Caribbee Part 74

"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 wh.o.r.eson Spaniards themselves. We'd sail under our old name of _boucanier_, and he swore that before we were through n.o.body 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 d.a.m.ned 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 a.s.sumed 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 sh.o.r.e. The _Defiance_ had been the last vessel to navigate Ba.s.se 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 a.s.semblage of taverns along the sh.o.r.e. "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 a.s.sortment of items in Spanish gold for sale here--and we have just received a shipload of lovely mademoiselles from Ma.r.s.eilles to replace the diseased English wh.o.r.es 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 pa.s.sing through, bound for the Windward Pa.s.sage. 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 h.e.l.l 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 cutla.s.s 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 sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.sengers of Spanish merchant frigates, glistened in the lantern light. Most wore fine leather sea boots; a few were barefoot.

The man at their head was carrying a large keg. When he

spotted the bobbing longboat, he motioned the procession to a halt, tossed the keg onto the sand, and sang out an invitation.

"Welcome to you, masters. There's a virgin pipe of Spanish brandy here we're expectin' to violate. We'd not take it amiss if you'd help us to our work."

He drew a pistol from his belt and swung its gold-trimmed b.u.t.t against the wooden stopper in the bunghole, knocking it inward.

"_No, Monsieur. Merci. Bien des remerciements_." De Fontenay's voice betrayed a faint quaver. "I regret we have no time. I and my good friend, the Anglais here . . ."

"I wasn't asking you to drink, you a.r.s.e-sucking French pimp." The man with the pistol scowled as he recognized de Fontenay. "I'd not spare you the sweat off my b.o.l.l.o.c.ks if you were adyin' of thirst." He turned toward Winston. "But you and your lads are welcome, sir, whoever you might be. I'll wager no honest Englishman ever declined a cup in good company. My name is Guy Bartholomew, and if you know anything of this place, you'll not have to be told I'm master of the _Swiftsure_, the finest brig in this port."

Winston examined him in the flickering light. Yes, it was Guy Bartholomew all right. He'd been one of the original _boucaniers_, and he'd hated Jacques from the first.

"Permit me to introduce Capitaine Winston of the _Defiance_, Messieurs." De Fontenay tried to ignore Bartholomew's pistol. "He has asked me personally to . . ."

"Winston? The _Defiance_? G.o.d's wounds." Bartholomew doffed his black hat. "Let me drink to your good health. Captain." He paused to fill his tankard with the dark brown liquid spilling from the keg, then hoisted it in an impromptu toast.

"You don't remember me from before, Bartholomew? Back on Hispaniola?"

The boucanier stared at him drunkenly. "No, sir. I can't rightly say as I do. But yours is a name known well enough in this part of the world, that's for certain. You wouldn't be planning to do a bit of sailing from this port, would you now? 'Twould be a pleasure to have you amongst us."

"Monsieur," De Fontenay was edging on up the hill, "Capitaine Winston is a personal friend of our commandant, and we must . . ."

"A friend of Jacques?" Bartholomew studied Winston's face. "I'd not believe any such d.a.m.n'd lies and calumnies of an honest Englishman like you, sir."