Caribbean Jewel Read online

  The pounding of her pulse competed with the loud rapport of cannon and musket fire from outside. She sat in the darkness for several minutes, flinching each time the brigantine shook with a cannon blast. At last, overcome with curiosity about what or who was attacking them, she climbed to her knees to peek out of the window over her cot.

  It was difficult to see anything in the darkness; all she could make out on that side of the ship was an endless expanse of dark waves. Then, suddenly, she spotted something just below her window in the water—a small rowboat carrying two men. It was making its way stealthily from around the stern of the brigantine, and the men inside it were keeping their heads low, glancing around suspiciously. They disappeared from Jolie’s view as they paddled farther along the port side of the ship. Jolie leapt off the cot and rushed to the door, unlatching it to scramble to the window on the port side of the dark foyer. From there, she could see the rowboat still sneaking along in the shadows. The battle was taking place on the opposite side.

  These men are trying to sneak up on Captain Marcano and catch him by surprise!

  She ran back into the cabin, grabbed his cloak down from a nail, and flung it around her shoulders. Shoving her bare feet into her slippers, she rushed through the foyer outside onto the quarterdeck. On starboard, a sloop drifted alongside the Amatista, its crew doggedly firing muskets, pistols, and small cannons at the larger brigantine. Marcano’s crewmen were lined up at that side of his ship, returning fire with muskets and swivel cannons. The air hung thick with smoke and the smell of sulfur. A deep boom! and a cracking sound echoed across the waves as one of Marcano’s larger cannons blasted the enemy ship from the gun deck below, taking out two of its swivel cannons and blowing a sizable hole in the hull.

  Gathering her courage, Jolie ducked her head and hurried down the staircase leading down to the main deck. She scanned the crewmembers, looking for Marcano amongst them, to no avail. Desperate, she interrupted a sailor who was reloading his musket.

  “Where’s Captain Marcano?”

  He pointed up toward the forecastle and turned to aim his musket at the sloop. Jolie spotted the captain in the distance, pointing and shouting orders while reloading his pistol at the same time. She ran through the smoke and scurrying men, climbed the staircase to the foredeck, and rushed to his side.

  “Captain!” she yelled above the din, tugging on his sleeve.

  He swung his head to look, as did two sailors next to him. They stared at her in disbelief while Marcano’s gaze changed to a formidable glare. He opened his mouth to say something when a cannon shot slammed into the deckhouse below. Marcano lunged for Jolie, pulling her down to the deck and flattening himself beside her. He was spitting a string of Spanish words whose tone and intensity told Jolie they were not terms of endearment.

  She interrupted him. “Captain, you have a very serious problem—”

  “Diablos, woman, I know that!” he roared, looking savage with his hair loose around his face. “Get yourself back to my cabin before I strangle you myself!”

  Several loud, forceful explosions from the gun deck below fired off in response to the enemy’s blast. The captain scrambled to his feet, dragging her up against the length of his body.

  She looked up at him and tried again. “Captain, I have to tell you—”

  “I said go!” He pushed her firmly toward the staircase, then turned to shout more instructions to his men in Spanish.

  Jolie screamed at the top of her lungs. “Gabriel Marcano, listen to me!”

  That got his attention. He whirled around, his face a mask of fury. The men standing near him backed away, keeping their heads low. Before he could open his mouth, she pointed to portside. “Two men are sneaking up on you from a rowboat over there!”

  He took a staggering step toward her, eyes narrowing as he processed this information. He rushed to the port side of the forecastle, followed by Jolie and a handful of his men. They peered down the length of the brigantine. An empty boat floated along in the choppy black waves, hitched to the balustrade of the Amatista by two grappling hooks.

  Captain Marcano shouted new instructions to the crew in Spanish, and then turned back to Jolie, his eyes darkening to a glittering royal blue, his hair still blowing wildly about his face and shoulders. Grimy, soot-blackened sweat glistened on his brow, and he seemed taller and more imposing than ever. “Get back to the cabin now!”

  She rushed down the stairs, holding her breath and dodging crewmen as she ran through the smoke, at last reaching the staircase to the quarterdeck. She climbed up and rushed to the door, flung it open and dashed inside—directly into the grasp of someone hiding in the darkness of the small foyer. The person slammed the door shut and hauled her into the captain’s cabin, flinging her to the rug in the center of the room. Jolie grunted as the breath was knocked out of her, then rolled over and peered up to see her assailant.

  The cabin was dark save a tiny bit of moonlight filtering in through the windows, but she could make out a huge figure near the door. She blinked, trying to adjust her vision to the darkness to see him better when behind her someone struck a flint and lit a candle. Jolie turned around to locate the second person.

  A fair-skinned man with a short, scraggly black beard stood near the table holding the candle, his grimy face twisted into a sneer as his dark eyes raked over Jolie from head to toe.

  “The Spanish bastard’s haulin’ a whore,” he announced, his accent British. His stench filled the cabin. He wore a dirty, tattered coat which hung limply on his tall, thin frame and worn-out boots on his feet, a faded tricorn on his head.

  Jolie felt a knot of fear tightening in her stomach. “Please, sir—”

  He raised an eyebrow. “English? You’re an English whore, takin’ up with Spaniards?”

  “Disgustin’,” said the other man from behind her. Jolie turned to look at him; he was shorter and a bit stockier than his comrade; he wore a dirty blue scarf tied over his thick red hair, and his beard hung in long, scraggly braids.

  Jolie turned to frown at the black-bearded one. “I’m not a whore.”

  “You’re Marcano’s exclusive? Even better.” He smiled, revealing a flashing golden tooth. “Flaherty, take her into custody. We’ll let the Spaniard come to us.”

  Before Jolie had a chance to react, the red-haired pirate grabbed her arms and jerked her to her feet. His arm snaked around to pin her firmly to his chest, and she felt the cold steel of a knife blade at her throat. She opened her mouth to scream, but he clamped a rough, grubby hand over the lower half of her face, stifling any sounds she might have made. Her eyes widened as Black-beard stepped a little closer, holding the candle up to see her face better.

  “No, I don’t think you understand us very well, lassie. Shall I phrase it more clearly? If you open your bloody mouth and scream, we’ll have to mar that pretty face o’ yours. Flaherty’s an expert carver with that blade.” He shook his head in mock sadness before continuing. “Now, I think we understand one another better, eh? Go ahead and uncover her mouth, Flaherty, she’ll be quiet for you.”

  The meaty fingers slowly unclenched from her cheek. Jolie clamped her lips together tightly, trying to decide what to do that wouldn’t involve screaming.

  “Now see, that’s better, isn’t it? All peaceful and quiet-like?” Black-beard strode across the room to look out a porthole. “Looks like your Spaniard has sunk our sloop. A pity, that. Guess we’ll have to borrow this fancy brigantine for a wee bit. I’m growing quite attached to ’er, now that I’m aboard.”

  Jolie realized that the Amatista’s cannons had indeed stopped firing. The commotion outside had quieted down other than running and shouting, which could be heard from the decks above and below, and the creaking of the ship in the waves.

  Black-beard set the candle down on the table and went to the captain’s bunk. He bent forward to test the mattress with one hand. “Flaherty, how would I look waiting for the Spaniard lying here on my new bunk, eh?” He flopped onto the bunk
and leaned back against the pillows. Looking pleased as a rooster in a henhouse, he folded his hands in his lap and crossed his booted ankles. Jolie cringed at the sight of his dirty boot heels digging into Marcano’s expensive burgundy velvet coverlet.

  Flaherty snickered behind her left ear. “You look damn handsome up there, Clark.”

  “You know, mate, I’ve been thinking. Long as I’m accepting Marcano’s generous hospitality, I may as well borrow his wench to go along with the bunk, eh? She’s a sight for damn sore eyes, ain’t she?”

  “Aye, and she feels real good too, mate.” Flaherty ran his hand over the curve of her hip, then across a breast. Jolie squeezed her eyes and her lips shut, willing herself not to jerk against the edge of his knife as they both cackled with glee.

  Their merriment was cut short when the door to the cabin burst open and Captain Marcano stalked into the room, pistol in hand. He looked downright fierce, Jolie thought, with his coat hanging open to reveal his sweaty, gun-powder-smeared chest, his hair a wild black mane.

  The one called Clark calmly aimed his weapon at him from the bunk, not bothering to get up. “Good, you’re alone. Close the door, Marcano.”

  Marcano glanced at Jolie’s face and the knife against her throat. He closed the door behind him with one boot heel and fixed his glare on Clark’s face, his jaw muscle twitching visibly.

  “Me an’ Flaherty here was just admiring your exquisite furnishings, Captain. Damn if you Spaniards aren’t rich bastards.” He shook his head, then grinned, baring the gold tooth again. “And damn if you haven’t got the prettiest mount this side of the Atlantic. I applaud you, Spaniard. Hell, me manly parts is a’standing up for her in salute.”

  “What do you want?” Marcano gritted between clenched teeth, taking a menacing step forward.

  Clark raised his pistol a little higher and cocked it. “You just keep your distance, Spaniard. First off, Flaherty’d be much less tense if you’d just lay your pistol down there on the rug, and that bloody mean-looking cutlass along with it.”

  The Captain shifted his glare from Clark’s face to the knife at Jolie’s throat. Slowly he laid the pistol on the edge of the rug, then drew his cutlass and placed it alongside. He straightened to his full height, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides. “What do you want from me, Freebooter? Surely you did not board my ship simply to leer at a girl.”

  “No, Captain, you’re right about that. She was just an added bonus.” Clark sat up, keeping the pistol aimed at Marcano as he swung his boots to the floor. “We came to chat with you about another matter.”

  “It’s too late for talk, Englishman. Your sloop is down. I suggest you take off in that rowboat of yours and paddle fast as you can for the coast of Hispaniola before the sun comes up to bake your flesh.”

  “No, no. No need for that when we got this fancy brigantine o’yours to carry us to port. What we want, Captain, is the Corazón. We know you’re carrying it.” He stepped closer to Marcano and leveled his pistol at his chest. “Now here’s what we’re going to do. You and I are going to get the Corazón, and Flaherty here won’t hurt your wench unless it takes us more than, say, ten minutes to return. That’s a fair trade, eh? Thaddeus Clark is always a reasonable man, Captain.”

  Marcano didn’t blink. “Let the girl go, and I will give you all the gold you can carry.”

  “Don’t insult me intelligence, Captain.” Clark snorted. “You don’t have enough gold to barter for this treasure. You get the girl when the Corazón de Isabela weighs down my bag. Now, you just lead the way, and to keep you honest, Flaherty will wait here in the cabin with your whore. Don’t take too long, or he may have to sample the merchandise.”

  Clark stepped sideways to stroke Jolie’s pale cheek, and she shrank back in horror.

  “Zounds, I guess me an’ Flaherty ain’t had a poke in three months, have we, mate?”

  Behind her Flaherty chuckled.

  Anger flared in Marcano’s eyes, and he surged forward. “If either of you touch her, you die, hijo de puta!”

  Clark shoved the pistol’s tip into Marcano’s chest, hard. “Spaniards,” he said to his comrade, “are very proprietary about their whores. Which will make it all the more interesting. She’s probably never had a white man.”

  Marcano pushed forward again, and Clark put the pistol in his face. “Keep your distance, Spanish bastard. Move one more inch in my direction and I pull the trigger. You are a bastard, aren’t you, Marcano? You’re pretending to be a nobleman, but you’re the son of a common whore; that’s what I heard.”

  Jolie watched as Marcano drew in a taut breath, his jaw tight as a steel drum. There was something in his eyes that scared her, an icy cold hatred she had never seen before in him. Without another protest, he turned to move toward the door. “You coming, Clark?”

  Clark followed, shoving the tip of the pistol between Marcano’s shoulder blades. “Ten minutes, Spaniard. My grandmum could find that treasure and get back up here in less time than that. If I ain’t back in ten minutes with the Corazón, Flaherty does whatever he wants with your whore. And I’d watch my step if I was you; this trigger’s bloody damn sensitive.”

  Marcano opened the door and he and Clark left the cabin, closing the door behind them.

  Jolie was left with the red-headed pirate, still pinned back against his chest, her heart pounding against her ribs. He bent his head to her ear, the foul odor of his breath filling her nostrils as he spoke. “The only thing that’s keeping me from taking you myself right now is Clark wants you first.”

  #

  Marcano walked slowly onto the quarterdeck, trying not to picture Jolie in the cabin behind him, alone with the other pirate. He had to concentrate on Clark right now, and on the pistol barrel which jabbed him in the center of his upper back. He knew Clark intended to kill him and take command of the ship as soon as he had his hands on the Corazón—which was still buried in Crab Island.

  Some of the crewmen on deck saw them coming out of the Captain’s quarters and rushed to the stairwell, but Marcano halted them with a raised hand. “No me acercan.”

  Clark jabbed Marcano with the pistol, hard. “You better tell them I’ll blow a hole through you if they try anything, Captain.”

  Marcano said something in Spanish, and the crew backed away, allowing them all the room they needed to descend the stairs to the main deck. Once there, he led Clark toward the center of the deck and stopped, then glanced over his shoulder. “I will tell my second mate to get the Corazón from the hold and bring it up.”

  The pirate thought this over. “All right. No tricks, Marcano. You die if you try anything.”

  “Vasquez,” Marcano called out.

  Vasquez pushed his way through the crewmen to step forward. Marcano gave him an order in Spanish, praying the Englishman didn’t understand a word.

  Vasquez gave a curt nod and rushed down the ladder into the hold.

  “He’d better come back with that treasure quick-like.” Clark shifted his pistol to his left hand, grabbed Marcano’s injured arm with his right, and jerked it up behind his back.

  Marcano grimaced in pain. The crewmen stood in the shadows watching him, ready for any signal to make a move.

  Clark’s lips were inches from Marcano’s ear. “If this is a trick, Spaniard, you die and so does the girl. But not before I’ve tasted her, mind you. You’ll die knowing that, you bastard.”

  You intend to kill me and force yourself on her regardless, Marcano wanted to yell at the foul-smelling English cutthroat. Instead, he forced a cold smile. “As you noted, Spaniards are ‘proprietary’ about their wenches, so you know that I would not risk her life for a mere piece of treasure.”

  “Bah! You Spanish knaves love treasure more than your lives—a cast-off cur like you, with no inheritance, even more. And this is no ordinary chunk of gold; it’s worth a goodly sum just for the gold, much less what it’s worth as a national treasure. King of Spain is desperate to get his hands back on it, I hear.” Cl
ark twisted the arm higher, and Marcano groaned in pain. “Nah, I wager you’re just about as likely to try an’ trick me as give over the Corazón de Isabela that easily.”

  In a moment, they heard Vasquez climbing up the ladder. When he appeared above deck, Marcano was relieved to see that he carried a small cedar chest under his arm. He made eye contact with Marcano, approaching slowly.

  “Stop him right there,” Clark ordered.

  Marcano could feel the Englishman’s growing nervousness and knew it was his best weapon against him. He held Vasquez’ gaze. “Párate.”

  Vasquez halted.

  “Tell him to open the box,” Clark demanded, jabbing Marcano with the pistol.

  Marcano spoke to his second mate. “Ábrela.”

  Vasquez balanced the chest in one arm, reached over the top, and lifted the lid. Inside, a blue velvet bag tied with silken strings encased a large, rounded object the size of a man’s head, resting on a cushion of maroon velvet.

  Clark stared at it. “Tell him to open the bag. I want to see the nugget.”

  Marcano peered steadily at Vasquez. “Échala,” he ordered softly.

  Vasquez reached into the box, grasped the heavy, velvet-encased object, and hurled it backwards over the side of the brigantine, into the sea.

  “Wha—?” uttered Clark. As his gaze followed the flying bag’s trajectory into the waves below, Marcano turned, shoved the pistol aside with his elbow, and brought the fist of the wounded arm around to connect forcefully with the pirate’s bearded jaw.

  Clark’s head snapped to the side, and he staggered back, falling. He fired a haphazard shot which narrowly missed Marcano and sank into a nearby sailor’s shoulder, sending him tumbling onto the deck. A second shot rang out from the forecastle, piercing Clark’s forehead before his body hit the wooden planks. Marcano looked back to see Guillarte standing at the top of the stairs of the front deck, pistol outstretched.