Devi's Paradise (7 page)

Romilly clung to Jamie. The mountainous waves lifted the boat like a cockleshell, as if using it as a plaything. They were drenched. Some of the oars snapped and the last thing she knew was being flung into the water, sinking down and down, lost in the savage depths of that unrelenting sea.

Built by Spanish conquistadors two centuries before, Armand’s fortress was practically impregnable. Not completely so, of course, as the Dons had lost it to the French and the French to the English. Constructed by slaves, it was comprised of stone quarried from the caves and trees felled in the surrounding jungle. Enclosed by a high palisade with a platform for marksmen, it had a huge gate that would have withstood a battering ram. It should never have fallen to an enemy, but on each occasion had been betrayed from within. But no one dared do that to Armand Tertius, the most feared swordsman in the Caribbean.

He had taken the island from his predecessor five years before, making it his stronghold. It was on the map as San Juliano, but had been dubbed the
Devil’s Paradise
by those who lived under Armand’s regime, as well as by his enemies. From there he despatched ships to carry out his illegal trade – the
Scorpion
, the
Sirocco
, the
Golden Queen
, all fast, well-armed frigates manned by a fierce band of freebooters, who called themselves
The Brethren of the Coast
.

He lounged in a throne-like chair that had been intended for a cardinal. His long legs were stretched out and his booted feet, crossed at the ankle, were resting on the refectory table centred in the Great Hall. This is where he met with his lieutenants and planned enterprises as thoroughly as any admiral. There was nothing slapdash about this organisation. Other pirate leaders might mock, though never in his hearing, but such precision paid off, as that morning’s share out was about to prove.

Yesterday the
Sirocco
returned loaded with booty to the snug little inlet below the fort. Fortunately they had weighed anchor before the freak storm struck. Now those who had manned her gathered to receive their dues. Armand cast a cynical eye over them, knowing them for what they were; a polyglot gang of desperadoes. They came from every country in the world, criminals fleeing from justice, outlaws and mercenaries, lured by the dream of wealth and freedom. He never lacked recruits. They admired his success and reputation for fair play. He didn’t cheat his men and whenever he raised his colours mariners rallied round. His nearest port of call was Cayona, capital of Tortuga, a pirate hangout.

Did any of his men have a shred of loyalty? He doubted it, and never showed a moment’s weakness. He didn’t hesitate to order flogging, marooning, and even hanging miscreants. He was a natural born leader and they avoided any dispute with him or the hard-hitting Johnson, his second-in-command. His other officers were respected, too. Peter Quidley the doctor, Hector Arkwright who doubled as carpenter and ship’s surgeon, Giles Medway the quartermaster, Sancho and Browne, boatswain and first mate, and the keeper of the books, Henry Moorcross. He combined the duties of accountant and secretary, a vital member of staff, and now Armand studied him from under curving black brows.

Henry sat at the far end of the table with an open ledger in front of him, a squat brass inkwell and a quill pen to hand; ready to strike off each man’s name and payment as they filed past him. Armand trusted him to the letter and was glad to have him around, for he was educated and learned, and provided good conversation. Armand found he was jaded sometimes, wearied of Sabrina and his other concubines. They never talked, only fucked. Even that morning Sabrina had angled to be present, wanting to sit beside him and distract him by playing with his cock, but he denied her. This was man’s business, and she was greedy and would have been assessing the loot as astutely as any pawnbroker.

His lips twitched as he glanced at Henry, who was a serious, tight-featured person with an almost puritanical mien. Wearing black broadcloth he looked more like a bank clerk than a freebooter. Armand knew he was a pederast. That was the reason why he had been forced to run from England to escape a gaol sentence, his life in tatters after one of his lovers had squealed. Fortunately for him no one here gave a fig about his taste for sodomising youths. Each to his own was their motto.

As Johnson said, when in his cups, ‘Get it any which way you fancy, Henry, my old cully, for you might be dead tomorrow… nay, even later today! Life is bloody short in the Indies.’

Articles had been drawn up and were strictly adhered to. The captain and officers got a larger share than the others, whether or no they actually took part in a raid or sea battle. Special provision was made for those who were wounded or lost a limb during an engagement. Penalties were imposed for any breach of regulations, the project organised like a naval campaign.

The prize was not a large one, but there was a heap of captured weapons and ammunition, some bales of silk, a chest full of doubloons, various articles of clothing, a quantity of food and several casks of wine. Those who had avoided being killed while resisting the pirates had been set adrift in an open boat, taking their chance of reaching a friendly shore, and the ship was stripped of anything useful and then scuppered. But they had taken one prisoner, a violinist.

‘We’ll get him to join us, captain,’ muttered Johnson from behind Armand’s chair. ‘He’ll have no bloody choice. Either that or…’ and he sliced a gnarled finger across his throat from ear to ear.

‘But we already have one fiddler,’ Armand pointed out, disgruntled because there hadn’t been any women aboard. There were females aplenty on the island, slaves and native girls, but he always hoped that someone more stimulating might turn up.

‘We can do with another, sir,’ Johnson pointed out. ‘The lads like a bit of music, a jig or two or a few songs. It helps break the monotony, if you know what I mean.’

‘Indeed I do,’ Armand said dourly. His life was too calm at the moment. He missed a challenge to lift his spirits. One could have it too easy. ‘No females aboard?’

‘No, sir. The lads will just have to make do with the brown wenches for the time being. Are you planning a trip to Cayona soon? Jolly doxies there. Lasses who were transported because they were whores, and they make a fine living when the boats put in. Hell, I can’t wait to see ’em. Big tits, big arses and juicy quims. They’re English and French and all sorts, but they know how to treat a man.’

‘Curb your enthusiasm; you’re positively dribbling,’ said Armand coldly. These rogues spent wildly, drinking, gambling, whoring till they had emptied their pockets and had to go to sea again. It suited his purpose, but sometimes made them hard to control. Lust ruled their existence – lust for riches and the women they could buy for gold.

The men saluted him as they passed, after pausing to chat with Henry and pocketing their money. The weapons went into the armoury; the other goods set aside to be sold in Cayona, while the food and wine enriched the fortress’s larder and cellar. The business was almost concluded when the lookout knocked for admittance. He had been on watch at the top of a tower, scanning the ocean for miles around.

‘A ship has run aground, cap’n,’ he reported, a lean fellow wearing canvas trousers and a tattered shirt, his tanned arms tattooed against mosquito bites, his hair confined by a crimson bandana.

Armand glanced up, his eyes razor keen. ‘Where?’

‘On the rocks near Seal Bay,’ the man answered promptly.

‘Any survivors?’

‘Don’t know, cap’n.’

‘Have a party go down and take a look,’ Armand said, stretching and rising to his full, impressive height. ‘In fact, I’ll go myself.’ He buckled on his sword and took up the brace of pistols hanging from the back of his chair.

Were there really mermaids? Romilly pondered, gradually regaining consciousness. She could have sworn she heard them singing.

She wanted to see them, those legendary creatures who sat on rocks, combing their long golden hair, full-breasted and beautiful with glittering fishy tails. It was said that they lured sailors to a watery grave.

Water! She was in water, little wavelets washing over her as she lay on damp sand. Daring to open her eyes, imagining she might be dead and on some celestial shore, she found she was in a cove, backed by forest and high cliffs. The sun was hot and the sky blue, dotted with woolly clouds. She hadn’t drowned, but as memory returned she sat up, and then struggled to her feet, searching round frantically. Where were the others?

To her intense relief Alvina tottered from beyond an escarpment, followed by Jamie and George. Romilly flew towards them, swept into soggy embraces. ‘Thank God you’re safe!’ exclaimed Jamie.

‘Where are we?’ Romilly cried.

‘Lord knows,’ responded George, every trace of affectation gone. Whatever the outcome of their dire experience it had brought them all down to earth with a bang.

‘Where are the crew and Captain Willard, and what has happened to Jessica?’ Romilly asked, wringing her hands in anguish.

‘And Kitty?’ Alvina added woefully.

‘And Tom and Gaston?’ said Jamie. ‘They were in charge of our belongings. I had a whole new wardrobe for the trip.’

‘Never mind that! The ship, did it sink?’ Romilly was impatient, beginning to realise their perilous situation.

She also became aware that her nightgown and over-robe were soaked and torn, clinging to her curves, outlining her limbs and breasts in a most immodest fashion. Alvina was similarly half naked, and the men had lost their shoes, hats and periwigs, attired only in breeches and shirts. They were unarmed and without food or fresh water. Their chances of survival were limited unless rescue arrived soon. Shading her eyes and looking out to sea she spotted bits of wreckage being washed ashore and the horrifying sight of bodies drifting aimlessly like rag-dolls. Were she and her friends the only survivors?

‘Oh, my God!’ exclaimed Alvina, standing beside her and viewing the floating dead. ‘What are we to do? I’ve lost everything, except this,’ and somehow she had clung to her jewel box.

‘What use is that now?’ Romilly cried despairingly. ‘We can’t eat it.’

‘Hush,’ warned Jamie, clutching her arm. ‘We’re not alone.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the dense vegetation to the right of the rocks. Romilly looked towards it and her blood froze in her veins. What had appeared to be bush and scrubby trees began to stir and form into shapes of men, with gaudy patterns daubed over their bare brown skin, wearing feathers in their hair and carrying spears. Sunlight glistened on the primitive ornaments banding their wrists and necks, and their appearance was so fearsome that terror gripped her.

They emerged boldly and their leader, a thickset man whose cock was covered by a bark sheath, advanced and shouted in a strange, guttural tongue, gesticulating as he spoke.

‘Now look here, fellow,’ Jamie began, standing his ground, accustomed to pulling rank. ‘These ladies and myself have been cast ashore. We need food, clothing and shelter. I demand that you supply it.’

‘Don’t be so silly, James, you noodle,’ Alvina said crossly. ‘He can’t understand a word you’re saying. I’ll try a different approach.’

She turned on her most winning smile, made sure that her wet robe was slipping off her shoulders displaying prominent nipples, then addressed the leader. ‘Good morrow, friend. Can you help us? We are hopelessly lost, and would be eternally grateful.’

And all the time she was glancing at him playfully from under her long lashes, and letting her gaze drop to the large object hidden by its pliant wooden covering at the fork of his thighs. His hair was blue-black, cut in a severe bob, and his lower lip was distended by a disc, his nostrils pierced by porcupine quills. Reassured by her smile he turned to the other warriors, gabbling excitedly. They lowered their spears. They circled their captives, particularly interested in the women, though they had George lower his breeches and examined his penis and balls, and then made him bend over so they might look up his bottom.

Romilly was too frightened to resist, yet resented the familiar way in which the natives handled her, though they seemed driven by curiosity more than desire. Their brightly painted bodies were almost hairless, their hair black as ink, their eyes dark and glistening. They were short of stature, with lean flanks and bare cocks that bounced as they walked. Only their leader had his protected. Romilly had never in her life seen so many male appendages all at once. She didn’t know where to look.

‘Nature’s afterthought,’ remarked Alvina, scathingly. ‘The prick and balls are not a pretty sight at the best of times, whereas a woman’s pussy is neat and tucked away.’

‘How can you jest about it?’ Romilly objected, trembling as one brave with sharply filed teeth took her right nipple between his fingers and rolled it experimentally, making a comment to his companions who laughed uproariously.

They were not brutal in their handling, filled with interest and enjoyment as they pinched breasts and drove impudent fingers between legs. ‘Let them do it,’ Alvina advised. ‘We don’t want to antagonise them, do we? Follow George’s example. He’s not objecting as they finger his arsehole.’

‘Perhaps he’s enjoying it,’ Romilly snapped back, remembering seeing him with Clive Morrison. Was it only last night? It seemed a lifetime ago.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ replied Alvina with a giggle and a sudden ‘ouch’ as one of the men became a little too forceful, sinking his forefinger up to the second knuckle in her love channel.

The leader became tired of this game and ordered his band to gather up what they could salvage from the wreckage and then tie their prisoners’ hands behind them with vines as tough as rope, and march them into the jungle.