Mistress of the Stone (2 page)

Stripped to their petticoats and fondled by every man aboard, the English biddies left the ship in bawling tears. They were permitted to leave with their virtue intact, but little else.

Luísa delighted in her good fortune and dressed her quarters with silks and the sweet-smelling perfume the English left behind. Luísa was every bit the pirate, but a small part of her remembered that her Mamacita and
dueña
also raised her to be a lady. Poor Mamacita. Had she known her daughter would turn pirate, she would’ve died of mortification. God, in His mercy, killed her with a fever instead.

It had been a different life in Spain with all the trappings of nobility and privilege. Mamacita doted on her only daughter. Entire days would be spent dressing her in silk petticoats and fine gowns. And when she wasn’t dressed up like a doll, she was bored to tears by stuffy tutors. Luísa wasn’t allowed to waste one moment.

There was even talk of returning to
Brasil
to visit the
suegros
mañosos
. Evidently, Papa’s people were citizens of influence in his homeland, and Mamacita swallowed her pride to make sure her daughter was equally well connected. Mama was preparing her for introduction into polite society on both continents.

All that ended with the plague.

Luísa’s
dueña
had been useless, begging every priest for more prayers and lighting so many candles it choked the air with smoke. Luísa remained silent, her tears stolen. It was a family friend who sent word to her father.

Inácio Tavares raced back to Spain with the speed of a storm. Despite her
dueña’s
anguished pleas, her father took her aboard the
Coral
and stole whatever childhood Luísa had left. She was only twelve.

Luísa fingered the fine lace covering on the table. Foolishness, Paqua had said. They could have traded it for five kegs of black powder, but he let her keep it. He let her keep all the English lady’s finery. Small compensation for what had been taken.

Paqua sat at the Captain’s desk staring at the bottle in front of him. He swirled the fine brandy inside its jug, but he didn’t drink. Sly devil. He was waiting on her. He knew she had more to divulge. “The crew thinks you’re leading them to treasure.”

“Of course they do. We’ve had good hunting on this trip. They have more treasure than they know what to do with.”

“
Sí
. We’ve done well. The bones tell me we sail with the sea’s blessing.”

Luísa sat in the chair opposite him and threw her feet on the table, crossing them at the ankle. She peered up at Paqua, hoping he wouldn’t scold her. Only his eyes spoke, burning her with a scowl that withered her bawdiness. She tucked her feet back under the table without an argument.

She wished she had the ballast to swear at him, but she knew better. Paqua was as much father to her as blood kin. And he was right, Papa expected her to play the lady even if she did wear men’s breeches. She lowered her eyes and mumbled an apology.

The apology was enough for Paqua and his expression softened. He lifted her chin with a finger that sported more callus than flesh. “The crew respects you despite your comely looks. They’ll not scorn a woman who makes them rich and lets them keep all their limbs. Think they don’t realize that no man has seen the sharp end of the surgeon’s blade since you’ve taken the helm? They think you’re lucky.” He shook his head. “Blast. Even I’m beginning to believe it.”

“Then I hope that luck holds.” Luísa eyed a soft leather bible that had been shoved in between a sand glass and a nocturlabe.
Was it time to show him her other secret?

“So do I,
niña
.” He heaved a throaty sigh in resignation. “Those pasty-faced brigands will show us no mercy.”

“Aye. Nor will they get any from us. Not if we get there before them.”
 

“Get where exactly?”
 

She flinched. That part she wanted to keep to herself a bit longer.

Paqua’s eyes narrowed into needle-length slits, and he crossed his arms, scrutinizing her like a pot of stew boiled too long. “Luísa.” He held on to the last syllable promising ominous repercussions. “Out with it. “

Luísa chewed on her lower lip then snatched the bible off the table. She thumbed through the book, looking up at Paqua every few pages until she found what she was looking for. It was the last clue the Frenchman had given her before he disappeared into the shadows.

Tucked between the Gospels hid a weathered piece of parchment. The map was tattered and brown with age, and much of the ink had faded. She unfolded it carefully and smoothed it out flat. “This is the chart I was given.” She tapped her finger at an X on the map. “If the winds hold, we could arrive in less than a week.”

Paqua leaned over the chart, pulling out a pair of eyeglasses, a prize possession he had paid with cash-money to an old German bottlemaker. The contraption looked ridiculous on him—not that anyone would say so to his face. At least it kept him from squinting as he ran his finger down the map to the nearest islands.

He pulled off his spectacles and shook his head. “Coral reefs and fog so thick you can’t see your hand in front of your face. These be dangerous waters. Did you not see where it puts us?”

“
Sí.
The
Dragon’s Corridor
. I saw it. But should I sail away because of ill winds and treacherous reefs?” Luísa felt for her father’s severed finger inside her pocket and squeezed it, hoping it would give her courage.

“You are putting your faith in a frog-sucking coxcomb and a chart without registry. What guarantee do we have that Inácio will be returned to us?”

Luísa swallowed the lump that formed in her throat, but a new one replaced it immediately. She gambled many lives on the thin chance her father was still alive. “The Frenchman swore Papa would be restored to me. Whether he comes to me whole or in pieces will depend on whether I live up to my agreement.”

“’Tis possible he is already dead,
niña
. We could be heading into a trap.”

“Aye.” Luísa pulled out her father’s desiccated finger and wrapped it inside a fine kerchief. She tucked it into a drawer, standing over it in vigil. Whatever their rudder, it was sure to place the crew in danger
.
It was a trap. And well she knew it.

Paqua came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it in reassurance. “I’ll not leave my best friend to the French and their beastly ways. The crew is able-bodied. Whatever we find, we’ll be ready. If Inácio is still alive, we’ll get him back. And if he’s not—”

Luísa’s face flushed with heat, the inferno of rage and equal parts of terror. He had to be alive, but if he wasn’t… She jerked a dagger out of its sheath and stabbed the top of the chest with a solemn oath, startling even Paqua. “If he’s not returned to us, his murderer will face my blade before the devil greets him. I swear it.”

The discussion came to a brusque end when a litany of vulgar curses in different languages roared from the deck. Taunts turned to blows and within moments chaos broke out. The dull thud of a body slamming against a mast gave them pause, but not for long.

Luísa slapped her forehead in disgust. “Agh! What in blazes are they fighting about now?”

Paqua pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. This was the third open brawl in as many weeks. “We’ve been at sea too long. We’ll have a mutiny on our hands if we can’t find them a port full of soft breasts and rum.”

The
Coral
was mistress to fifty sound men and twelve boys from all parts of the world. Hardly a sentence could be uttered without cobbling it in Spanish, Portuguese, Arab or Arawaken, and those were the major languages. Luísa could speak nine languages fluently, but none were adequate to express her current state of exasperation.

She rushed past Paqua and threw open the door, scrambling to the quarterdeck and into the fray. She grabbed the first man she saw by a brace of his hair. It was Jomo, the gunner. Foul-mouthed and ugly as a drowned rat, he always found himself in the middle of a brawl.

Jomo’s fist was already reared back and ready to swing when he recognized his captain. His arms fell limp to his sides, and he grinned sheepishly—right before she decked him.

His legs buckled beneath him and he crumbled to the floor.

“Jomo, you worthless pile of fish entrails. I’ve no doubt you started this.”

“No, Mistress, no,” he cried as he scrambled up. “It was Montez. He slipped a crab down my breeches when I pulled them down for a piss.”

“What’s one crab next to all the other vermin you keep in your breeches?” Luísa shoved him into a turn, then kicked him in the ass.

The crew packed into a huddle and heckled Jomo, taunting him for earning the captain’s boot.

“We’re less than days away from all the rum and women you can handle, but by God, I’ll clamp you in irons and let you rot below if I find you birthing another brawl.”

“But the crab, Captain!”

“Where is this crab?”

Montez, the accused, produced a blue crab with two of its legs ripped off.

Luísa picked it up from one of the remaining hind legs. “Were you raised to waste food too?” She threw it at a one-eyed sailor who fumbled it before catching it in his greasy apron. “Boil it for my dinner. Make sure you boil him good. No telling what sort of lice Jomo infested it with.”

“Aye, Mistress. He’ll make fine eating despite seeing the inside of Jomo’s breeches.”

Luísa turned and pointed a short sword at Jomo and Montez. “You’ll each take an extra watch tonight. Mind I don’t add to that sentence.”

Each man raised two fingers to their temples. “Aye, Mistress,” they said in chorus.

“Now get your ugly faces out of my—”

“Sails!” a lookout cried.

The crew raced to the railing, trampling each other for the best view. No one breathed a word, fearful to scare off their prey.

Luísa worked her way up the ratlines. She could see nothing from her vantage point, but she trusted Cachon and his weasel eyes. The man could track a nit through pea soup. He’d get a better reckoning when both ships drew nearer.

Precious moments sped past, the roll of the ocean keeping each ship from recognizing the other. Cachon’s steady gaze locked to the west.

Her right foot reached for the next rung. “Where is it, Cachon? What is it?” The words rasped beneath her breath.

Cachon’s mouth split into a grin. He yanked off his red stocking cap and waved it at Luísa. “A three-mast sloop, Captain, ma’am! Sleek and black.”

Paqua vaulted onto the quarterdeck. “Her colors, man! What flag does she fly?”

Cachon scanned the horizon once more, his brown hands shielding his eyes from the sun. “She’s runnin’ the English colors, Captain. And she’s draggin’,” he yelled down jubilantly. “Sails are ripped from stem to stern.”

Luísa jumped off the rigging of the mainmast and shouted her orders in a full throaty voice. “Come about! Take her to the weather wind. Let’s see what old Bess has for us this time.”

The groan of heavy timbers reverberated as the hull of the
Coral
scraped against her prey, a sleek cutter painted black as a raven. The men scrambled to the other ship like a swarm of Brazilian fire ants. They were giddy with the thrill of plunder within their grasp. But the battle they expected withered within minutes.

Their quarry, already bloodied and spent, threw down their muskets and swords, unwilling—or unable—to suffer any further.

“Look at her, Dooley,” Luísa yelled from a ratline. “She’s a ragged whore, wounded from belly to mast.”

“Aye, Miss,” the cabin boy answered. The color from his naturally rosy cheeks washed away.

The
Persephone
had been badly damaged from a previous fight, and her crew had lost all stomach for any more bloodshed. One by one they fell to their knees. Maimed and some half-dead, they offered no protest when they were clamped in irons.

Luísa slid down the ropes to the quarterdeck, greeting Paqua with a proud grin. None of their men had been hurt and the
Persephone
was a gem. Even with her sails in tatters and a gaping hole in her side, she’d bring a fine price at market. Luísa slapped her co-captain on the back as they walked toward the loading plank. “Didn’t I tell you we’d bring her down without a man lost?”

Paqua shook his head. “Nineteen years old with the bollocks of a bull. But it’s not much of a victory if you steal a dying man’s ship—even if he is an
Inglés
.”

“Are we getting picky now,
Capitán
? What do I care how we brought her down or if someone else ravaged her before us? The
Persephone
is a pirate-hunter and her captain would have met my sword if he wasn’t already dead.”

“But he’s not dead.”

Luísa stopped in her tracks. “Say again.”

Paqua grinned. “He’s not dead
yet
. We left him to rot in the galley where the
Persephone’s
surgeon removed a musket ball from his back. The quartermaster says he won’t live.”

“I won’t shed any tears for one less
Inglés
. The
Persephone
is the prize. She ought to fetch a fine price in Barbados.” They reached the loading plank and Luísa thought it strange that her crew was still loading cargo from the seized vessel. What could possibly be left after the previous attack?