Chance the Winds of Fortune Read online

  Now Alastair felt an insistent tugging on his sleeve and glanced down, blinking his eyes to clear them of the past as he stared into Conny Brady’s young face. The cabin boy’s eyes were as wide and blue as the sea. “Yes?” Alastair inquired, momentarily confused by the penetrating heat of the West Indian sun beating down on him instead of the cold drizzle of that winter’s rain eight years ago in Portsmouth.

  “The cap’n says for you to tell me, Mr. Marlowe, about how he found that treasure map,” Conny repeated slowly, as if explaining to some dull-witted stowaway. “You know, Mr. Marlowe, sir, the clue to the map.”

  Alastair flushed slightly, wondering if the captain had been aware of his temporary lack of attention. “’Twas in a card game on St. Eustatius. There was the captain, the Dutchman, I think,” Alastair said, trying to remember the faces around the green baize table that night. “Bertie Mackay was there, I know that for certain, and a planter gent out of Barbados. But ’twas from the Danish slaver that the captain won the document. The captain had been having a good run of luck, and the Dane hadn’t, and so the Dane hands this yellowed piece of parchment across the table to the captain.”

  “That was to cover his bet, Mr. Marlowe?” Conny interrupted, bright eyes aglow with the thought of the captain sitting at the card table with a winning hand.

  “Aye, although ’tisn’t looked upon with much favor anymore,” Alastair continued dryly. “Too many forged treasure maps have been palmed off on too many gentlemen for them to take kindly to being hoodwinked. But to the other players’ surprise, the captain, after looking it over, agrees to accept the paper in payment if he wins, which he did,” Alastair concluded, as if there never had been any question that the captain would not.

  “What was written on the parchment, Mr. Marlowe?” Conny demanded and waited breathlessly for the supercargo’s answer.

  “’Twas the last will and testament of some old Spanish foretopman. He’d been a member of the crew on one of those galleons that sunk in that hurricane off the straits. He managed to survive somehow when his ship went down. In fact, he was one of the only survivors, and he saw it as some kind of portent against returning to Spain, and his first wife and family. So he deserts the fleet and stays here in the Indies.”

  “And?” Conny said, hurrying Alastair along.

  “And since he remembered where the galleon had gone down, he decided to put some of that gold to good use, and over the years he looted it. Had himself a private, undersea treasury to plunder for over a quarter of a century. But, like most guilty folk, he found his conscience when on his death bed and wanted forgiveness for his sins. Bared his soul, as well as the location of that strongbox with the map of the sunken treasure ship inside.”

  “Coooee! What a blackguard he was.” Conny whistled between his teeth. “You think he found the gold under the bones of his old mates?” he asked, his mind lingering on the more gruesome aspects of the story. “But, Mr. Marlowe, sir, if this other cap’n had it, then how come our cap’n found the map? Wouldn’t the slaver have found it first?”

  “From what the captain said,” Alastair explained, to set at rest young Conny’s anxieties, “the Danish captain had just come across this will. The Spaniard was his wife’s late father, and she’d kept the will hidden for many a year because of the disgrace of her father’s perfidy, as well as the humiliating discovery of her own illegitimacy. Over the years the Spaniard had become quite a respectable planter, and the daughter didn’t want to sully the family’s good name, or her own.”

  Conny frowned thoughtfully. “Why would the Danish captain risk losin’ such a thing, Mr. Marlowe?” he asked, bewildered at such an incredible occurrence. “I’d sure have locked it up tight.”

  “When you’ve got the fever in a card game, you never think you’re going to lose,” Alastair explained. “Besides, maybe the Dane thought it was just another fool’s dream. He probably thinks the captain’s the bigger fool for accepting it. He won’t give it a second thought, Conny,” Alastair reassured him. “Those slavers always seem to have well-lined purses. He’s making his fortune that way.”

  “They’re not very nice ships, Mr. Marlowe,” Conny said quietly, his blue eyes shadowed as he remembered his voyage on a slaver off the coast of Africa. “Them slavers are real bad people, Mr. Marlowe. Real bad,” he muttered as if he were hearing the echoes of chained slaves groaning as they died below decks.

  “I know, Conny,” Alastair said awkwardly, knowing there was nothing he could say to help this boy, who had seen things far beyond his own experiences. “Sure hope that Spaniard didn’t have too expensive tastes,” he said now with an exaggerated look of concern. “I’d like to think he left some of them Spanish doubloons for us to be spendin’!”

  “Aye, Mr. Marlowe,” Conny agreed readily, his face lightening at the thought of that sunken treasure. “’Tis ours now.”

  Alastair glanced over to where Dante Leighton was leaning negligently against the taffrail, his thoughts known only to himself as he stared toward the east, his gray eyes narrowed against the blinding glare on the water. Alastair didn’t think the captain had changed much over the years, at least not physically, for his dark, chestnut hair was streaked by the sun, not by age, and he could still wear the same size breeches he had worn nine years ago. He was a remarkably handsome man, his features classical in their near perfection, yet there was an underlying strength and hardness to the deeply tanned face that gave it its look of character. Dante was the type of man the ladies always found fascinating and irresistible, Alastair thought with a good-natured sigh. His own features were, he had to confess, unremarkable and, if truth be admitted, downright plain.

  Alastair followed the captain’s gaze, wondering what he was seeing beyond the brilliant blues and greens of the Caribbean sky and sea. Dante was a driven man, and Alastair knew that until the captain settled an old score and laid to rest the pale ghost who haunted him, he would never find peace. Even when he’d been rowed back to the Sea Dragon, the successfully retrieved strongbox held firmly on his lap, the captain’s face had mirrored no excitement or pleasure at the find. There’d been only that same grim determination that was always there. Over the years Alastair had gleaned something of Dante’s past, and knew what manner of man he was, so he suspected he knew what the captain would do with his share of the treasure. And it would take a king’s fortune to put right the wrong done to the captain, and it would take that much as well to save Dante Leighton from the gallows if he carried out his revenge.

  Alastair sighed, wondering what troubles awaited them with the recovery of this treasure. He smiled slightly as he gave in to the sweet seductiveness of his own daydreams. The bright scarlet and orange colors of the West Indian sunset faded and were replaced by the pale gray skies of an overcast English afternoon, cold rain dripping from the bare branches of an old oak, and in the distance… Alastair shook his head, clearing it of such foolishness, for they had yet even to find this treasure ship, and here he was already spending his share, as well as drumming up trouble for Dante.

  No, the first duty of the day was to keep the winds filling the sails of the Sea Dragon. Once they reached the Florida Straits they would decide about the treasure, allowing, of course, that they sighted no Union Jacks fluttering at the jackstaffs of His Majesty’s ships—as well as any other sea vermin. His Majesty’s Navy had got real nasty of late, Alastair muttered, harboring no fond memories of the Royal Navy. A worried frown creased his brow at the thought of the increasing numbers of British men-of-war now patrolling the coasts, zealously enforcing the Acts of Trade. It seemed to him that the Sea Dragon hardly would have docked, the bow-fast not yet secured, before there would be some officious customs officer on board, prowling about from stem to stern, making a nuisance of himself until the memory of the unpleasant odor of burning tar sent him scuttling back to the safety of the customhouse. Not that the Sea Dragon had ever been caught with a hold full of contraba
nd, thought Alastair, proud of her untarnished record. And even had the unforgivable happened, and she’d had her cargo seized, the Sea Dragon had powerful friends in the Admiralty Court.

  Squinting his eyes against the sun, Alastair scanned the far distant horizon, fervently hoping that they wouldn’t sight another sail until safely docked in Charles Town. He particularly did not care to see HMS Portcullis, an eighteen-gun sloop, under the command of Captain Sir Morgan Lloyd. It seemed to Alastair that the Welshman was always there, lying in wait to catch the Sea Dragon with her hold full of contraband. Aye, but that was wishful thinking on Captain Morgan Lloyd’s part, Alastair thought with a smile of grim satisfaction, for the Sea Dragon had outmaneuvered and outsailed HMS Portcullis on too many occasions for it to sit easily in the Welshman’s belly. And yet, despite their being on different sides of the law, there seemed to be no true enmity between the two captains. Apparently, they shared a mutual respect for each other’s abilities and indeed carried on as if it were all a chess game, with their respective ships serving as queens. If he hadn’t known Dante Leighton better, then he’d have said that the crew of the Sea Dragon was just a pawn in the game, but he knew the captain cared about his men and his ship. He still had much the same crew he’d had eight years ago. They had acquired a few new hands over the years, but most were the same faces that had been on board the Sea Dragon when he’d first set foot on her decks. There was Longacres, the coxswain, full of pirate tales and sea lore; Cobbs, the bos’n, Norfolk born and bred; MacDonald, the Scots sailmaker, who sported a curling blond moustache and wielded his clay pipe as if it were a deadly claymore; Trevelawny, the dour-faced Cornish carpenter, who knew every plank, timber and beam in the Sea Dragon’s hull; Clarke, the quartermaster and self-styled dandy out of Antigua; and Seumus Fitzsimmons, the first mate, who was a Boston-born colonial with revolutionary sympathies and an Irishman’s way of making eloquent, inflammatory remarks. Alastair smiled as he thought of Houston Kirby, who never left his captain’s side; Conny Brady, the cabin boy, who would most likely make a fine captain himself one day; and Jamaica, the ship’s cat, the half-starved tom the captain had rescued in Port Royal over five years ago.

  No, the Sea Dragon was manned by a good crew, and if Captain Sir Morgan Lloyd was determined on crossing bows with her, then he would be sailing into more than he could handle. Alastair could promise him that. And if it ever came to trading broadsides with HMS Portcullis, the Welshman could count on seeing the bottom.

  Well, no sense in borrowing trouble, Alastair decided, turning his thoughts to the more pressing matter of how to put an end to the growling of his stomach when dinner was still over an hour away. He shielded his eyes as he watched the descent of the crimson sun burning its way into the west. His eyes caught a flash of movement in the darkening sky as a flock of scarlet ibises flew southward seeking a landfall for the night. Their wide span of wing caught the flame of sunset and caused Alastair a breathless moment when the sky looked as if it were igniting on wings of fire. Streaks of scarlet slashed across the purpling skies as the sun, in all its glory, sank into the sea, leaving an almost awesome serenity in its wake. But Alastair knew not to be deceived, for in the east there was a thunderstorm brewing, the fall of darkness blending with the blackness of its roiling insides. Aye, they were in for some foul weather, he thought, grimacing unconsciously as he felt the freshening winds.

  Alec MacDonald sucked in his cheeks again and again as he struggled against the wind to get his pipe to draw. Finally, when a thin trail of aromatic smoke floated up from the tobacco-filled bowl, MacDonald leaned against the foremast, his eyes trained aloft as he proudly surveyed his sails, every inch of the mended and patched canvas having at one time or another gone through his calloused hands.

  “The cap’n has a gentle hand on the wheel,” Cobbs commented, glancing aft to the quarterdeck, where Dante Leighton had taken over the helm. “Likes having her in his hands. Like a fine woman, she is. You can’t beat that, a woman and a ship. They be the finest sights to a man’s eyes, but both can bring a man to his knees.”

  “Aye, lad, ye’ve got to give both plenty o’ respect,” MacDonald agreed.

  “To be sure, I was thinking that fancy widow in Charles Town was going to be catching the cap’n last time we was in port,” Seumus Fitzsimmons said. He was mending a pair of rather well-worn breeches, his long, sloppy stitches causing MacDonald to raise his bushy eyebrows in growing dismay as he imagined those stitches coming loose at an inopportune moment.

  “That widow in question, Fitzsimmons,” interjected Barnaby Clarke, joining his mates on the forecastle, the captain having relieved him from the helm, “happens to be a very genteel young woman and should be addressed with proper respect. ’Tis a pity she was widowed so young.”

  “Speakin’ of showing proper respect, mate, tha’s no way to speak to the first mate,” reprimanded Cobbs. Clarke’s fancy gent ways had never set too well with him anyway.

  “Very well, Mr. Cobbs,” Clarke responded, bowing deeply to the assembled hands, who chuckled. “I think Mr. Fitzsimmons should show the proper respect due the lady.”

  “And, to be sure,” Seumus Fitzsimmons responded easily, “I am showing her all the respect she’s deservin’. Heard tell she broke the captain’s heart. Made him the laughingstock of Charles Town, she did. Reckon she got to thinkin’ herself too fine for the likes of our captain. Reckon her be too good for the smuggler who puts fancy brandy on her table. Hear she hightailed it to London for a season of hunting.” Seumus grinned. “Hear she was looking for a titled gentleman. Reckon ’tis sometimes better to do your looking closer to home, eh, mates?”

  “Figure the cap’n’s weathering it well enough. Perhaps he’s better off’n you think,” contributed the closemouthed Trevelawny.

  “Reckon she might start looking the cap’n’s way fast enough when he’s got that treasure fillin’ his purse,” Cobbs said, spitting a stream of brown tobacco juice over the bulwark. “Hope she don’t come back empty-handed from her scalp-huntin’ trip to London. The cap’n’ll be in real danger then.”

  “What makes you think that?” Grimes, a seaman who worked the yards and masts, asked curiously, for Cobbs’s words had been full of meaning.

  “Something I heard said when Mr. Kirby was in his cups. Got a tongue runnin’ on wheels. ’Tis amazing the things that little fellow knows,” Cobbs said with a wide grin. “Could be, if that fancy widow don’t get the cap’n, she might set her sails after Mr. Kirby, or, devil take her, one o’ us!”

  “Ye really thinks we’ll be findin’ treasure?” Sampson, another topman, inquired hesitantly. “’Twouldn’t hurt none to be rich. Could have three sheets in the wind every night if I wants. Ye thinks this Cap’n Leighton’ll be sharin’ fairly wi’ us?”

  “Reckon we’ll not keel haul ye this time, matey, seein’ how ye ain’t been with the cap’n of the Sea Dragon long enough to be knowin’ better,” Longacres warned him, while several “ayes” sounded threateningly behind him.

  “Here now, mates. I meant no disrespect to the cap’n,” Sampson quickly apologized, noticing the expressions on the faces of the loyal crew of the Sea Dragon. “I was just wonderin’, fer sure, mates.”

  “Aye, well it’d better have been just that, and now that we’ve set yer mind at rest, I’ll not want to be hearin’ anything more about it,” Longacres said grudgingly, his big fingers moving deftly and delicately on the fragile piece of ivory he was carving.

  “’Cause we happen to be on the subject,” Cobbs began importantly, then winked at Conny Brady, who was curled up at Longacres’s feet, “I’m wonderin’ what ya going to do with your share, ya old pirate?”

  “Got meself some plans,” Longacres admitted. “Maybe open up a tavern in St. Thomas, now that ’tis a free port I’d be gettin’ plenty of trade. And what about yeself?”

  A wide grin split Cobbs’s face. “I always fancied meself as Squire Cob
bs, country gentleman, that I have.”

  “To be sure, Cobbs, they’ll be callin’ ye Squire Nabobs,” Fitzsimmons predicted. “And if given a free hand in the designing of yer countryseat, ’twill most likely be called Cobbs’s Folly.”

  Cobbs grinned appreciatively as he was engulfed by laughter. “And what will yew be doin’ with yours, Mr. Fitzsimmons? Buying yeself the Blarney stone?”

  Fitzsimmons returned his barb with a mocking glance. “No,” he replied. Then for once he turned serious. “I’ll be purchasin’ meself a schooner, and outfittin’ her as a privateer. I’ve got a feeling that it’ll be coming to a raisin’ of arms soon, what with them damned redcoats being sent over from the mother country, and, I might be addin’, causing nothing but trouble.”

  “Here now, watch that tone of voice,” someone growled. “I don’t have much love for them redcoats, but I’ll not ’ear nothin’ bad said about England.”

  MacDonald sent a cloud of bluish smoke over the group. “Aye, though, ’tis the truth, that. There’s war coming. Reckon ye’ll be needin’ a good sailmaker tae make your sails strong, Mr. Fitzsimmons. Been thinkin’ of late, I have, of opening myself a shipyard along the Chesapeake Bay. Thinkin’ there’ll be a need for good ships soon. Nothing in the Highlands for me since I fled after the ’45,” he said, his light blue eyes darkening with remembered anguish. “Aye, Culloden finished it for us. My home is in the colonies now.”

  Conny Brady stared with openmouthed amazement at his fellow shipmates. “You’d abandon the cap’n?” he exclaimed. “Who’ll man the Sea Dragon?”