Authors: Kerry Newcomb
A tody, a small ratlike animal indigenous to many of the islands of the Lesser Antilles, scurried out from under a canopy of fronds and darted into the underbrush, avoiding Navarre and his escort of brigands as they hurried past. The black-furred rodent remained in hiding even after the pirates had vanished from sight, for the tody’s keen nostrils had picked up the scent of an oncoming party of intruders. A second pack of humans moved silently like wolves among the Caribbean pines, beneath green and gray mangroves. By a stroke of fortune, they narrowly avoided an accidental encounter with Navarre’s contingent of freebooters. These newcomers were keeping well off the beaten path.
But the wise little tody wasn’t fooled. It continued to cower in the emerald shadows while the gray rain fell. A boa constrictor, six feet in length, noticed the solitary rodent and decided to make a meal of the creature. The constrictor maneuvered its way underneath an outcropping of roots and slithered through a puddle of olive-colored rainwater. The tody appeared not to notice the predator, and for a moment it seemed as if the constrictor had discovered an easy dinner. But at the last minute, the second party of human intruders passed by, and in their wake, the tody scampered to safety and vanished into a thicket of yellow nightshade. The snake, rather than abandon its pursuit, slithered into the thicket after the rodent. Sooner or later it would find something to kill.
“I
T’S A POOR PLACE
I’ve put you, lad,” Obregon said, his back to the muddy wall behind him. Rainwater was seeping down the side of the pit and dripping from the boots of the hanged man; it drizzled down in a constant shower and turned the earth underfoot into slurry. “I’ve set one blunder atop the other, and all for a chest of lead ingots and the twinkle in a maiden’s eyes.” He kicked at the mud, removed his coat, and held it out to Johnny Fuller. “Fate and General Jackson have had the last laugh on me, I fear.”
The boy glared at the blond-haired Spaniard and then shrugged and accepted the captain’s offering. In the least, it would keep the worst of the downpour from battering him. He draped the coat over his head and held it up in front of his face like a canopy. The boy’s stomach growled. He sighed and thought what he wouldn’t give for a piece of Christian cheese right now. The widow LeBeouf always had cheese in her cellar and allowed the boy to eat his fill whenever he so desired. Johnny kept a stone face despite his hunger; he wasn’t about to show weakness in front of Obregon. The boy had his pride, after all. He shifted his attention to the problem at hand.
“When do you think Captain Navarre will come for me?” he asked timidly, glancing up at Honeyboy Biggs. At least the gunner had died whole.
“Don’t you worry,” Obregon said. “I’ll get us out of here. The Hawk of the Antilles has been in worse places before.”
“Really,” said the eight-year-old, wise beyond his years. “Name one.”
Obregon cocked an eye at the lad. “Are you always so disrespectful to your elders?”
“Only when they get me killed,” the boy retorted.
Obregon was at a loss for words. Thankfully he didn’t have long to consider a reply when a length of knotted rope suddenly dropped into the pit and a voice from above called out, “Climb up.”
Man and boy shared the same reaction. They stared at each other in surprise and then looked up through the rain. A broad grin spread across Johnny’s features as Iron Hand O’Keefe peered over the edge of the pit. “Or do you aim to stay down there till you drown?”
“I told you!” Johnny exclaimed, leaping for the rope. “I told you Chief Iron Hand would come.” Hand over hand he made his way up the rope, exhibiting all the agility of a monkey despite slick footing and the ordeal he had endured. Iron Hand reached out and hauled the youth up the last yard and jerked him out of sight. Obregon quickly followed, uncertain whether they meant him to be rescued or not. The climb was more difficult for him, but he gained the edge of the pit and clambered over to safety. In a glance he noted that Navarre’s guards were huddled under their makeshift shelter, where no doubt they had chosen to wait out the rain. The pirates were ringed by Harry Tregoning, Strikes With Club, and Nate Russell, each of whom held a pistol on the half-dozen men Navarre had posted to guard the pit. Iron Hand O’Keefe, standing close-by, tousled Johnny’s curly hair and then proceeded to scold him for running off to sea. Father Bernal abandoned the prisoners and approaching the pit drew abreast of O’Keefe.
“You have surprised me, Priest. I did not think you had the courage to act against the Cayman. I am in your debt,” said Obregon with a sweeping bow.
“Not my debt,” said Bernal. “But his.” The priest indicated someone standing behind the Spaniard.
Obregon turned and prepared to repeat his bow. Kit’s fist caught him on the tip of the jaw and sent the freebooter sprawling across the ground. Obregon struggled to his feet as Kit dove into him. Both men slammed into the ground. Father Bernal took a step forward as if to attempt to separate the two men. O’Keefe caught the priest by the arm and stopped him in his tracks.
“Hold it right there, Father,” O’Keefe said with a wag of his shaggy head. “Best we let the lads get it out of their systems.”
“But…”
O’Keefe brought his gleaming hook to his lips. “Shhh.”
Obregon and Kit rolled over and over in the mud until the Castilian managed to break free of Kit’s grasp. He struggled to his feet and clubbed his smaller opponent across the back of the neck, then aimed a knee at the bridge of Kit’s nose. Kit deflected the blow with his forearm, caught hold of Obregon’s right ankle, and twisted. The Spaniard howled with pain and fell over on his side.
Both men rose up and continued to batter one another, raining blow after blow, most of which glanced off their mud-spattered shoulders and drenched torsos. Then Obregon put everything he had into one mighty uppercut that caught Kit McQueen on the side of the head and staggered him. Obregon howled in triumph, thinking he had bested his opponent. But Kit did not go down. Instead the blacksmith’s son wiped his shirt sleeve across his square-jawed features, spat a mouthful of blood, and sprang forward just as Obregon attempted to finish him off. Kit drove his head into the pit of Obregon’s stomach and left the Spaniard gasping for breath and dismayed. Red hair plastered to his skull from the downpour, lower lip puffed and swollen, Kit looked the worse for wear. But appearances were deceiving. He wiped a forearm across his face and smeared the mud and blood over his cheek. Obregon took a step back in retreat.
“Now it’s my turn,” said McQueen.
“We’ll see about that,” said Obregon in a ragged voice. His right arm sailed out, but Kit easily stepped aside and landed a right fist to Obregon’s side and followed with a left to the Castilian’s already-bruised jaw. Obregon’s knees buckled, and he dropped forward but managed to catch himself, and propped upright on his hands, managed to stand. Kit hit him again and knocked the privateer to his knees yet again. This time Obregon stayed put.
“Come on,” said Kit. “I’m not done with you.”
“Yes, you are, Lieutenant,” O’Keefe said. “We need the bastard. Father Bernal can’t organize a rebellion without him.” He patted Kit on the shoulder. “Now there’s a good lad.”
“What rebellion?” Obregon said. He struggled once more to his feet, but his muscles didn’t thank him for the effort. As he had done during their first scuffle at the widow LeBeouf’s party, McQueen had taken all the Castilian had to offer and returned it twofold. The Hawk had taken a beating and wasn’t anxious for this fight to continue. Maybe deep down in the solitary island of Obregon’s conscience, he recognized that the punishment was well deserved. He thrust out his hands, palm open, as McQueen prepared to resume his attack. Cesar Obregon was once more lowering his colors.
Father Bernal peered out from beneath the wide brim of his hat. His arthritic fingers were folded as if in prayer. The elements made his knees ache. My God, whither goest the bloom of youth? he thought, sighing. “I have called together all the farmers and merchants I can trust for a meeting tonight. We shall take back the island from the slavers.”
“Captain Laffite has sailed for Obregon Cove to rescue your crewmen. They’ll be back come sunrise,” said Kit.
“And sail into a trap,” said Obregon. “Laffite will run a gauntlet of fire from the twenty-four-pounders above and the twelve-pounders Navarre has hidden along the shore. They’re rifled guns and shoot true. I know from experience. Laffite won’t last half an hour.”
“He will if we silence the twelves,” said Kit, rubbing the knuckles he had bruised against the Spaniard’s hard jaw. “The priest seems to think the inhabitants of Morgan Town won’t rise up against these slavers unless they have you to lead them.” He pulled a kerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at the corner of his mouth; the cloth came away crimson.
“I suppose that is the reason why you didn’t leave me in the hole to rot.” Obregon snorted and spat another mouthful of blood and saliva. “I cannot blame you,
senor
.” Obregon glared at Navarre’s crewmen, who were still under the guns of Tregoning and the Choctaws. “I underestimated you, Lieutenant. That will not happen again. However, as we have a common enemy I will help you.”
He tilted his features to the sky and allowed the rain to wash his battered flesh. Then he turned and drew a cutlass from O’Keefe’s belt, then leaned over the edge of the pit and cut down Honeyboy Biggs, carried the old cannoneer into the underbrush, and tenderly laid the corpse beneath a canopy of broad-leaf fronds. He muttered something beneath his breath that Kit took for a prayer and then patted the dead man’s chest, stood, and returned to the clearing.
“Navarre shall answer for this, by all that is holy, I swear it.” Obregon met Kit’s gaze and was surprised to find a glimmer of sympathy in the American’s eyes. The Castilian nodded as if an unspoken understanding had been reached between him and the lieutenant. “So we are to silence the twelves, eh? Why stop there? I know of a passage on the hillside below the twenty-fours. It leads to the magazine. We could set off a charge that would bring down the wall on the battery of twenty-fours.”
“That same group of men could sneak into the palace and free my daughter,” O’Keefe emphatically suggested.
“And if we’re lucky, we might even catch Navarre and force his brigands to surrender without a fight,” Kit said. “Come along. There’s work to be done.” He spun on his heels and called out for Tregoning to securely bind and gag the prisoners. The priest had suggested Navarre’s men could be hidden at one of the nearby farms, and Kit intended to take them to their makeshift prison without a moment’s delay. He spoke with authority and his companions hurriedly complied, securing the guards with lengths of braided leather.
Obregon was accustomed to issuing orders, not taking them, and said as much to O’Keefe as he returned the cutlass to the broad-shouldered, shaggy gray-haired Irishman. O’Keefe scratched at his jaw with his hook. The sound of the iron barb scraping flesh made Obregon shudder.
“The lad does kind of take charge,” O’Keefe agreed. Droplets glistened in the wiry gray bramble bush he called a beard. With a knowing chuckle to punctuate his departure, O’Keefe ambled across the muddy earth, leaving the Hawk of the Antilles to come to terms with the way things were. The Irishman’s voice drifted back through the downpour, offering a final piece of advice. “Better get used to it.”
K
IT HAD TO GIVE
the townsmen and farmers credit, they didn’t need to be talked into a fight. Once Obregon entered the dimly lit church and appeared in front of the altar, these former pirates and sea rovers hauled out their cutlasses and flintlocks and were all for charging out into the night, to avenge the wrongs inflicted upon them by Orturo Navarre and his crew of cutthroats. Kit argued for caution and patience, both of which were in short supply. Eventually with the help of Father Bernal and Cesar Obregon, McQueen managed to cool the angry words and soothe the righteous indignation that threatened to turn the gathering into a mob. Reason prevailed and the sixty-one shopkeepers, farmers, tradesmen, and fishermen agreed to hear the plan that Kit had formulated.
The shore batteries must be disabled under cover of night, each of the twelve-pounders spiked and rendered inoperable. Before sunrise, Kit and Obregon, the Choctaws, O’Keefe, and Harry Tregoning, proposed to make their way up the hillside to the narrow cave below the twenty-four-pounders. Once in the passage, the six men intended to enter the governor’s palace, free Raven, and hopefully capture Navarre.
“And what if you’re discovered?” asked a gunsmith in rolled-up sleeves, woolen breeches, and apron. His name was Edward Pastusek, a fair-haired Slav whose life had taken him far from the cold and dreary villages of the Duchy of Warsaw to the sundrenched islands of the Caribbean. At forty he hadn’t raised his hand in anger in over a decade. But time had not mellowed the man; in fact, he seemed anxious for what lay ahead. Pastusek alone had brought in over a dozen rifled muskets and as many pistols to the church, not to mention a small crate of grenades, iron-wrapped hand bombs with quick burning fuses.
“We intend to blow the magazine and bury the twenty-four-pounders beneath the palace wall,” Kit interjected. “By then Laffite will have landed with the crews of the
Malice
and the
Windthrift
and stormed the gates.”
“And if we’re late reaching the walls?” one of the farmers asked.
“Then we’ll loose the dogs of war,” Obregon said. His voice sounded nonchalant in the heavy silence that followed the question. Obviously, if Navarre’s men were on the alert within the fortified palace, then the handful of intruders accompanying Kit and Obregon would be doomed. But with Laffite gone, the pirates had relaxed their watch and abandoned the shore batteries for the pleasures to be found in Morgan Town. Kit resolved to exploit such a mistake to the fullest. These were Obregon’s people, and leaving the privateer to discuss the final details with them, Kit stepped away from the altar and circled the gathering. Pastusek voiced a worry—whether or not the rest of Morgan Town’s inhabitants would join the insurrection. A consensus was reached that the remainder of the populace could be counted upon once it became clear that Navarre was in trouble. Human nature being what it was, Kit had his doubts, but he refrained from offering an opinion on the matter. After all, he was the stranger here and did not presume to make a judgment on the island’s inhabitants.