunken encouragement
and joined in the melee.
"This place is very frightening, senhora." Serina shivered and edged
next to Katherine. Her hair was tied in a kerchief, African style, as
it had been for all the voyage. "I have never seen _branco_ like these.
They seem so crazy, so violent."
"Just be thankful we're not Spaniards, or we'd find out just how
violent they really are."
"Remember I once lived in Brazil. We heard stories about this place."
"'Tis quite a sight, Yor Ladyships." John Mewes had ambled over to the
railing, beside them, to watch for Winston. "The damnedest crew of
rogues and knaves you're ever like to make acquaintance with. Things've
come to a sad pass that we've got to try recruitin' some of this lot to
sail with us."
"Do you think they're safe ashore, John?"
"Aye, Yor Ladyship, on that matter I'd not trouble yourself unduly."
Mewes fingered the musket he was holding. "You should've seen him once
down at Curasao, when a gang of Dutch shippers didn't like the cheap
price we was askin' for a load of kill-devil that'd fallen our way over
at . . . I forget where. Threatened to board and scuttle us. So the
Captain and me decided we'd hoist a couple of nine-pound demi's up on
deck and stage a little gunnery exercise on a buoy floatin' there on
the windward side o' the harbor. After we'd laid it with a couple of
rounds, blew it to hell, next thing you know the Butterboxes . . ."
"John, what's that light over there? Isn't that him?"
Mewes paused and stared. At the shoreline opposite their anchorage a
lantern was flashing.
"Aye, m'lady. That's the signal, sure enough." He smiled. "Didn't I
tell you there'd be nothing to worry over." With an exhale of relief,
he quickly turned and ordered the longboat lowered, assigning four men
to the oars and another four to bring flintlocks.
The longboat lingered briefly in the surf at the shore, and moments
later Winston and Atiba were headed back toward the ship.
"It seems they are safe, senhora." Serina was still watching with
worried eyes. "Perhaps these _branco_ are better than those on
Barbados."
"Well, I don't think they have slaves, if that's what you mean. But
that's about all you can say for them."
A few moments later the longboat bumped against the side of the
_Defiance_, and Winston was pulling himself over the bulwarks, followed
by Atiba.
"Katy, break out the tankards. I think we can deal with Jacques." He
offered her a hug. "He's gone half mad--taken over the island and run
off the English settlers. But there're plenty of English _boucaniers_
here who'd like nothing better than to sail from somewhere else."
"Did he agree to help us?"
"Of course not. You've got to know him. It's just what I expected. When
I brought up our little idea, he naturally refused point-blank. But he
knows there're men here who'll join us if they like. Which means that
tomorrow he'll claim it was his idea all along, then demand the biggest
part of what we take for himself."
"Tomorrow?"
"I'm going back up to the fort, around sunset, to sort out details."
"I wish you wouldn't." She took his hand. "Why don't we just get
whatever men we can manage and leave?"
"That'd mean a fight." He kissed her lightly. "Don't worry. I'll handle
Jacques. We just have to keep our wits."
"Well then, I want to go with you."
"As a matter of fact he did ask you to come. But that's out of the
question."
"It's just as dangerous for you as for me. If you're going back, then
so am I."
"Katy, no . . ."
"Hugh, we've done everything together this far. So if you want to get
men from this place, then I'll help you. And if that means I have to
flatter this insane criminal, so be it."
He regarded her thoughtfully, then smiled. "Well, in truth I'm not sure
a woman can still turn his head, but I suppose you can give it a try."
Serina approached them and reached to touch Winston's hand. "Senhor,
was your council of war a success?"
"I think so. All things in time."
"The branco in this place are very strange. Is it true they do not have
slaves?"
"Slaves, no. Though they do have a kind of servant here, but even
that's different from Barbados."
"How so, senhor?"
"Well, there've never been many women around this place. So in the old
days a _boucanier_ might acquire a _matelot_, to be his companion, and
over the years the _matelots_ got to be more like younger brothers than
indentures. They have legal rights of inheritance, for instance, since
most _boucaniers_ have no family. A _boucanier_ and his _matelot_ are
legally entitled to the other's property if one of them dies." He
looked back toward the shore. "Also, no man has more than one
_matelot_. In fact, if a _boucanier_ does marry a woman, his _matelot_
has conjugal rights to her too."
"But, senhor, if the younger man, the _matelot_, inherits everything,
what is to keep him from just killing the older man? To gain his
freedom, and also the other man's property?"
"Honor." He shrugged and leaned back against the railing,
inhaling the dense air of the island. He lingered pensively for a
moment, then turned to Katherine. "Katy, do remember this isn't just
any port. Some of those men out there have been known to shoot somebody
for no more cause than a tankard of brandy. And underneath it all,
Jacques is just like the rest. It's when he's most cordial that you'd
best beware."
"I still want to go." She moved next to him. "I'm going to meet face-
to-face with this madman who once tried to kill you."