Pirate Wolf Trilogy (63 page)

As keen as
Juliet’s eyes were, even aided by familiarity, she would not be
able to see the entrance until they were past the two outer
islands. In her mind’s eye, however, she could clearly picture the
lookouts on the summit clanging the alarm bells that would bring
men running to the heavy battery of guns that guarded the approach.
Never, in all her twenty-one years had Juliet known a single cannon
to be fired in defence of Pigeon Cay yet she could not help but
smile at the confusion that must be on some of the faces as they
watched the massive Spanish warship maneuvering its way through the
coral passage.

“
If this
were the
Tribute
,” she
murmured, “and I was my brother Jonas, I would be tempted to loose
off a broadside just to get their blood flowing a little
faster.”

“Ye’d best be
showing a friendly flag instead,” Nog Kelly suggested over his
shoulder. “Unless my good eye deceives me, there be men bristling
on them gun emplacements getting ready to offer us a warm
welcome.”

Juliet
trained the spyglass on the ledges she knew were halfway up the
face of the cliffs. Sure enough, she could see the dull gleam of
sunlight on metal and knew the snouts of two score heavy cannon had
been cleared of the vines and brush that concealed them. The
sentries would have seen the two ships from several leagues out and
while the
Iron Rose
was as
familiar to them as the backs of their hands, the fact she was
accompanied by a Spanish warship of the
Santo
Domingo’s
size and firepower would have set hackles
rising.

“Do you think
Cap’n Simon will be pleased with the prize you’ve brung home?”

Juliet
lowered the glass a moment to smile at Johnny Boy. “Captain Simon
will indeed be pleased with the
Santo Domingo
. It’s the rest of what we’re bringing him that
might cause a vein or two to bulge in his forehead.”

She glanced
pointedly down to where Varian St. Clare was standing by the rail
and her smile turned into a scowl.

“Why is he on
deck? I gave specific orders he was to remain below.”

Johnny Boy
snorted. “As much as he knows about the sea, Cap’n, I doubt he
could find his way back here in a thousand years.”

Juliet glared
at the lad. “And just how would you know how much he knows about
the sea?”

“When I fetched
him his biscuits an’ ale this morning, ee asked me where we were. I
showed ‘im a chart of the Tortugas an’ Cabecas de los Martyres an’
ee nodded like ee knew what ee was lookin’ at. I also told ‘im we
were ten degrees off the equator, an’ he just nodded again.”

“Telling him we
are two hundred leagues north of where we are is hardly proof of
his ignorance, and if you’re wrong, you’ll be accounting to Captain
Simon for the lapse. I suppose you were also the one who fetched
him those clothes?”

“Weren’t no
trouble, Cap’n. I found ‘em in some o’ the chests we brung over
from the Spaniard an’ I didn’t think he should meet Cap’n Simon in
torn breeks an’ a bloody apron. Looks a proper duke now, don’t
ee?”

Something—probably the heat of silvery-blue eyes drilling into the
back of his neck—prompted Varian St. Clare to turn and look up at
the forecastle. His jaw was cleanly shaven, the moustache and
imperial had been restored to precisely trimmed neatness. The
bloodstained shirt had been replaced with one of fine Spanish
linen, the cuffs and collar edged with lace. In place of the
threadbare galligaskins, he now wore dark green Venetian breeches
buckled just above the knee with gold silk bands. Dark hose, a
pillow hat set on a rakish angle, and a surprisingly well fitted
emerald velvet doublet completed the restoration from shipwreck
survivor to royal envoy. If not for the bruising and the line of
stitching down the left side of his face, she would have thought he
had just come from the king’s court.

The midnight
eyes held hers for a long moment before he bowed low to acknowledge
her interest. She had not seen or spoken to him all morning and had
no wish to do so now. It was enough to feel the residual heat
smoldering under her skin and to know that if she did go near him,
she might be tempted to throw him overboard and make him swim
ashore.

“Arrogant
bastard,” she muttered under her breath. “We shall see who mocks
who before the day ends.”

With an
effort, she dragged her attention back to the
Santo Domingo
. It seemed to take forever for the heavy
galleon to clear the reef but once through, with the
Iron Rose
taking the lead again, the two
ships made straight for Pigeon Cay. When she was close enough,
Juliet raised the glass again and was able to identify some of the
tiny specks that stood in clusters along the gun
emplacements.

Her father was
at the main battery, a tall, imposing figure who was equally at
ease standing on the deck of a ship heading into battle as he was
manning the defences of an island fortress. Standing by Simon
Dante’s side, as ever, was Geoffrey Pitt, a man of inestimable
knowledge who presented a scholarly appearance and gentle demeanor
to the world but whose skill and ruthlessness at the helm of a
fighting ship was second only to Dante’s.

Towering over
the pair, his bald head shining in the sunlight, was the huge,
black-skinned Cimaroon who had once been shackled beside Simon
Dante in the belly of a Spanish galleyass. His hatred for his
former captors was near as legendary as that of the man who had
commanded his loyalty for the past three decades. Lucifer was
Dante’s master gunner and there was not a cannon forged or a pistol
made that he could not fire with frighteningly precise
accuracy.

There was a
fourth figure standing beside the lethal trio, smaller, slighter of
build with an empty sleeve knotted below the left elbow. Isabeau
Dante had taken the loss of her arm in stride. She had spent all of
her life at sea and, just as Johnny Boy had learned to adapt to a
missing limb, so had Beau adjusted and invented new ways to keep
her husband and family on their toes. She did not seek any man’s
sympathy, nor did she respect it when it was offered. In fact, when
Juliet had left on this last sea trial, Isabeau and her aged first
mate, Spit McCutcheon, had been working on a contraption that would
fit the stump and allow her to hold a sword or a pistol.

“The flags,
Cap’n?” Kelly shouted a reminder.

Juliet
nodded and one of the crewmen ran out the pennons, the first a
crimson wolfhound and a blue fleur-de-lis on a black field: the
arms of Simon Dante, Comte de Tourville. Directly beneath it flew a
second black and crimson burgee with a swallow tail, this one
depicting the wolfhound with a gilded rose clamped between it’s
teeth. A third plain green square of silk went up the mast, a
prearranged signal that would relieve any concerns up on the
ramparts that a Spaniard had somehow overtaken and coerced
the
Iron
Rose
into leading them
to Pigeon Cay.

Within minutes
of the flags snapping open in the breeze, the massive siege guns
were hauled back under cover and their crews stepped forward,
waving and hooting even though they were still too far away for the
sound to carry. Geoffrey Pitt even removed his hat and raised it in
a salute, which Juliet interpreted as a good sign despite the fact
her father had not budged. He stood with his long legs braced wide
apart, his hands clasped behind his back while he watched their
approach.

Well into his
fifth decade Simon Dante was still a handsome man. His body was
iron-hard with muscle and aside from a few deep creases earned by
raising three children and keeping a hot-spirited wife by his side,
his face had not changed much over the years. Clear, silvery-blue
eyes could still strike terror into the hearts of his enemies. The
stern, authoritative voice could command the bloodless silence of a
thousand men or, conversely, deliver a quip that could send the
company around him into gales of irrepressible laughter. His
expression gave nothing away that did not want giving and even
though Juliet knew that enormous heart loved her beyond any mortal
measure, she still felt butterflies beating madly in her belly. An
angry word from those lips had the power to crush all her courage
and bravado into dust. The smallest hint of disappointment in his
eyes could gut her quicker than a knife.

Isabeau Dante
was only slightly less terrifying.

“Bring us in,
Mr. Anthony,” Juliet said quietly, glancing at the helmsman.

“Aye, Cap’n.
The lads are that anxious to be home an’ braggin’, they’ll likely
have the boats lowered before the anchor splashes down.”

Juliet
did not return his eager smile. “There will be time enough for
bragging and boasting when everyone’s job is done. I’ll not want to
see a scrap of rope left on deck or a single hatch unbattened.
Moreover, I want the powder kegs rotated and the deck guns oiled
and bunged before a drop of rum passes anyone’s lips. Mr. Kelly—”
she turned to the carpenter. “By noon tomorrow I will expect to see
a new foremast mounted on the
Rose
as
well as a detailed list of the repairs that are needed on board
the
Santo
Domingo
. I’m sure there
will be no lack of help from shore to off-load whatever cargo may
be in her holds, but I want her searched thoroughly and any
unnecessary weight removed. Strip her to the beams if you must, but
I want to be able to call up another five knots in
speed.”

“I could cut
off what’s left of those bloody castles fore an’ aft; you’d gain
two points off the wind and an extra rung above the waterline.”

Juliet shook
her head. “Let us see how she handles with those new fittings and
balloon sails we discussed before we go changing her silhouette too
much. You never know when a Trojan Horse might come in useful.”

“Eh? Ye’re
gonny use her to carry horses? Great Gomorrah’s entrails, what do
we need with horses?”

Juliet sighed
and waved away any attempt at an explanation. “Just trust me when I
say she may be useful.”

“Cap’n Simon
might just have something to say about that. Horses is nasty
creatures. Got bit on the arse once when I were young. Still have
the mark.”

Juliet
peered through the spyglass. “Yes, well, unless the vaunted
pirata lobo
has taken it upon himself to
rewrite the articles of privateering we signed, the
Domingo
is mine. I won her. I brought
her home. She’s mine to do with as I please.”

Kelly threw his
hands up by way of expressing his final opinion on the matter. “I’d
be the last to argue with ye, Cap’n. I’m just sayin’ ye could sell
her to the Portugee and make yourself a tidy sum.”

“I already have
a tidy sum, enough to suffice into my old age.”

Juliet
took a final sweep of the waves crashing against the base of the
cliffs, noting the lines of foam and spindrift that marked the flow
of currents around the jagged breakwater. This time of day, the
tides would be more favorable to ships leaving the hidden harbor
rather than those arriving, and a careful eye had to be kept on the
swirling eddies and whirlpools at the base of the cliffs. Once
inside the curved spit that guarded the entrance, attention had to
be paid to holding speed and not succumbing to the drag that wanted
to pull them back out the mouth. There were men with ropes and
grappling lines on either side of the channel to assist in hauling
a ship through to the harbor if necessary, but Juliet had only been
towed once, when her rudder had been jury rigged and she had not
trusted the temporary repair to hold against the current. Her
brothers, on the other hand, had been towed in more often than not
and it was a matter of pride for her to maintain the
Rose’s
speed until the very last
possible instant.

Most of the
crew knew of the unspoken rivalry and held their breath in those
final moments of the approach. The slightest miscalculation could
send the ship careening into the rocks and as she made her way onto
the quarterdeck, all eyes turned to the towering ramparts of the
cliff and the huge fountains of white spume that exploded at its
base.

~~~

Varian
St. Clare had spent nine years in the army. As one of the youngest
officers to earn a promotion to captain, he had won accolades for
his bravery and courage under fire. He had served a three of those
years as Captain of the King’s Royal Guard—no mean feat considering
the number of papists who cursed the day Scotland and England
united under one ruler. He had faced down the zealot, Guy Fawkes,
who had tried to kill the king and all his ministers by blowing up
the parliament buildings. He had calmly, if stupidly, walked into a
cellar packed with thirty barrels of black powder and cut the
burning fuse without flinching an eye ... yet he found himself
backing cautiously away from the rail now, with clammy beads of
sweat rolling between his shoulder blades, as the
Iron Rose
rushed headlong toward what
appeared to be an inevitable collision with six-hundred-foot
cliffs.

Search as he
might, he could see no cracks, no breaks in the rocks, no caverns
that might allow forty feet of masts to sail beneath. Although he
glanced frequently at the madwoman standing on the quarterdeck, she
seemed more intent upon watching the flight of a gull circling
overhead than marking the thunderous fury of the breakers ahead.
She did not even acknowledge the helmsman when he started shifting
from one foot to the other and removing his hands from the tiller
every few seconds to dry them on his breeches.