Pirate Wolf Trilogy (4 page)

“Ye’re alone
here?” Spence asked, scanning the deserted deck.

“If I were, I
would have gone mad long before now.” He lowered the snouts of both
muskets, obviously a signal to the rest of his men, who began
stepping forward out of hatchways and from behind piles of debris.
There were perhaps fifty in all, though only one, besides the
leader, won prolonged stares. He appeared on the deck above them
like a thundercloud, tall, black, and massive, naked but for a
winding of indigo cloth around his gleaming loins. He held two
long, crescent-shaped swords in his hands, the hilts closed in
fists the size of small haunches of beef, the fists attached to
arms as thick and solid as the stanchions of a bridge.

Seeing where
their astonished gazes were fixed, the ebony-haired rogue offered a
crooked grin. “His name is Lucifer. He is a Cimaroon—an African
chief stolen from Guinea by the Spanish and sent to work as a slave
in their gold mines in Mexico. His hatred for the English, who have
also robbed his villages and stolen their men and women, is only
modestly less than for the Spanish. And since the day I broke him
out of his chains some dozen years ago, his only true loyalty is to
me, so I would strongly suggest you put your weapons away before
the introductions go any further.”

CHAPTER
TWO

Spence nodded
to his men after a moment, then led the way by uncocking his pistol
and tucking it back into his belt. He kept a wary eye on the
Cimaroon, who remained as still as a statue above them, his
wickedly polished blades flaring in the sunlight.

A second
man had emerged from the same shadowy hatchway that had concealed
his leader. He was not as tall nor nearly as brawny in build,
though it could not be said by an honest eye that he suffered for
the lack. His hair was light brown, tarnished gold by exposure to
the sea and sun. His face was as lean and well-defined as the rest
of his tautly honed frame; his smile was sheepishly apologetic as
he pointed hesitantly to one of the long wooden cylinders slung
over Spit McCutcheon’s shoulder.

“That would not
happen to be fresh water, would it, sir? Most of us have not had
the pleasure of licking anything but dew for the past two
weeks.”

“Aye, it would
be that, lad,” Spit said, unslinging his pipe and ordering the
others to do likewise. “We’ve plenty more where this comes from,
startin’ with a full cask in the jolly boat. We’d no idea what we’d
find when we come across, ye see. By the look of it, ye’ve had a
rough time. Two weeks ye’ve been adrift, did ye say?”

“As close as I
can reckon,” said the stranger, running a dry tongue across drier
lips as he watched the pipes being distributed among the men. “And
rough? It has been hell, sir.”

Beau
took
the two water pipes
she carried and handed one to a grateful sailor. The second, she
held until she sliced away the wax seal with her dagger, then put
it into the blond man’s shaking hands. His eyes, she noted, were
the color of jade, narrowed against the painful glare of sunlight.
They bore dark, purplish circles of fatigue beneath and his mouth,
like that of his leader, looked dry and cracked from
thirst.

He was the only
other one, aside from the Cimaroon, not dressed in the long
breeches and rough canvas shirts of the common tars. His shirt,
beneath the heavy soiling, was made of fine linen, his hose were
woven, not sewn, from unseamed wool. His hands, though strongly
shaped, had not worked a lifetime on ratlines or canvas sheets, and
the boots he wore were cut in the Spanish style, molded snug to the
calf with a folded leather cuff. Moreover, he had the distinct walk
of a landlubber, not the easy, rolling stride of a man accustomed
to holding his balance in stormy seas.

Not like
the other one, the dark-haired one. He was every inch the seafaring
villain, from the square, jutting jaw, to the well-developed arms
and upper torso that suggested his preferred place in battle would
be feeding thirty-pound iron balls into the snouts of the bronze
monsters that crouched along either side of the gun deck. His face
was all planes and angles, dominated by a straight nose and a firm,
uncompromising mouth. It was not a face that betrayed emotion too
readily or parted with trust too often. Pale, humorless, cold, his
eyes had not stopped moving, assessing each man in Spence’s group,
starting with the burly captain himself and ending with the
prune-like visage of Spit McCutcheon. None appeared to have raised
any hackles, yet he had not set aside his muskets. He lowered one,
to avail himself of a long, deep swallow of water, but he kept the
second tucked under his arm, his forefinger resting a twitch away
from the trigger.

He murmured
something to the tawny-haired fellow, who nodded and grinned at
Spence with the ease and charm of a courtier.

“Your ship,
Captain Spence. She looks to be sound and steady. A welcome sight,
you may believe.”

Spence swelled
his chest. “Aye, she’s a sound beauty, all right. Eight months
we’ve been at sea an’ only hauled over once for a scrapin’.”

“You met with
no trouble from the Spaniards?”

“We looked for
none. As I said, we’re honest merchants goin’ about honest
business. Honest enough to share our names as well as our water,”
he added, glancing pointedly at the shadowy figure against the
bulkhead.

“You are
absolutely right, Captain Spence,” said the blonde, hastily
stepping forward into the sunlight again. “We have been
unconscionably rude.” He thrust out his hand. “My name is Pitt.
Geoffrey Pitt. Honored to make your acquaintance. And you truly do
have to forgive Captain Dante his manners, not that he ever had any
great excess to boast in the first place.”

“
Dante?”
Spence’s fiery eyebrows speared together over the bridge of his
nose. “Not …
Simon
Dante?”

Geoffrey Pitt
attempted to look surprised. “You have heard the name before?”

“
Heard
the name?” Spit McCutcheon echoed the question with a slackened
jaw. “Christ Jesus on a stick… is there a warm-blooded man on
either side o’ the Ocean Sea who has not heard the name o’ Simon
Dante? As a fact, where we just come from down in the Caribbee, we
were told half the bloody Spanish fleet was out scourin’ the Indies
for him—that’s why we were able to slip in an’ out again without
drawin’ too much notice.”

“Well, as you
can see,” Pitt acknowledged with a little too much strain behind
his smile, “they found us.”

Spence
turned on the stump of his wooden heel, his eyes widened out of
their creases as he surveyed the wreckage strewn about them. “Then
this—this is the
Virago?”

He did
not attempt to keep the awe out of his voice. Nor should he if this
was, indeed, the infamous privateering vessel that had—if the
reports they heard were to be believed—sailed right into the harbor
at Vera Cruz, only the most heavily fortified stronghold in the
Spanish Main, and looted hundreds of thousands of ducats’ worth of
King Philip’s gold right out of the royal treasure
house.

A second spin
had Spence staring up the topmast at the ragged flags that still
hung limp against a windless sky.

“It wasn’t a
stag or a goat, ye block-brain,” he hissed at McCutcheon. “‘Twas a
wolfhound. A crimson wolfhound an’ a blue fleur-de-lis on a black
field: the arms o’ Simon Dante, Comte de Tourville.”

Even Beau
was markedly impressed as she stared, along with the other members
of their boarding party, at the saturnine features of Dante de
Tourville. The Spanish called him
pirata lobo
—the pirate wolf—because of his cunning and
prowess at stalking and cutting the richest ships out of the plate
fleet. The English called him a rake and a hero, often whispering
his name louder than those who sailed in the company of the vaunted
sea hawks Sir Francis Drake, John Hawkyns, and Martin Frobisher. It
was also rumored that while the Queen called him “that bloody
Frenchman” in public, in the privacy of her chambers she called him
something very different indeed. A genuine titled nobleman, he was
French by birth, half English by blood, and reputed to be all
larceny by nature.

Which was
possibly why Beau felt some vague uneasiness at the way he
continued to hang back in the shadows. Certainly, if he had been
hunted and attacked by the Spanish he had every right to be
cautious, even wary of strangers boarding his ship. But once those
strangers had identified themselves as allies, should he not have
regarded them with more friendship than animosity? After all, his
ship was sinking. The horizon, now that the morning fog had
completely burned away, was clear in all directions, meaning
the
Egret
was their
only means of salvation unless they all intended to go down with
their ship.

As if on
cue, the
Virago
gave a
deep-bellied groan and took a noticeable swoop to starboard.
Something in her holds must have given way, for there was the sound
of cracking timbers and water rushing through a breach in the hull,
and she took a moment to steady herself as her weight settled
again.

“
We took
the men off the pumps,” Pitt explained, looking worriedly toward
the bulkhead. “We were not entirely sure what
we
would be facing when you rowed over. Perhaps we
should put them back?”

A nod from
Dante sent a dozen men scrambling below and brought Spence’s fiery
red eyebrows crushing together again.

“Ye can’t be
thinkin’ ye can keep her afloat much longer? The first ripe gust o’
wind will push her over.”

“Hopefully, we
can buy a little time,” Pitt said, then abruptly changed the
subject. “Your guns, Captain Spence. They appear to be eighteen
pounders.”

“Aye,” he said
slowly. “Culverins. The rest are fivers— sakers an’ minions.”

“
An odd
question to ask when your ship is sinking,” Beau murmured out of
the side of her mouth. McCutcheon, to whom the comment was
directed, only frowned and
whished
her to silence.

“And your
holds—full or empty?” Pitt forestalled the objection to such a
prying question by raising his hand. “I ask only in order to
determine if your ship can bear any more weight. Several tons’
worth, to be exact.”

“
Several
tons?” Spence’s startled gaze went from Pitt to Dante. “So it
wasn’t just a tall tale. Ye really did it? Ye really raided the
treasure depot at Vera Cruz?”

“Aye, we did
it,” said the Comte de Tourville, emerging into the harsher light
for the first time. His hair gleamed blue-black under the sun and
there were fat slicks of moisture streaking his temples and throat,
sure signs he was suffering from more than just a parched throat
and an empty belly. The cause of his discomfort became clearer each
time he put his weight on his left leg. His hose, from the knee
down, was split, the calf beneath was wrapped in filthy strips of
bandaging. And the reason he had not set the second musket aside
was because he used it for a crutch. “Have you a winch and cables
on board?”

“
Oh aye.
Aye,” Spence said, striving to suppress his excitement. “Cables
thick as my arm an’ a winch stout enough to lift a brace of
oxen.”

Visions
of crates full of gold and silver bars sent a visceral thrill
through the members of the boarding party, for surely the grateful
Frenchman would offer to compensate Spence for his troubles. As
spry as she was and as bold a captain they had at the helm,
the
Egret
had been
plagued with nothing but foul luck on this voyage. Two months into
the venture a storm had forced them into Tortuga, where most of
their trade goods had been confiscated by greedy port officials.
They had some barrels of rum and bales of spices, but it would
barely bring enough in Plymouth to cover the cost of the
expedition.

Spence’s
thoughts had taken a similar turn and were abuzz with so many
possibilities, he almost did not hear what Dante said next.

“It isn’t gold
we’ll be transferring, Captain Spence. It’s guns.”

“Eh? Guns, did
ye say?”

Dante
nodded. “A commodity far more valuable than gold these days and as
you have already noted, we have a pretty arsenal on board
the
Virago.
I may be
able to do nothing to save my ship, but I sure as hell can save the
guns to use again another day.”

Spence
looked again at the monstrous bronze demi-cannon. They were surely
beauties, with scrolled snouts and great winged eagles molded onto
the barrels; worth a small fortune to anyone whose intent was not
honest trade. “But … what of the gold ye took from Vera
Cruz?”

“
We have
already been relieved of that burden,” said the pirate wolf, his
voice rusty with the same anger that kindled in his eyes. “But I
promise you, the guns are far more valuable. They are unique, in
fact, cast in the royal foundry at Marseilles. Mr. Pitt assures me,
if your beams are sound, you can take the weight. Your
Egret
is what… one hundred and eighty
tons, thereabout?”

Spence nodded
mutely.

“
The
Virago
is
one-sixty and she bore up with no complaint. It is well worth the
risk,” he added, grinding his teeth against a surge of impatience.
“These demi-cannon fire thirty pounds fourteen hundred yards, with
enough power behind them to blast any ship clear out of the
water.”