Caribbee

  *

  "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.

  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 butt against the wooden stopper in the bunghole, knocking it inward.

  "No, Monsieur. Merci. Bien des remerciements. " De Fonte- nay'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 arse-sucking French pimp." The man with the pistol scowled as he recognized de Fontenay. "I'd not spare you the sweat off my bollocks 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? God'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 damn'd lies and calumnies of an hon­est Englishman like you, sir."

  "I knew him many years past, Bartholomew. I hope he remembers me better than you do. Though I'm not sure he still considers me a friend after our little falling out."

  "Well, sir, I can tell you this much. Things have changed mightily since the old days. Back then he only stole from the pox-eaten Spaniards. Now he and that French bastard de Poncy rob us all. They take a piece of all the Spaniards' booty we bring in, and then Jacques demands another ten percent for himself, as his 'landing fee.' He even levies a duty on all the hides the hunters bring over from Hispaniola to sell."

  De Fontenay glared. "There must always be taxes, any­where. Jacques is commandant now, and the Chevalier de Poncy has --"

  "Commandant?" Bartholomew snorted. "My lads have another name for him, sir. If he ever dared come down here and meet us, the Englishmen in this port would draw lots to see who got the pleasure of cutting his throat. He knows we can't sail from any other settlement. It's only because he's got those guns up there at the fort, cover
ing the bay, and all his damned guards, that he's not been done away with long before now." He turned back to Winston. "The bastard's made himself a dungeon up there beneath the rock, that he calls Purgatory. Go against him and that's where you end up. Few men have walked out of it alive, I'll tell you that."

  De Fontenay shifted uneasily and toyed with a curl. "Purgatory will not be there forever, I promise you."

  "So you say. But you may just wind up there yourself one day soon, sir, and then we'll likely hear you piping a different tune. Even though you are his matelot, which I'll warrant might more properly be called his whore."

  "What I am to Jacques is no affair of yours."

  "Aye, I suppose the goings-on in the fort are not meant to be known to the honest ships' masters in this port. But we still have eyes, sir, for all that. I know you're hoping that after Jacques is gone, that Frenchman de Poncy will make you commandant of this place, this stinking piss-hole. Just because the Code of the boucaniers makes you Jacques' heir. But it'll not happen, sir, by my life. Never."

  "Monsieur, enough. Suffit!" De Fontenay spat out the words, then turned back to Winston. "Shall we proceed up to the Forte?" He gestured toward the hill ahead. "Or do you intend to stay and spend the night talking with these Anglais cochons?"

  "My friend, do beware of that old bastard." Bartholomew caught Winston's arm, and his voice grew cautionary. "God Almighty, I could tell you such tales. He's daft as a loon these days. I'd be gone from this place in a minute if I could just figure how."

  "He tried to kill me once, Master Bartholomew, in a little episode you might recall if you set your mind to it. But I'm still around." Winston nodded farewell, then turned back toward the longboat. John Mewes sat nervously waiting, a flintlock across his lap. "John, take her on back and wait for us. Atiba's coming with me. And no shore leave for anybody till morning."

  "Aye." Mewes eyed the drunken seamen as he shoved off. "See you mind yourself, Cap'n. I'll expect you back by sunrise or I'm sendin' the lads to get you."

  "Till then." Winston gestured Atiba to move alongside him, then turned back to De Fontenay. "Shall we go."

  "Avec plaisir, Capitaine. These Anglais who sail for us can be most dangereux when they have had so much brandy." The young Frenchman paused as he glanced uncertainly at Atiba. The tall African towered by Winston's side. "Will your . . . gentilhomme de service be accompanying you?"

  "He's with me."

  "Bon. "He cleared his throat. "As you wish."

  He lifted his lantern and, leaving Bartholomew's men singing on the shore, headed up the muddy, torch-lit roadway leading between the cluster of taverns that comprised the heart of Basse Terre's commercial center.

  "How long has it been since you last visited us, Capitaine?" De Fontenay glanced back. "I have been matelot to Jacques for almost three years, but I don't recall the pleasure of welcoming you before this evening."

  "It's been a few years. Back before Jacques became governor. ''

  "Was this your home once, senhor?" Atiba was examining the shopfronts along the street, many displaying piles of silks and jewelry once belonging to the passengers on Spanish merchantmen. Along either side, patched-together taverns and brothels spilled their cacophony of songs, curses, and raucous fiddle music into the muddy paths that were streets.

  Winston laughed. "Well, it was scarcely like this. There used to be thatched huts along here and piles of hides and smoked beef ready for barter. All you could find to drink in those days was a tankard of cheap kill-devil. But the main difference is the fort up there, which is a noticeable improvement over that rusty set of culverin we used to have down along the shore."

  "I gather it must have been a very long time ago. Monsieur, that you were last here." De Fontenay was moving hurriedly past the rickety taverns, heading straight for the palm-lined road leading up the hill to the fort.

  "Probably some ten years or so."

  "Then I wonder if Jacques will still remember you."

  Winston laughed. "I expect he does."

  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 bou der, 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 overloo
king 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?"