Bridge of Fire, page 23
“You wanted a woman,” she threw at him. “You accomplished two things with one act. You evened the score with the Inquisition, and you got a mistress into the bargain.”
“You mean I got a shrew. A screaming fishwife!” He buttoned his coat as he strode to the door. “I wish to God I had let you rot in that cell!”
She did not see him all that day. His chair at mealtimes remained empty. If the other officers missed him, they gave no sign, and she was too proud to ask what duty kept Miguel away from the table. He did not appear at bedtime. Where he slept, if he slept at all, Francisca did not know.
The next few days were the same. Miguel continued to be absent, sending no word or explanation. Once or twice she espied him on the poop deck talking to one of the helmsmen, but that was the closest he came. She missed him. She missed his banter, the long, gossipy talks they had of an evening; she missed his wild, passionate lovemaking, missed sleeping with his arms wrapped about her. Without him the cabin seemed deserted, the bed a cold and lonely place.
She could almost forgive him for his assumption that their children were his to dispose of and bring up as he liked. No woman, whether peasant or condesa, would question a husband’s decision. That was the way of the world. But she had hoped for some tempering of his prejudice, some compromise they both could reach. Now she knew how implacable, how iron-willed he was. Yet she loved him, and regretted bitterly that she must tell him she had been mistaken in thinking she was pregnant.
She was sitting on a chair in the cabin with these thoughts going round in her head when his shadow loomed in the open doorway. She turned, prepared to smile at him, to make some light remark, when he said, “Well, Princess, have you sulked long enough?” in a tone that put the onus of their quarrel upon her.
Francisca searched his face and found no warmth or sign of reconciliation. “I thought it was you who were sulking,” she said in a cold voice. His air of self-righteousness so close to contempt angered her. And to think only a moment earlier she was ready to say she was sorry. “Or did you think to punish me by your absence?”
He contemplated her with a chill, impassive look in his blue eyes. “If I wished to punish you, I would have used a more telling method.”
“Oh, I see,” she acknowledged tartly. “Perhaps bread and water? Or the lash administered by the tyrant himself?”
“Francisca, I warn you…!” He took a step forward, his face dangerously dark. She was wondering, with a mixture of fear and strange excitement, what he intended to do when a cry from the crow’s nest rang out.
“Ship to the starboard!”
Miguel hesitated, and when the cry was echoed from the bow, he whirled about and, with one stride, was out on deck.
“What colors does she fly?” he called.
“A green turtle on a white background. Her pennant is the red jack!” came the distant shout.
“Damnation!” Miguel cursed. Then, raising his voice, he shouted, “Boatswain! Furl the spritsail! Rodrigo! Where in God’s name…! Rodrigo, prepare for battle! Run out your cannon for point-blank range!”
Miguel rushed back into the cabin, flipped open the lid of the coffer, and began arming himself with pistol, cutlass, and sword.
“What is it? Who are they?” Francisca asked, one hand at the base of her throat. “What is their flag?”
“Pirates of Tortuga! The red pennant means surrender or no quarter.”
Alvaro and the other officers rushed in and quickly took up arms from the chest.
Alvaro said, “Pity we can’t outrun them.”
“Damn their hides, no,” Miguel cursed. “The Spanish build their ships too clumsily for the chase. We shall have to face and outgun them. See that the carpenter’s gang downs the bulkheads and that each man gets a musket.”
He turned to Francisca. “Lock yourself in. Under no circumstances are you to come out on deck.”
“But—”
“Francisca, do as I say!”
He left, slamming the door after him. Francisca moved to the open porthole. Careful not to be seen by Miguel, who stood with Alvaro at the rail, she strained her ears to hear.
“Mother Mary!” Miguel exclaimed, peering through his glass. “There are ten of them as I count. An entire fleet. A brigantine, five barques—and yes, coming up behind are three pinnaces. Here, have a look.”
Alvaro took the glass. “One flies the French colors. It may be Jean Blanchard’s buccaneer fleet.”
“To hell with him. He’ll soon get a taste of our shot.”
“They’ll make for our bow, where none of our guns can reach them,” Alvaro said. “I’d say send a dozen of our best muskets there to keep them from jamming the rudder and boarding.”
“A dozen! I should have two dozen. Can’t be helped. For all their grumbling, what we have are stouthearted enough. Go down, Alvaro, and have the men string their hammocks in the netting to shield them from enemy fire. I’ll have a word with the helmsmen.”
And then they were gone. Francisca heard the sound of running feet, shouts, and the clank of iron. Suddenly she felt the lurch of the ship as she heeled.
Unable to bear the tension, she stole out on deck. Ten minutes later the Espíritu sent its first blast echoing across the water. She saw a puff of smoke and a distant fountain of spray as the ball fell short of the brigantine leading the pack. Slowly the buccaneer ship drew closer, its cannon barking, the pirate crew lining the rail plainly visible now. Raising muskets, they began to fire, the Espíritu answering, her guns flashing in rapid succession, their recoil rocking the decks. The noise became deafening. The booming of the cannon and the sputter of muskets mingled with shouts and curses and the cries of the wounded. Francisca saw two crewmen slumped at their posts and one man with a bloodied leg being lifted and carried down to the surgeon’s quarters.
Miguel stood on the quarterdeck, his eye to the glass, speaking calmly to Alvaro, who from time to time shouted an order to Rodrigo.
Presently a pall of yellow smoke eclipsed the enemy ships. Then, as it drifted skyward, Francisca saw that the brigantine’s mizzenmast had taken a ball and hung crookedly from its rigging. Coming up close in a wide circle were the barques and pinnaces like jackals, biding their time, waiting for the kill. The brigantine’s master, seemingly unperturbed by his wrecked mast, swung slowly, making for the Espíritu's bow. Miguel barked an order, and a dozen musketeers ran through the waist of the ship to the forecastle. Taking up their positions, they set their guns to blazing, the shout of the chief marksman rising above the clamor. “Keep it steady. Load! Fire!” The brigantine boldly replied with a thunderous cannonade from a stem-chase swivel gun.
Francisca felt the impact of the volley moments before the cry of “Pumps!” went up. The Spanish vessel had been hit midship, but still she held steady, her guns spitting shot. The hoarse yell of “Fire!” jerked Francisca’s head around. Orange flames leaped up from a coil of spare rigging dangerously close to where the kegs of powder had been placed. Powder was deliberately kept at a distance from the guns to avoid just such an incident. Once the flames reached it, the powder would explode, blowing the ship out of the water. A seaman was trying to slap the fire out with his coat when, overcome with heat and smoke, he fell back. Miguel leaped down the ladder, racing toward the flames, grabbing a bucket of water as he ran, flinging it at the fire. Then two crewmen lifted one of the tubs of water kept handy between the guns for the purpose of dousing any chance spark and hurriedly brought it forward, dashing its contents at the leaping flames. The last glowing shreds of the burning rope were quickly stamped out.
In the meanwhile, the brigantine at the head of the pirate fleet was closing the gap between them. Miguel, resuming his post, caught sight of Francisca and angrily waved her inside. She replied by crouching out of gunshot against the rail. But she wouldn’t retreat to the cabin, where she could see nothing, wondering what was happening, not knowing from moment to moment how the battle was going.
Suddenly the Espíritu shuddered, jolted by a series of deafening cannon shots. Francisca cautiously raised her head and peeked over the rail. The barques had come within firing range and were hitting the Spanish merchantman with round after round of devastating fire. The foremast went with a thunderous crack; sails were shot through and left hanging in tatters. In return, the Espíritu's guns had disabled one barque, tearing away its single mast. Another barque apparently had been hit below the waterline, for it could be seen listing, and then a few minutes later it sank. But the pirate’s brigantine, still flying the red pennant, clung to its position— a ship’s length off the bow—with the tenacity of a bulldog.
Francisca’s hands had turned clammy with cold sweat. She did not fear for herself as much as for Miguel, who to her seemed unnecessarily exposed. He had positioned himself on the quarterdeck and was firing a musket as fast as he could reload it. His hat had been shot off, and his red-gold hair gleamed through the smoke. She wanted to shout, “Protect yourself, please, for my sake!” But he would not have heard, and if he had, would not have listened.
The wounded and dead lay where they had fallen, as the men were too busy to carry them away. The surgeon, apparently, had his hands full belowdeck. Francisca, feeling more and more helpless as she watched the battle rage, now saw where she could be useful. Moving quickly into the cabin, she pulled the bedding away and tore the sheets into strips, using teeth and hands in a frenzy of haste. Grabbing a bottle of brandy, she ran out and quickly descended the short ladder to the deck.
The smoke was thicker here, almost blinding, its acrid fumes choking her lungs and bringing tears to her eyes. The groans and pitiful cries of the men, the sight of gaping wounds and the odor of blood, sickened her. Standing there, one hand still on the ladder, she fought the urge to flee the inferno of fire and smoke, a hell where the noise of the bombardment mingled with an unholy heat and the stink of death.
But her hesitation lasted only a few moments. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped down into the chaotic madness, going from one wounded man to the next, forcing herself to kneel, trying to bind up torn flesh, the legs and arms, heads and torsos, that had been ripped through by enemy fire. The brandy bottle was soon emptied. She ran to the water keg and filled a leather bucket. It was shot from her hands before she could carry it a few feet. Back she went, filling a nearby jug, too absorbed by her task to feel fear.
Men clutched at her skirts, begging for a drink. The hoarse cry of “Water!” followed her as she stepped over the dead, their glazed eyes staring up at her in seeming reproach. Aware that her feet were getting wet, she looked down and saw to her horror that her slippers were sodden with blood. Perspiration ran in rivulets down her grime-streaked face, gathering under her arms and between her breasts, soaking her bodice. The strips torn from the sheet had long since gone, and she began to rip up her petticoats. She was bandaging a seaman’s head when a chorus of shouts made her look up.
Above them, bow to stern, loomed the mast of the brigantine, her rigging swarming with pirates armed with grappling hooks.
“Look to yourselves!” came the cry. “They’re going to board!”
The pirates came in a rush, leaping from the rigging to the decks of the Espíritu. Those on the pinnaces and barques scrambled up the sides as agile as monkeys, brandishing cutlasses and poleaxes. They were a terrifying sight, and the greatly reduced company of Spaniards was no match for them. Yet they fought bravely with anything that came to hand: cutlasses, knives, muskets, pistols, and linstocks. The melee of plunging arms, dodging feet, and twisting bodies was accompanied by screaming oaths and shrieks of pain. Through the din and the crush of men fighting hand to hand, Francisca, by hugging the rail, managed to make her way up to the quarterdeck.
There Alvaro and Miguel stood shoulder to shoulder engaging a pair of bearded ruffians in a duel to the death. Flattened against a bulkhead, Francisca watched, her heart leaping in her throat, her gaze never leaving Miguel, as if will alone could protect him. His face glistening with sweat, his eyes blazing with savage hatred and contempt, he fought with contained skill. Lashing out, dodging and ducking, then lashing out again. The pirate, tall as Miguel, with black, curling hair and a hawk nose, smiled as he parried Miguel’s thrusts, calling him a soft Spanish dandy. Miguel held his tongue, saving his strength for the business at hand. A flick of white light and he scored a point, slashing the pirate’s shoulders, drawing blood. The pirate leaned forward, bringing his weapon down, aiming for the heart, but Miguel deflected the blade. Still they fought on, steel ringing on steel. Frightened as she was, her knees shaking in terror, Francisca nevertheless felt a thrill of pride run through her veins. There was no one like Miguel; there would never be.
Then suddenly Alvaro whirled about, clutching his chest. A knife had been thrown from the rigging, striking him through the heart. He went down without a murmur. The brigand who had been fighting him kicked his body aside and turned his attention to Miguel. Now Miguel was dueling two adversaries.
It isn’t fair! Francisca wanted to scream. She edged around and picked up Alvaro’s bloodied sword. Before she realized what she was doing, she had engaged the second brigand. The attack by a woman caught him offguard, and Francisca, taking advantage of his momentary surprise, rammed the sword through him with all her strength. He fell at her feet, his body jerking convulsively, then going still. As she pulled the sword from him, it passed through her shocked mind that she had actually killed a man and hadn’t shrunk from it.
But she didn’t have time to ponder or wonder. A short, lean corsair had bounded up the ladder and was now seeking to wrest the weapon from her. But she wouldn’t allow it. Cutting at him, crossing steel with steel, she brought into play every trick Miguel had taught her. Suddenly her attacker drew back, feinted, then with a jab and twist of his wrist, cut her overskirt from her. He laughed, showing gap-toothed gums. Angry now, she thrust at him, a careless move, for the next moment he had knocked the sword from her hand. He spoke in French, words she could not understand, but he made no move to put his cutlass through her, as she half expected. Instead he kept her pinned to the bulkhead, his weapon raised threateningly.
Francisca, turning her head, saw that Miguel, now bleeding from his sword arm, was fighting two men again. He can’t keep it up forever, she thought in despair. No quarter, he had told her. He would fight until his last breath.
She began to pray, in fear and confusion mingling Catholic with Hebrew prayers, the Hail Mary with snatches from David’s psalms. To no avail. God did not hear her. A few moments later Miguel lost his sword, and the curly-haired pirate gave him the coup de grace.
Francisca tried to run to him as he lay in a pool of blood, but was prevented by the brigand who guarded her. She wept then, wept openly, unashamedly, tears running down her dusty face, calling on him, sobbing his name. But Miguel did not answer. He would never answer her again.
Chapter XIX
The dead, along with the wounded, were flung overboard. When two of the buccaneers commenced hauling Miguel’s body away, Francisca screamed and tried to get at him. She was restrained and forced to watch helplessly as they tossed Miguel into the sea.
The Espíritu’s cargo and guns were shifted to the brigantine. Francisca, also considered part of the booty, was bound hand and foot and carried aboard the pirate ship. She was spared the horror of witnessing the slaughter of the remainder of Miguel’s crew. The ship itself was put to the torch. The merchantman, slow and awkward, built for the endurance of long voyages, was of little use to the cutthroats, who relied on speed and maneuverability to hunt their prey.
Francisca was installed in a cabin that seemed to be the officer’s mess. Still bound, she sat on a velvet-upholstered chaise impervious to her surroundings, too full of grief to care or to speculate about her future. It did not seem possible that life could end for such a strong, vigorous man as Miguel. But it had. He had been killed; for him it was over. But not for her. How could she go on breathing, feeling the beat of her torn heart, when he was dead? Why hadn’t she been killed instead of Miguel? Of all the cruelties she had suffered, this seemed the worst. Had she been angry at him? Had they quarreled? Yes, there had been words, but she couldn’t remember what had been said or why.
A shadow darkened the doorway, and a pirate in the castoff coat of a British officer entered. He spoke in French, and when she made no response, he hoisted her from the chair, cut the rope from her ankles, and led her out on deck. The rank smell that emanated from his blood-encrusted clothing sickened her, and she shrugged out of his grasp. He laughed, a high, cackling sound, but made no move to touch her again.
The pirate stopped before another cabin door, knocked, then entered.
“La femme,” he announced.
The curly-headed buccaneer who had killed Miguel rose and gave her a slight bow.
“Señora.”
For a brief moment Francisca felt a hot surge of hate. Then it was gone, and the dullness of exhaustion and despair took over.
“I’m sorry we’ve had to inconvenience you.” He spoke heavily accented Spanish, a tall, swarthy-skinned man with a gold earring threaded through his right earlobe. He had changed clothing and was now dressed in a claret-colored velvet coat over frilled spotless white linen. His cutlass and a pistol were thrust into a wide belt at his narrow waist. Black breeches tucked into high leather boots polished to a gleam completed his costume, one that contrasted sharply with that of the ruffian who had just escorted her.
“Permit me.” He removed his cutlass and cut the remaining ropes from her hands. At his touch, she went rigid, but he did not seem to notice.
“Please sit.” He indicated a carved-backed chair.
Without speaking, she accepted his offer, more to ease her trembling knees than to obey.
“Let me introduce myself. I am Jean Blanchard, captain and commander of this fleet. The ship you are on is La Duchesse.” He paused. “And you, Señora, are called…?”
She did not answer.
