 
## **Contents**

Title Page

Copyright Page

Tempest and a Teapot

Flanker's Plank

Collateral Damage

Facing the Future

Kriegspiel

Seaman's Secrets

Santa Catalina

Sérénité

About the Authors

To Be Continued

No Quarter - Wenches

Volume 1

By MJL Evans and GM O'Connor

NO QUARTER SERIES COPYRIGHT @ 2014

No Quarter: Wenches COPYRIGHT @ 2016 MJL Evans and GM O'Connor

ISBN: 978-0-9948744-8-1

Artwork: GM O'Connor

E-Book Production: MJL Evans

All rights are reserved to the authors. No part of this ebook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Tempest and a Teapot

September 22, 1689

Atia Crisp was counting the bars of her cage for about the hundredth time when Port Royal came into view. She had first arrived there just over a month ago, a journey that began when a hurricane struck the ship carrying her to Hope Bay. She and her sister, Livia, had been the only survivors of the wreck, which claimed many lives including those of her ma and half-brother. After being tossed to the jagged rocks of Folly Bay, she and Livia were kidnapped and sold into slavery.

Atia's fortunes turned somewhat when she was used as a pawn in a card game and liberated by Capitaine la Roche. She later discovered that he was actually a pirate known as Gator Gar or simply the Capitaine. They fell in love and escaped to a plantation in Jamaica's Blue Mountains where they stayed for a spell before being mobbed by English Redcoats and Maroons. All in all, she was back where she started from, in the pestilent city of Port Royal.

Atia could already smell it: shit, fish, and smoke. Not even the storm could clear away the stench. A flash of lightning illuminated the approaching harbor. Behind them, off in the distance, speck-sized ships sat on the horizon. The wherry boat dipped on the swell, causing Redcoats and prisoners alike to hang on tight.

Colonel Beckford led the procession, ordering the English soldiers to dock near the Wherry Bridge. They disembarked, and prison carriages wheeled up Thames Street, passing through the great stone arch of Fort Carlisle and Gallows Point, where prisoners were hung by their necks until dead.

Atia grimaced as Bridewell Prison came into view. Its stone foundation housed dozens of cells with iron bars. The dilapidated top structure held many more barred chambers, each with little natural light. Great, more confined spaces! she thought with a snarl.

She and Livia were dragged to separate cells. "Hang on, Liv, he's coming," Atia said.

She knew the Capitaine would rescue them. She could hear his broad-billed parrot, Minuit, following her across the Ligania plain; she'd seen him periodically on her journey. With the tempest looming she hoped her feathered friend was safe. Too many lives had been lost already. The attack on Strangewayes's plantation had claimed her friends Tanama and Lilly. Tanama died in her arms. Atia had pretended to be asleep when English soldiers came to take the body away, and she'd given one of them a black eye.

She did not know the fate of others. The buccaneer Dashiell Dupris and a native elder, Yaguara, had picked the lock of their cage and escaped into the jungle. Carlena, the plantation's leader, had guided the residents away through underground tunnels during the attack. Runaway slaves Ekene and Fatima, though, had had the misfortune of being captured and transported back to Port Royal in one of the prison carriages.

Atia peeked through the barred window, catching rain on her tongue. Lightning clawed the skyline, and the tiny ships drew nearer. Perhaps it was the Capitaine coming to take his revenge on this accursed city. She staggered to a hay bed in the corner of her cell. Her ribs still ached from the shipwreck, and she would have given anything for some laudanum. The hair on her arms rose, and she shuddered. Her head pressed against the stone. She could still see her ma being sucked overboard, her body smashed upon the rocks of Folly Bay.

A rat scuttled along the floor, its wee claws scraping against the foundation. Atia shut her tired green eyes. She imagined herself back at Strangewayes's plantation, with its warm sweet air, bright green leaves, and fields of vibrant wildflowers. Iridescent butterflies glittered, and birds chirped in the trees. The kindly Dr. Strangewayes invented new and unorthodox concoctions in his apothecary, while his assistant Gladstone always sampled the medicines. They had twilight picnics of cured meats, yams, mangoes, pineapples, apple tarts, and well-aged whiskey.

Her nap was interrupted by the metallic clang of keys and the click of a lock as a guard entered. "Atia Crisp, time for processing."

He dragged her to her feet, and they stopped to collect Livia, who could scarcely walk due to a broken rib. Shackles locked around their ankles and wrists, and they were herded from one cage to another. Atia squeezed Livia's hand as she dozed from exhaustion.

As they traveled across the street to the courthouse, the rain pelted hard, submerging the streets in water. The prison carriage slowed, unable to go any further. As a second prison cage halted beside them, Atia could see that it held Fatima and Ekene, half-conscious and bloodied.

At the courthouse on High Street, they were stopped, and someone called out, "Thames Street is flooded all the way down to the King's House, so you'll have to go around High Street." Water pooled down the front steps. City officials arrived in carriages and debating ensued. "What the hell is all this?" one began.

"Councilman White," another shouted over the wind.

"These are prisoners from Captain Longstaff. They're to be processed tonight."

White's eyebrows furled. "Now? Why can't this wait till morning?"

"Colonel Beckford said to take them in now."

"Oh, Beckford," White sighed. "He tries hard for an idiot. Take them back and lock them up for the night. We'll process them in the morning."

"Judge Goblet's orders. These prisoners are to go before the bench tonight."

The door to the courthouse blew open, and a stout man in a judicial black robe leaned out. "Excuse me, Mr. White, these prisoners are vital to an ongoing investigation into slave smuggling. One of the highest crimes there is. Thank you, Constable Blower." Goblet glanced down at the pooling water. "We have to relocate the proceedings, however; the entire building is flooded."

"Aye, so we go home and let it stop raining," White said.

Goblet's bottom lip quivered. "Whig justice doesn't wait for the rain to stop."

"Well, if you must proceed tonight, there's the old courthouse on Church Street," White suggested.

"It's a synagogue now, sir," Blower added.

White shrugged. "Well, tell the Jews to move out for a while. It's nothing new for them."

"Yes, I agree. We'll move the proceedings to Church Street." He motioned for his carriage. "Have Colonel Beckford meet us there."

White yawned. "Ever fall asleep by the fire to the sound of the rain only to find yourself out in it? I have."

"Thank you, Mr. White. England appreciates your sacrifice. Please meet us there." Goblet hopped up into his carriage, followed by his aides, and took off.

"That's 'Captain' or 'Council President' to you, Chief Justice," White huffed. "Whatever! Take us to the old courthouse on Church Street." He entered the carriage, and it rolled away.

Atia wiped the rain from her eyes, and the prison cart looped around, bumping and grinding against the uneven terrain. Livia moaned and trembled. Atia couldn't even hug her sister with these damned shackles. "Don't you worry, Liv. I know he's coming." She was convinced; she had to be. The Capitaine wouldn't leave her here. He'd come. Her da would come too once he found out. He, her uncle Rourke, and her brothers would race in on Lucky Charms and blast holes in the city.

Atia wasn't going to cooperate with these fancy officials. She wouldn't give them a thing. Her whole family had suffered at the hands of people like that. Particularly the slaver Hansel Crisp. Crisp blackmailed her mother into marrying him by threatening her life and Livia's.

They could throw Atia back in prison. Beat her. Torture her. She refused to crack. Each and every one of them could go to hell.

Captain John White, the council president, debated whether to step outside the confines of his carriage. Like a dog, he'd been summoned in the middle of the night during a storm. He massaged the stubble on his head before placing a heavy white wig there. He secured his rain cloak and hood, then stepped out in front of the courthouse.

"This will do nicely." Goblet lifted his robe and climbed the stairs. "Seems old Port Royal is on higher, firmer ground than new Port Royal."

White wrinkled his nose. "Smells the same in the morning, though." He rushed indoors to shake off.

Colonel Beckford joined them, and they advanced to the old court bench. Once the prisoners were escorted inside and lined up against the back wall, Goblet took a seat and removed a wooden box from his pocket. He used a small mallet to whack the tabletop. He frowned at the indent in the woodwork. "Whose invention is this? The Dutch?"

"It's to bring order," Beckford said.

"I know what it's for, Colonel." Goblet wore an expression that made him look like a constipated terrier. He eyed Livia and Atia Crisp. "Well done, you got the pikeys." He flipped through a stack of papers. "Now, you captured a buccaneer and the Indian called Jaguar. Where are they?"

Beckford's large ears flared red. "They...they escaped somewhere on the Ligania road."

"Escaped? How could you let them escape?" Goblet pressed.

"With less than ten percent of my men left, we were unable to contain all the prisoners."

"I'm astounded you know what a percentage is. Perhaps the title of colonel was a premature appointment."

"What were the losses, Beckford?" White dared ask.

"Uncounted yet, sir, but I'd estimate we have less than a hundred soldiers including Red Royals, and my militia is down to twelve accounted for."

White massaged his face. "How did this happen? Did we miss a meeting?"

"The Maroons attacked." Beckford cleared his throat. "I believe Captain Longstaff and Admiral Goddam engaged in negotiations with them to lure them into a fight."

White leaned in towards Goblet. "An ugly accusation, to say the least." He went on to address Beckford. "Where is Admiral Goddam?"

"Dead, sir. Along with his entire staff and Colonel Spotswood."

"The governor's brother?" White's eyes almost sprang from their sockets. "Oops. That might set off an inquiry."

"An inquiry is what we're here for, Mr. White," Goblet said.

"That's 'Captain' or 'Council President,' Chief Justice."

"Constable," Goblet said. "The sheriff was killed in the line of duty."

"He was?"

"Come here and be sworn in."

Blower's face gleamed. "As sheriff?"

"No, imbecile, as bailiff," White said.

The constable's shoulders sagged, and he trudged towards them.

"What's your full name?" Goblet asked.

"Lief Blower, sir. Son of Hans Blower."

"Very well, you are hereby an officer of the court. Clear the court, Officer Lief Blower!"

White took his place on a chair next to Goblet. Once all unnecessary bodies were removed from the room, he cleared his throat. "Court is now in session. Justice Tankard presiding."

The judge stared daggers. "Justice Goblet, Mr. White!"

"Sorry, I always get those mixed up, Chief Justice."

Goblet continued to inspect the prisoners.

Atia, the red-haired pikey, glared at them all. "Me Capitaine's coming for ya!"

"I'm sure." Goblet read her file. "She's wanted for questioning in her involvement with the pirate Gator Gar, along with her sister."

One of the aides stepped forth. "There's a bounty on the redhead. Captain Longstaff may have a claim."

The door to the old courthouse opened, and the wind caught it, causing a slam that echoed through the building. Edmund Coggshall entered wearing a black rain cape. His right-hand man, Stevens, trailed behind. "I claim ownership of the two Irish girls and the young slave Fatima," Edmund said.

"I thought ya freed us?" Atia challenged.

Edmund met her harsh gaze. "Unless the girls have the necessary papers to prove otherwise, I have here a letter of recovery entitling me to seize property belonging to Mr. Crisp of Barbados." He provided a document.

Atia spat in his direction. "You said ya freed us!"

"Hush, Atia! I do this for you and your sister." Edmund eyed the bench. "I'm here to take what's mine."

"Edmund Coggshall, your document claiming ownership of the Negro Fatima indicates she belonged to Mr. Burghill. That estate has yet to be determined. He has a child."

"Aye, sir. His daughter is unmarried and cannot inherit the land, titles, or property."

"She's too fat and slow too," Blower said, eliciting a laugh from the guards.

Goblet slammed down the mallet, leaving another mark on the woodwork. "Fatima is a runaway slave and will be sent back to Barbados for reconditioning unless Mr. Coggshall can provide further proof."

Edmund shook his papers. "What of the two Irish? Surely my claim stands?"

"Atia Crisp will be interrogated in Bridewell Prison for her involvement with the pirate Gator Gar and her association with the smugglers, Cormac and Rourke O'Malley. Although they are recently deceased, she may be able to provide further details on their smuggling operation."

Atia's face went pale at the news of her da and uncle's death. The sisters looked at each other and began chanting something pagan-like. Atia sniffed and pointed to the window. "My Capitaine is comin' for ya. He's coming for you all!"

"Mr. Crisp of Barbados also has a claim. He believes them to be of pure Roman blood. He's sending a breeding expert to find out." Goblet formed a pyramid with his hands. "Acting Lieutenant Governor Piper, however, wants there to be no question: Barbados does not dictate terms to Port Royal. Rather, Port Royal will advise Mr. Crisp of Barbados how we see fit. There are no charges against Livia Crisp. She is released to Edmund Coggshall pending a hearing to determine ownership." He motioned to Edmund. "You may take her with you now, Mr. Coggshall."

Livia was unshackled, and Stevens picked her up in his arms.

"I'll not go without Atia!" Livia protested.

"Hang on, Liv. He's comin' and Da's comin' too, you'll see!" Atia cried hysterically.

A boom shook the room.

"Jesus!" Goblet exclaimed.

"No, it's a ship," White corrected.

A flash shone through the window, followed by an explosion.

White dived beneath the bench. "Hit the deck!"

The clang of alarm bells sounded as more thunderous blasts rattled the walls.

Goblet's bottom lip began quivering. "What the hell is it?"

"It's a raid, you fool! Secure the prisoners. Everyone stay down!" White shouted. "Colonel Beckford, general quarters!" He and the colonel looked out the door. The blasts had come from just offshore.

"It's a French attack!" a bystander yelled.

"Told ya they was comin'." Atia smiled smugly.

White and Beckford ran to Morgan's Line to defend the city. From the end of Church Street, an ornately decorated carriage sped along. Two fiery shots soared into a nearby building. Acting Lieutenant Governor Piper stuck his head out the window, yelling wildly, "Get out of the way, you fucking idiots! Jesus fuck!"

"Aye, our government for you," White said. "Always banding together in times of crisis."

Candlelight illuminated the sitting room while rain droplets pelted the windows. Ellsebeyth "Bizy" Gale had known something was up. The commotion outside on Church Street had woken her. The Jewish families residing in the former courthouse across the street were being dispatched from their homes. Only a year before, the Spanish Catholics had been dismissed from the same building. Some sort of official city business was being conducted, evidently.

She then decided to fix herself a pot of tea, while occasionally checking the window. Snoring came from her friend, Esmeralda Belford—or to some, Widow Bell—who had passed out in a chair from too much rum. When the first of the cannon fire struck, the entire house vibrated. Widow Bell fell out of her chair with a thud as Isabella and Jamie, raced downstairs.

Isabella trembled. "What's going on, Mama?"

Bizy motioned for her to stay quiet and checked the window facing the water. Tall ships loomed in the distance within a veil of smoke. Cannon fire assaulted the city again, causing dishes to vibrate off the shelves and the teapot to shatter on the floor.

"Christ, we're under attack!" Widow Bell staggered towards them. "Get to the cellar, kids!"

Bizy felt Isabella's stare as she slid on her boots and laced them up. "Down to the cellar. Now!"

The children went on ahead, but Widow Bell delayed. "Where are you going?"

"I have to go to White's Line and defend the city."

Widow Bell shook her head. "Why'd ya have to say 'yes'?"

"Well, I did. Now get downstairs, I'll be back as soon as I can."

Bizy forced her arms through her coat and buttoned up. It was becoming a habit these days, dragging herself out of bed in the middle of the night to save the city. A month prior, she'd assisted in extinguishing a devastating fire. Her actions earned her a Medallion of Service and the honorary title of acting corporal and official fire warden of White's Line. Now, facing the prospect of cannonballs, she wasn't so sure she wanted such fanciful labels.

She tied back her long hair, which drew attention to the scar that ran down the middle of her forehead to the bridge of her nose. After a deep breath, she rushed down the front steps to the causeway.

A pair of renegade peacocks darted by, followed by Jarvess Coxenspit, a local performance artist known as Monsieur De'va. He whistled to his pet fowls. "That's the bloody French for ya!" Coxenspit bellowed. "Taking cheap shots in the bloody rain!" He clasped his pom-pom nightcap and continued his frantic chase.

Bizy stopped at Morgan's Line. Councilman White was on the scene, watching the enemy ships through a spyglass. Colonel Beckford limped up the ramp to join him, briefly casting an eye at Bizy.

"Ah, Beckford, there you are!" White studied the boats. "I see la Merlin, le Sea Horse and Hazarducks. The bloody pricks!" He lowered the viewer.

Bizy had known those ships from her days consorting with the Flibustiers in '79 and '80. Their French names were Émerillon, Cheval Marin, and Hazardeux.

"Call battery to order! Fire back, dammit!" White yelled.

Beckford looked through his telescope. "Prepare to fire."

Bizy lit torches as men loaded the cannons. From behind them came the high-pitched shriek of peacocks. Her heart almost erupted when she saw Jamie rushing out to her.

White grabbed Jamie by the ear and took him behind the rundlet cart. He addressed the city volunteers, "You were trained for this. Defend the city!"

"Is it an invasion?" Bizy asked.

"No. A test of our strength. They'll retreat once we're at full force."

His words were little comfort. "What shall I do?"

"Watch for signals from Morgan's Line." Next, White eyed Jamie. "And you, stay out of the way."

Bizy gave her son a worried snarl.

"Ready to fire cannons," White ordered. "Fire!"

Men torched the cannons and fired at the French ships. A retaliatory shot came back at them.

"Incoming!" White pointed.

Sulfur hung heavy in the air. The shot soared overhead and slammed into Widow Bell's house.

"No!" Bizy screamed.

Jamie tugged at his mother's arm. "They got our house, they got Isabella."

She scooped up her six-year-old and met White's gaze. "Our house."

"Take the boy out of here. Go."

Bizy darted for home. There was a great smoking hole in the side of the house. She navigated to the cellar door, which was still intact. She pulled it open and lowered Jamie inside before climbing down herself. Within the darkness she found Isabella, Widow Bell, a handful of neighbors, and Jarvess Coxenspit.

Coxenspit sobbed, wiping his nose with his nightcap and gripping a dead peacock. "I think I accidentally choked me favorite fowl!"

The sleepy little town of Ligania lay across the water from Port Royal's harbor. The street lamps were lit once the people realized it was their neighbor under attack and not them. Residents gathered at the wharfs to observe the spectacle. The thunder of ignited gunpowder echoed across the sea, and gunpowder explosions lit up the sky with bursts as intense as fireworks.

The biggest mansion in town belonged to Port Royal's former lieutenant governor, Lord Dorcas Dewar. The grounds of the estate bustled with activity as Dewar ordered that everyone wake up and that breakfast be ready, so they could all enjoy a meal and a show.

Dewar's children huddled in their nightwear. Beside them was the Llewellyn family. Lady Lyla Llewellyn wore her night robe, and her daughter, Laura, wore the same, holding a small dog with an enormous mustache. Dewar gazed suspiciously at Chico Gonzales the rat-dog, whose extraordinary talents ranged from incessant yapping to leaving shit stains on the walls.

"Father, can we not go back inside?" Dewar's youngest bemoaned.

"Bloody daisy! And miss a piece of history? I think not." Dewar straightened the cuffs of his frilled sleeves. This was indeed a special occasion. He was adorned in a red velvet suit, an ostrich feather hat, and shimmering buckle shoes.

Former Judge Lord Lawrence Llewellyn's elaborate heels clopped against the woodwork. His blue and red checkered justacorps hung regally around his frame and draped over his shoulder was a deep purple sash. "Have I missed anything?"

"Nay, they're just getting started." Dewar clapped his hands. "Oh, hurrah! I love a good battle! Who is it this time, the Spanish?"

The former governor's advisor, Mason Sleemans, covered his ears. "We're not at war with the Spanish. The French, I suspect, a declaration of war from Saint-Domingue."

Llewellyn posed triumphantly. "I'm even wearing my ceremonial sash of victory." He paused to take a deep breath. "Ah, the sounds and smells of war. How I missed it so. Everyone comes together to kill total strangers who knows whatever for." A smile illuminated his face. "God, I love it so!"

Sleemans pointed to the purple accoutrement. "What battle does it commemorate?"

Llewellyn shrugged. "Who knows, but I'm sure we won."

Dewar and Llewellyn strolled onto the stone patio for a better view. In between the thunderous booms, the nearby ocean washed over the rocky terrain below. The air around them grew silent.

"Oh, what happened? Have they stopped?"

Sleemans peered out to sea. "Maybe just turning around for another assault?"

"Let's hope so! When did we last beat the French?" Dewar asked.

"We've never been at war with them before," Sleemans said.

"Well, it's bloody well time then!"

Another flash and a shot soared into the city.

"Come along, swords up! Ah, it's on again." Dewar took a slender, brass spyglass from his pocket. "Come on, Port Royal. Shoot back, you lousy Whigs!"

Fiery cannonballs fell, one by one, into the city. Rumbles and screams carried on the wind. Fort Charles fired a barrage of shots at the offending ships, which splashed into the sea.

"Finally, someone woke up Captain White." Dewar chuckled.

Morgan's Line and White's Line both fired shots, and the French ships turned away.

"That can't be it?" Llewellyn exclaimed. "I got all dressed up!"

Silence ensued until the French came back for another pass.

"We should have someone painting this." Llewellyn raised a glass when HMS Falcon, a sloop with English patterns, raced from the docks off Fort Carlisle. "Sweet British sackers!" He pointed. "It's Chuck Talbot, Commodore." His voice deepened with his best impersonation: "I'll beat off them French for you, lads!"

They roared with laughter, and Dewar fell from his chair, spilling wine.

"Relentless is putting out." Sleemans indicated the huge ship at the Ligania docks.

"If only my wife would," Llewellyn grumbled.

"Maybe she'll get out there in a few days after they're gone," Dewar scoffed. He watched the activity on the deck, but her sails didn't drop. "What did I tell you? It's like watching a beached whale try to hump his way back to sea."

"She's not setting sail. She's preparing to fire," Sleemans said.

Llewellyn cheered. "Give the French a load of Big Dick!"

"Longstaff is injured," Sleemans chided. "He's not back yet. It's one of his subordinate officers in charge."

Dewar spat out the remainder of Madeira wine. "A shilling says he takes out Fort Charles."

Relentless turned, and HMS Falcon faced the French alone. Longstaff's vessel fired a full broadside of shots. Flashes and booms toppled spectators backwards. Through the smoke of Port Royal, cannonballs smashed into the sea around the French ships, engulfing them in great splashes of water.

Llewellyn's smile faded. "Did we hit them?"

"I'd say we knocked the wind out of them," Sleemans said. "They'll probably leave now."

The French turned for another pass.

"Ha, I'll have my shilling yet!" Dewar clapped his hands.

"I didn't bet," Llewellyn said in a superior tone. "You never pay up."

Dewar shrugged. "We're on a credit system."

"I'll bet Big Dick's number one gets promoted."

Dewar waved to a slave for another drink. "I'm not taking that bet. They'll promote you for anything these days."

A French shot came down, slamming into the roof of the Black Dog Inn. It smashed a hole in the roof and crumbled the brick chimney.

"Oh, not the Black Dog Inn!" Dewar gasped. "They should have used lead."

"That one's coming out of Talbot's pay," Llewellyn tut-tutted.

The hallways of the Black Dog Inn shook, and the copper wall sconces tipped upside down. A cannonball crashed through the building, shattering the windows and leaving a smoke trail. Dr. Marcus MacAskill charged into the hall, his wild gray hair blending with the air. Even in a drunken stupor, he'd recognize the sound of a French cannon.

Violante "Vie" Hayze staggered from the room next door, wearing a blue satin nightgown and robe, her arm in a sling. "What the hell is happening?"

"It's a bloody raid!" MacAskill spoke in a thick Scottish accent and put his arm around her waist to escort her down the hall.

"I thought Port Royal was raid-proof?"

Outside on Lime Street, horses, carriages, and people scattered in all directions. MacAskill went to the stable for his wagon. He assisted Vie into the back and tossed a blanket over her as another cannonball blasted through the inn.

"Where's Richard?" Vie pondered.

"I'm not paid to keep tabs on your Big Dick. I'm just yer doctor." MacAskill jumped into the driver's seat and gathered the reins. "Keep yer head down." He fought the traffic and turned up New Street.

While serving on the Torrington with his friend Arthur Valentine, also called Bleedin Art, MacAskill had helped capture Jamaica in 1655 for the English. He'd survived more battles than he could count and served as surgeon on many ships. But now instead of cringing from fear, he cringed from the noise as it hurt his ears. The French like their cannons extra loud, the fuckers!

They arrived in front of Valentine Mansion. Bleedin Art emerged, tall, thin, and well-dressed. He was followed by his wife, Katheryne, and mother-in-law, Lady Crabapple Crosshatch, donning a silk gown and heavy white makeup with a faux mole on her cheek.

"Ah, shit, it's Lady Crotch-itch!" MacAskill said as he inadvertently strained the horse's neck.

Art's men, Jag'd Jayne and Scarcliff, trailed behind carrying carpetbags. Lady Crosshatch cursed at them to hurry up while Blackmoor brought the carriage around.

"Well, you took long enough, Negro!" Lady Crosshatch scowled when he arrived.

MacAskill climbed down.

"I didn't know she was my boss," Blackmoor whispered.

"Yer a slave. The cat's yer boss," MacAskill said.

Art patted his forehead. "We're taking her to the church. She thinks it's safer in church."

MacAskill snorted. "Safer from what, reality?"

A cannonball screamed overhead, and Jayne covered his ears. "Shit!"

"Tell the brute to watch its language in the presence of a lady," Lady Crosshatch demanded.

"What the fuck?" Scarcliff blurted.

Art helped his mother-in-law aboard. "You're absolutely right, Your Ladyship." He pointed at Jayne. "You keep yer filthy strumpet-sucking pie hole stuffed in the presence of a lady, or I'll shove my foot up yer bloody crap-pipe and sew it to your yap. Now get on!"

Jayne's mouth dropped, but he obviously thought better of speaking.

Lady Crosshatch growled. "Degenerates, all!" She scrutinized Vie in MacAskill's wagon. "What's that lewdster doing here?"

Art stared quizzically at the strumpet and then at MacAskill. "What is she doing here? Did you get a raise?"

"She's under your protection, bonehead! As is half the ships in the harbor."

"Right, right. Where's the bloody warships?" Art complained.

"We'll wait it out at Fort Carlisle. I'll be needed in the infirmary anyway after this," MacAskill said.

"Onward, you fool!" Lady Crosshatch snapped.

"Yes, what's taking so long?" Mrs. Valentine griped.

Art sighed. "Jayne, Starfish, come with me."

Jayne's eyebrows cocked. "You sure? Maybe I'm needed at Fort Carlisle."

"Aye, like the Black fuck'n Death!" MacAskill replied.

Jayne and Scarcliff climbed reluctantly aboard.

"Take me to church, you street trolls!" Lady Crosshatch screeched.

Art leaned to MacAskill. "I've been thinking on a new service for the city. Valentine's Harbor Tours for the elderly. Come for the view, stay for the crab!"

Lady Crosshatch hit the side of the carriage with her walking stick. "Oh, do get on!" They took off.

MacAskill climbed onto his wagon and snapped the reins. "I'd like to see her stay for the crab."

Atia clung to the wall as if it were a shield. The deafening roar of the explosions caused her to tremble. It was similar to the attack on the plantation where mortar bombs had dropped from the sky, tearing people apart. She had been caught in the aftermath of an explosion while escaping through a tunnel. The earth had collapsed, and she had almost been buried alive. Her wet face pressed harder still against the wall until eventually the cannon fire ceased and the shaking stopped.

"Atia!" her sister cried.

Livia was being carried away by Edmund Coggshall's man.

"It'll be all right, Liv!" Atia called back.

"We'll take 'em back to the prisons," the constable said, and the guards rallied the prisoners to their feet.

The judge had vanished by this time, but other officials arrived, seeking sanctuary from the chaos outside. A squinty-eyed man holding a walking stick adorned with a silver lion approached. "You have the pikey girl! Well done, Constable. You are charged with keeping her safe and ready for extraction on my word. Mr. Coggshall will make you a wealthy man, indeed."

Blower looked perplexed. "But he's dead."

"Coggshall Junior."

"Oh, aye! I'll keep her safe." The constable ordered the guards, "Move them out. Take them back to prison."

"You'll do no such thing!" Goblet protested, hurrying back to the main chamber, fastening his black trousers beneath his robe, while his aides twisted their faces. "We're going to finish this damn hearing. Mr. Mayor, since Mr. White may not be returning, please take his place on the bench. Continue, Constable Lief Blower."

Atia stared coldly at all the self-righteous bastards. The last she'd seen of her da and uncle was when they sailed away on Lucky Charms. It was after they helped her escape from Crisp's slaver captain, Mandingo, and the pirate Slasher Al. She had waved almost cheerfully; unaware it was the final goodbye. "You'll not go from me sight, only from me view," her da had told her before they parted ways. Now her da was dead and Uncle Rourke too. She prayed to all the gods that her brothers were safe. They had been sent to Aragua on an errand.

Atia eyed a guard's belt, where a dagger gleamed. The shackles weighed heavy on her limbs, but she had just enough leeway.

"Atia Crisp, you are charged with associating with a known pirate, mischief—" Goblet stopped.

Atia grabbed the weapon and plunged it into the guard's neck. He screamed and flailed his arms, trying to shake her off. Blood jetted everywhere, saturating her dress.

"Order!" Goblet demanded and pointed at the remaining guards, who were staring in shock. "Well, stop her!"

The constable and a guard tackled Atia. Her face was slammed onto the wet floor. The blade slipped from her hand. She was then forced to her feet with a guard on each side of her.

Goblet jotted down an additional note. "You can add murder to your list of charges."

"Uh, he's not dead," a guard said.

Goblet crossed it out and rewrote the line. "Fine. For attempted murder, you are so charged."

The bleeding guard released a final gasp.

"Oh, he died," Blower said.

Goblet was about to cross out what he'd written again.

"You're sure?"

"Aye, he's dead."

"And murder," Goblet continued. "Have you anything to say for yourself before I have you locked in the dungeon as a dangerous offender?"

An evil grin formed on Atia's lips. "I'm a dangerous offender now, Da. Yer little girl's all grown up!"

"Take her away and lock her up. Lock the rest of them up for interrogation," Goblet ordered.

"Me Capitaine's coming back for me. He's comin' for his dangerous offender," Atia cackled.

"We'll see how a month in the dark agrees with your tongue." Goblet smacked the mallet again. "Court is adjourned."

Flanker's Plank

Grayish blue eyes studied the charred remains of the fishing village of Hope Bay. Capitaine Jean-Paul la Roche advanced slowly along the dock. With him were the buccaneers, including Dashiell Dupris, known as de Kreep to his men. The battle at Strangewayes's plantation had taken its toll. Exhaustion hung in the air, and everyone bore bruises and cuts, while some had broken bones. The surviving refugees paused on the beach to rest.

From the lake at the plantation, they rowed for hours to meet the passage to the Jamaican Blue Mountains. Everyone hiked through jungle terrain for two days until they reached the other side. From there, they commandeered a fishing boat to arrive where they were now.

"Nous avons passé une mauvaise journée," Cliché said.

Arsenault patted his shoulder. "Oui."

La Roche was uneasy being back at Hope Bay now that Cormac and Rourke O'Malley were dead. The Brethren of the Coast respected them greatly. He was still contemplating how to tell Atia about their demise and, most importantly, how to get her out of Port Royal.

Cometa, a tall, guardacosta schooner of gray and light blue, was anchored nearby. Laurens de Graaf was here. It was time to face judgment. Being a strategist, la Roche was often an opportunist, even if it meant disobeying orders. He stepped foot on Jamaica, and things escalated from there.

Laurens waited nearby with crossed arms and a blue glaucous macaw perched on his shoulder. Henry V squawked.

Arsenault greeted Laurens. "Sieur, de Kreep and Cliché are wounded."

"How many casualties?" Laurens asked.

"Two. Coupe la Bite and l'Amiss. Their bodies are with us."

Laurens spoke to Yaguara, a silver-haired mixed native who bore many tribal tattoos, cuts and bruises. "It's been a long time, Yaguara. How many people do you have?"

"Sixty-three. Ten wounded."

"Get them on board. Ravenau, wounded coming aboard." Laurens looked to a limping de Kreep, who used a long gun to lean upon. "You were supposed to find the Capitaine."

"Oui, I found him." De Kreep pointed to the dock.

Laurens took la Roche aside. "What am I supposed to do with all of them? I already have fifteen hundred slaves!"

"We have a place for them in Bocas del Toro."

"A little out of our way!" Laurens came nose to nose with him. "Get on board, Capitaine. Alban Jones is meeting us in Montego Bay. We'll sort it out there."

A hobbling Gladstone oversaw Carlena's transport. She had sustained a musket shot while leading plantation residents to safety. "Hang on, love, we're on our way." He kissed her forehead.

"Nanny and the little ones!" a woman exclaimed. "We're missing some children."

"They left with the Maroons," Yaguara said. "We can't get them back now."

"Take us to Montego Bay at all speed," Laurens ordered Ravenau.

La Roche followed the train of people aboard Cometa. His entire body ached, and the fatigue he carried set into his bones.

The sails were deployed, and the wind carried them along. The deck was inundated with people. Laurens paced.

"Triage is ready, sieur," Ravenau said. "Severely wounded aft."

"Thank you, Rav. Take over. Just get us there as fast as you can."

"Oui, Monsieur."

Laurens went below deck.

La Roche followed, wanting to check on the seriously wounded. He squeezed his way through the cramped quarters and paused near de Kreep, who was waiting for the shot in his leg to be removed.

"So, how did ya like Jamaica?" Laurens asked sardonically.

"We had to help them," de Kreep defended. "They are friends of Strangewayes."

"You bloody fools! You shouldn't have got involved. You'll be lucky if you keep your leg." Laurens growled and pushed past to reach a water basin.

Arsenault shrugged. "I thought he'd be madder."

"Me too," de Kreep said.

Laurens dried his hands and inspected Carlena, who was tended by Gladstone and Yaguara. "What's her story? Heard one of the Capitaine's jokes?"

"No, musket shot. Right through," Yaguara said.

Laurens cut away the bloody fabric covering the wound.

Gladstone hovered over her with a lantern, beads of perspiration dripping from his brown skin. "Hang on, love."

Carlena groaned.

"Infection is evident," Laurens said.

"Pieces of garment and dirt in the wound," Yaguara added.

Gladstone swallowed hard. "We can operate and clean it with alcohol. Strangewayes does that."

Laurens grimaced. "Not with the Chartreuse. We'll operate when we land." He examined the gash on Cliché's arm. "What have you got to say?"

"Silence is a virtue, yes?" Cliché replied.

"For once, no. I meant him." Laurens indicated la Roche. "Why did you land?"

"The hurricane blew me in. It was not by choice. Then I found Cormac's girls, and I couldn't leave them. They are protected by the Brethren of the Coast."

"Fine. Well, the English know you're back, so you can forget surprise."

La Roche moved back up to the deck, took a pre-rolled cigarette from his pocket, and struck a match. His hands gripped the rail, and he hoped his gamble would pay off. He had risked his brig, La Lune, and his crew getting them into Port Royal, all for an attack that stalled.

The shores of Montego Bay drew closer. Scores of shacks came into view along the shoreline; quaint bungalows, inns, and taverns made up the fishing village. Beyond lay rolling green hills and dense sections of forest. Cometa slowed in the shallows and dropped anchor. Once supplies were loaded onto the rowboats, la Roche and Laurens led the party ashore.

Strangewayes refugees carefully transported Carlena to a room at the Flanker's Plank, a pirate tavern and secluded gambling den. The Tudor-style establishment stood on a brick foundation with half-timbered construction. The upstairs held six lodgings and betting quarters in the cellar.

La Roche placed a leather strap in Carlena's mouth.

Gladstone fidgeted with his hands, and Yaguara removed the bandage. Laurens held clean tweezers and readied a scalpel. Delicately, he extracted small pieces of dress material.

Gladstone winced. "You missed a bit."

Yaguara snarled. "Miles needs to be quiet."

"It is still there, no?" la Roche added.

"I know!" Laurens snapped, sweat rolling down his neck. "You can't just pluck them out like a hogshead!"

"Aye, it's a lot like bobbin' for mangoes, only the mangoes are little bits of charred rubbish," Gladstone mused.

"Oui, thanks," la Roche said.

"Gentlemen, focus on your tasks!" Laurens said.

Carlena echoed his sentiment through the leather clenched between her teeth.

Laurens breathed deeply. "Just missed the artery, look at that. I'm cutting away this piece of burnt tissue."

La Roche cringed. "You are not supposed to have parts left over when you are done."

"We have to, or the infection will spread."

Words came from Carlena that sounded like, "Hurry the fuck up!"

Gladstone pointed. "Oh, you missed a bit."

"I know!" Laurens snarled.

"We know," Yaguara echoed.

"He knows," la Roche added.

"He knows!" Carlena almost screamed.

After an hour and a quarter, Laurens seemed reasonably certain that he had done all he could. La Roche and Gladstone retreated to the tavern porch for a drink and a smoke as the sun sank on the horizon. When Yaguara joined them, his hands were still stained with blood.

"Is she asleep?" la Roche asked, watching the buccaneers down at the beach sitting on a stump of tree.

Yaguara lit his pipe. "Oui, she'll be asleep for some time now."

"Do you think she'll live?" Gladstone wondered out loud.

"We cleaned the dirt out of the wound. She still may yet fall to fever or infection. We wait and see, Miles," Yaguara said.

"Just when we needed the Doc the most, eh? Well, that went well as surgeries go," Gladstone said chirpily. "I've seen Strangewayes use his hat to shield himself from spurting blood on a number of occasions. And say, 'oops, forgot about that one'!"

Laurens stepped outside in a black cape with Henry V on his shoulder and a pewter tankard in his hand. "Hell of a surgery, huh? I should have been a doctor! So, what will you call this sanctuary of yours?"

"Sérénité," la Roche said.

Laurens raised his mug. "Sérénité."

Gladstone didn't raise his cup. "I'll drink to that when Carlena is well and ready to celebrate with us if ya don't mind."

Yaguara nodded.

"She can't go with you," Laurens said. "Not right now."

Gladstone looked forlorn. "She must, I can't go without her."

"It's a long trip," Yaguara said. "De Graaf is right. We must evacuate these people, and she needs to rest."

"We'll leave her in the Caymans. Bart will put her up. And then you're going with them," Laurens ordered.

"The hell you say!" La Roche scowled.

"Hey, you're a loose cannon," Laurens pointed out. "I can't have you sacking the Black Dog Inn when we have a war to fight. You led them here. Finish what you started. You and Yaguara are the only ones who know where it is; you both will lead the expedition. Your crew and Cormac's girls are prisoners in Port Royal until we have the island. We will discuss it later, Capitaine."

Arsenault rose and helped de Kreep to his feet.

"It's time. We have to bury Coupe la Bite and l'Amiss." Laurens took off down the path.

Yaguara and Gladstone followed.

La Roche lit another cigarette and took the beach trail to the town cemetery where graves had been dug. Etched skulls and crossbones marked each resting spot. They each took a turn shoveling dirt while Laurens recited a funerary passage.

Some of the buccaneers stayed up all night to drink and reminisce. La Roche, though, excused himself after a few hours and went to bed. His scattered thoughts nagged him. After an hour, he nodded off to dream of Atia in his arms. Her red hair shimmered against the torch lamps of the Gathering Place at Strangewayes's plantation. They danced on the grassy knoll beneath a mantle of stars. Her mouth met his...

Beams of sunlight blinded him when he woke. Voices in the hall caused him to stir. Outside, Cymru was docked off the wharf, and Alban Jones was talking with Laurens. La Roche rubbed his eyes and splashed water on his face. He ventured downstairs, following the procession that carried Carlena.

Jones approached. "We'll shove off as soon as you're ready, Capitaine."

"I will go back for Atia and Livia," la Roche vowed.

"Better make it fast, Capitaine. They'll be thrown in Bridewell Prison for sure. Then once Crisp gets them, they'll be done for."

A stone rose in la Roche's throat.

"I've sent word to a friend in the city to watch for them," Gladstone added.

"Word is that the French fired on Port Royal last night with civilian casualties," Arsenault said.

La Roche gave a palms-up shrug.

"Shit. Why do the French even make plans?" Laurens sighed and then motioned to his men. "Time to go. Help her on board. Everyone get on board."

The plantation refugees divided themselves up, half aboard Cometa, half aboard Cymru.

Gladstone paused on the shore beside la Roche. "I'm worried. Must we leave her in the Caymans?"

"Oui, we must. We will take these people home and then you can come back for her."

"And you? You'll try to figure a way into Port Royal?"

"For my crew, yes. But Atia, there is not enough time. I will need that contact of yours to help her."

"I got plenty of contacts. You just say what you need, and we'll get it."

The buccaneers forcibly herded the English townspeople to the docks where Laurens stood waiting.

"What's all this then?" Gladstone wondered. "He's not going to hurt anyone."

"No. They're just seeing us off."

La Roche and Gladstone climbed aboard Jones's vessel.

With one foot on the dock and the other on his ship, Laurens raised his sword and addressed the crowd: "Hear ye, hear ye; that's English, isn't it? Dear people of Jamaica, I want you all to know that Port Royal's wicked ways shall not continue. This island shall soon belong to the French. I'm returning to this spot shortly, and all the English better be gone when I get back. Inform Port Royal she can consider hostilities open."

Cometa and Cymru caught the wind and sailed out.

Collateral Damage

Councilman White traveled up Thames Street along the inner harbor. Debris littered the way, and many buildings had holes punched in them from the French attack. Ships, however, continued to load and unload goods at the storehouses. Constable Blower trailed behind, babbling about repairs.

They neared the docks where a vessel delivered hundreds of shackled slaves. Townspeople shouted obscenities at those being dragged along the gangway.

"Do you hear something wrong?" the constable asked.

White removed his wig. "Aye. Have you ever heard old wood rubbing against old wood? I have. Just now, in fact."

"They don't like the Negroes getting all the labor jobs."

"Job stealers!" someone yelled.

"The Negroes ain't too overjoyed about it neither."

"If ya ask me, them Negroes are lucky to be here. Where would they be without us?" Blower huffed.

"I shudder at the thought of asking," White said.

"Aye, me too."

A carriage procession drove out the gate of the King's House. White shook out his wig before fitting it back on his head. "There is something terribly wrong with someone who wants to screw one of these things on his head in the bloody tropics."

"It be a symbol of truth, justice, and order."

"A symbol of a disorder," White said.

"What's that?"

"I said I can manage from here. Why don't you go arrest someone? Find a slave stealing someone's job."

"Aye, sir."

A bystander interrupted. "Her guns are pointed inward. Are they broken?"

"Nay, they turn 'em inward on purpose. To stop any, you know, bad behavior," the constable said.

White ascended the steps to Fort Carlisle. "If only they could be turned on the habitually stupid instead, my life would be so much easier."

The carnage was fully visible from up on the gun platform. Days of repairs. How much is left in the disaster fund for this? White removed a pipe and tobacco from his jacket. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the Whigs arriving below with Judge Goblet and Captain Holland. Blower went to greet them.

White struck a match and puffed deeply, listening as the constable began, "Council Chair Captain White is waiting for you atop, Your Lordship."

"Why is Councilman White not here to meet us?" Piper griped.

"He's waiting at the fort, Yer Lordship-ness."

Mold stared down his nose. "But what is his excuse for not meeting us down here, as a sign of respect for his superiors?"

"I-I'm not knowledgeable, sir."

"Heavens no, we would not accuse you of such slander, Constable."

Blower smiled.

Judge Goblet cleared his throat. "He'll meet us inside. He prefers to stay out of sunlight."

Mold laughed. "Yes, passing ships might think he's a beacon."

White inhaled his pipe and gestured with his middle finger at the Whigs below.

Piper continued, "Constable, you're aware the sheriff was killed?"

The constable's face suddenly lit up. "Aye. A real shame."

"You'll have to do double duty to cover sheriff duties."

"Aye, sir. I'd make a fine sheriff."

"Not as sheriff." Mold choked.

Blower's shoulders dropped.

"Oh, God no. Sheriff is a position of prestige only for the upper class. Off with you now." Piper waved. "Before I make you acting constable."

Blower took off inside.

"They all need a map to wipe their own behinds in this city," Mold said. "Wasn't there a report on lead pipes turning people into imbeciles?"

"Yes, but it was Strangewayes who wrote it."

"Oh, that old fool."

White lingered on the gun platform and refilled his pipe as the Whigs climbed up the spiral stairs. On the docks below, a commotion stirred around Bloody Mary, a sloop with dark red sails. Slasher Al was carried aboard in a chair, his injured leg propped up; a clipped Dominican green and yellow macaw clung to his shoulder.

He was chased by Barbary Janissaries adorned in silks with gold trim and Nimcha swords. Their leader stood over eight feet tall. Captain Kabaka had been a king on the Ivory Coast and the last of his kind when he was sold in Port Royal to Hansel Crisp. He was now known as Mandingo, both a slaver and a slave.

"You backstabbing snake, come back here!" Mandingo roared.

Colonel Beckford rallied his militiamen. "Captain Mandingo, I arrest you for piracy."

"Piracy? I demand bounty for Cormac the pikey. We had a deal. He took payment."

"Cormac the pikey was not currently wanted," Beckford said.

"Aye, but I bear witness to the events. It was Crisp's Mandingo who blew up the frigate Arrow," Al hollered.

"Bleedin Art's ship, Arrow, was under an English flag."

Slasher Al's men rushed him up to the quarterdeck with Mandingo charging behind on the gangway.

Beckford drew his sword. "Stop right there!" His militiamen took aim with muskets. "One more step, and you will be shot for trying to escape."

Mandingo stared defiantly.

"Prepare to fire!" Beckford commanded.

Mandingo reluctantly surrendered his Nimcha swords.

Al grinned. "There may be a bounty to collect."

From the gun platform above, White continued to watch. The militiamen apprehended Mandingo and his Barbary Janissaries. "Never a dull moment in Port Royal," he said and smiled as panic filled Piper's face.

"It's another bloody slave revolt!" Piper exclaimed. "I shall declare martial law."

"Colonel Beckford has the situation under control," White said.

"Should I place Bloody Mary under arrest?" Beckford queried.

"Let them go. Stand down. Slazerelli has bigger worries now anyway," White assured him.

"Slasher Al has done the city a service in killing Cormac the pikey," Piper said.

"I wanted a chance to find out everything they know, but somehow we never get the chance," Goblet grumbled.

"Captain Longstaff is on his way. Perhaps he can shed some light on it for us," Captain Holland said.

"He can shed some light in the shade. I propose we take this up indoors." White signaled a guard. "Show Captain Longstaff and Colonel Beckford to the admiral's office."

They followed a long corridor to their destination. Once inside, they sat down in leather chairs.

"Now, these French ships from Saint-Domingue. Which ones were they, and where are they now?" Piper began.

"Their French names mean Merlin, Sea Horse, and Hazardous. Ships of the line that have roamed these waters for years. Former allies. Formidable, former allies," White corrected. "They returned to Petit-Goâve."

Mold interjected, "Émerillon, Cheval Marin, and Hazardeux are all third-rate ships of the line as I understand it. This is not the first time these French ships have fired on the city. Was there not an incident in '80?"

"It was all a misunderstanding and not entirely their fault," White said.

"What do you mean?" Piper asked.

"Well, the last time those ships were in Port Royal, the city fired off a salute of blank shots, and the French thought they were being attacked. So, they prepared for battle, loaded their cannons, and raised their battle flags. Acting Lieutenant Governor Henry Morgan ordered, 'no quarter,' before passing out, and Acting Deputy Lieutenant Governor Thomas Lynch peed himself. I made the call not to engage and sent Captain Joe Tosier and HMS Hunter out waving friendly flags. Fortunately, the French realized the error and were welcomed into the city with a great celebration, and the residents were none the wiser."

"Most of them are barely conscious as it is," Mold scoffed.

White shrugged. "Acting Lieutenant Governor Morgan had no recollection of the incident ever taking place, so all was forgiven."

"How long were they here?"

"The weekend, whilst loading their vessels with fresh supplies to raid the Spanish Main, Acting Lieutenant."

Mold frowned. "How much of the city did they see while they were here?"

White hesitated. "All of it."

A strain of curse words poured from Mold's mouth.

"The city has changed since 1680, and we were friends then."

A knock came at the door, and Captain Richard Longstaff was shown inside. At over six feet tall, he left no question as why he was known as Big Dick. His clothes were stained and his belt tattered. There was a bloody bandage around his throat. Longstaff wavered, trying to stand at attention.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, at ease, Dick," White said.

"Have a seat, Captain Longstaff." Mold gestured to a chair.

Longstaff practically collapsed into it.

Beckford tried to sit but halted due to pain. He decided to stand and snagged the wall clock's chain on his sleeve. He tried to set it back discreetly but made the situation worse.

"Gee, what will we look like when war actually starts?" White jested.

Piper exhaled. "What time have you got, Harry?"

Mold checked his watch and groaned. "I'm still on London time, sir."

Piper smacked his hand against his head. "Then what the fuck time is it in London?"

"Sorry. Quarter past three, our time."

White motioned to the watch. "Take that to Blondel's in the Merchant Exchange."

"I did. He said he can't fix it."

"Tell him I sent you." White eyed the wall clock. "And I'll have him stop by here and fix that too."

Beckford looked relieved as he abandoned the chain.

"Now to business," Piper insisted. "Captain Longstaff, we find ourselves owing you a great deal of money in bounty. I'm at a loss."

"I accept credit."

Piper's face darkened. "Don't be smug with a Whig, damn you!"

"You will be ordered to give testimony as to what went wrong and shall be held responsible for the misuse and loss of the Red Royals," Mold said.

Longstaff shifted in his seat. "Misuse? Their uses were few."

"Be sure to thank Lord Spotswood for the use of his Red Royals. They were much appreciated. Tell him that unfortunately we ran out," White said.

"The Spotswoods have fled the Leeward Islands, but I assure you, Captain Longstaff, you will be accountable," Piper continued. "We were told twenty-some-odd buccaneers just walked away, and they say you made a deal with the Maroons."

"I was ordered to test Lord Spotswood's Red Royals. I tested them, and they don't work."

Mold scowled. "Are you refusing to accept blame?"

"I'll not take the blame for the massacre at the Strangewayes plantation. Rather, Spotswood's new marine units were substandard. Most of them regular volunteer militia looking for a payday. Had I known of their incompetence, I would not have risked my own men, many of which I lost. And truth be told, it was my crew that saved the mission from complete failure."

"There were illegal killings of prisoners," Goblet added.

"Yes," Piper said. "I've heard from Colonel Beckford and the other surviving officers. Captain Holland also lost men entrusted to you. What have you to say, Captain Holland?"

"I wasn't at the action, as you know. I was watching over the harbor. But Captain Longstaff's account coincides with those of Muff Hallowell and the men under his command. Their report credits Captain Longstaff with saving their lives."

Mold pointed at Longstaff. "You still had over one hundred men under your command. Why did you not pursue the buccaneers and finish them off when you had the chance?"

"Militia and pressed crewmen are no match for buccaneers. That was a small probing squad. Think of what is to come when they bring an army. If we are to have any chance of fighting the buccaneers, we'll need real marines. Men with extensive training."

White nodded. "I agree. Without properly trained marines, we cannot match the buccaneers. I propose training to begin straightaway."

"Aye, a new marine academy shall be housed in the east wing of the Admiralty Court," Holland consented.

Longstaff seemed taken aback.

Goblet leaned forward. "Acting Lieutenant Governor Piper is appointing Captain Holland to admiral of Port Royal's home fleet."

"Indeed. Well deserved, Admiral Holland; you'll have your bars and a ceremony in the morrow." Piper clapped.

Holland bowed. "Thank you, Your Lordship."

"We shall appropriate the funds for a naval and marine training academy. Lord Spotswood's son has—"

"I don't want officers under my command because they're Aunt Edna's cousin," White interrupted. "Only seasoned, battle-hardened men. No one gets promoted until they've earned it."

"I recommend Rodney. He has proper soldier training and performed well against buccaneers and the Maroons," Longstaff said.

"He has proven himself worthy under my command as well. Rodney is to command and train the new units," Holland agreed.

"We'll let London decide then, shall we?" Piper glared at Longstaff. "It's you who concerns me. You are more troubled about your social status. And you are having an affair with a strumpet!"

Goblet folded his arms. "Thanks to you, the Maroons will regroup. And why did you and Admiral Goddam want all the prisoners dead? What else was being shipped through Strangewayes's plantation?"

"Admiral Goddam believed all our enemies would rally against us and this coming war would see the demise of the English presence in the New World. He ordered 'no quarter,' and in battle, things happen that are beyond our control," Longstaff argued.

"Our intelligence says Cudjoe is still alive," Mold said.

"A boy and an outcast."

Mold looked aghast. "Our intelligence also says Cudjoe is a son of Ashanti and an Arawak woman. Suppose the remaining Maroons rally to him?"

"If he even survived, he may have an army of a few hundred children. He's not an immediate threat," Longstaff said.

"He could unite all the Maroons!" White exclaimed. "What were you thinking, Dick?"

"The French are our primary objective."

"Relentless must be ready to sail with full complement. We must take out the French first and cut off their supplies," Holland ordered.

"Aye, sir. Two days to bring the rest of her guns aboard," Longstaff said.

"Captain Longstaff, you are still flying two jibs against tradition, and it looks bad on Port Royal and England. Your little mockery of the French ends now. Relentless will have one jib. Sorry, Dick. Dismissed."

Longstaff limped from the room.

"Acting Lieutenant Governor Piper, militia Colonel Beckford demonstrated real leadership at the battle for Strangewayes's plantation," Goblet said.

"Yes, I hear he tries hard for an idiot," Piper snorted, suddenly noticing Beckford. "Shit! Hi, there you are!"

Mold coughed. "Colonel Beckford here acted with bravery and valor and shall be rewarded. A grant of land and title should be in order, I think."

"I shall write to the king of your loyalty and make a recommendation that you be given command of Jamaica's land forces," Piper said. "Assume command of Fort Charles as your headquarters, Colonel Beckford. Good day to you."

Piper departed, and Mold followed, while White and Beckford lingered.

"Where shall I contact you?" Beckford queried.

"Don't." White scratched beneath his wig. "You're colonel of the garrison and militia, and I'm going home. This city ages me so. I'm truly only thirty-three."

"I will let you rest."

"Unless it's very important, like a tidal wave of biblical proportions, make it so."

"Yes, Councilman White. Good day to you."

White advanced through the stone courtyard. He escaped the busy Thames Street by cutting through the muddy church grounds to Tower Street. White Hall's entrance was ornamented with white pillars and a gargoyle door knocker.

White paused in the front hallway and stared in the mirror. "God, this thing makes me look old." He removed the wig as the sunshine gleamed through the window. "Quick, get me a drink!"

His wife, Beti, a black woman entered. "Two drinks, Rafiki," she ordered their slave.

They entered the sitting room, and Beti sat on a chair in her rose-patterned gown by the window to resume her embroidery. Rafiki brought two glasses of wormwood wine.

White drank. "Thanks, Bob, I needed that. Christ, what a week! Bob, bring the bottle to my office. I got a job for you." He kissed his wife on the cheek and went to his private den, which he coined the "Oval Office."

In the dome-shaped library, curios adorned the walls, and dozens of leather-bound books lined heavy oak bookshelves. A collection of Panamanian silver goblets gleamed in the afternoon light.

White sat in the upholstered chair behind his desk. "We'll have to contact the old crew. You'll need to find Richard Bird. Start at the Blue Anchor and find out where the sloop Blue Dove has gone. And George Cole of Birds Landing, find his wife, Chara. She'll know where he is, and she's easy to find, she's black with a Spanish accent. Oh, and old Mr. Freeman, you can find him at the Feathers."

"Him?"

"His bark's worse than his bite, don't worry about it. Then go see Sam Bach on New Street."

"The old German at the music store?"

"Aye. Ain't we a scary bunch o'pirates? Oh, and Chris Fogg, though I haven't got the foggiest idea where he is at. Got all that?"

"Start at the Blue Anchor and look for the Blue Dove and a black Spanish woman named Chara Cole. Then call on some grumpy old men," Rafiki said.

"You got it. If only I could put you in charge." White raised his bottle and took a drink.

Constable Lief Blower loitered at the wrought-iron gate of Fort Carlisle. He hung his head and paced. It was his dream to be sheriff. Just because he wasn't schooled didn't mean he didn't know the job. He knew what hat to wear and how to rough people up. Being constable was a waste of his talent.

His fortunes, however, looked as though they were about to change. Edmund Coggshall's carriage pulled up, and the door opened. The constable was summoned inside.

Edmund passed over payment. "For your trouble, Constable. What errors in judgment these Whigs make. It pains me to see Port Royal in such a state. It's disgraceful, with war coming and all."

"Aye. Makes us look bad too."

"Yes, it does. The mayor speaks highly of you, as do I. There will come a time when this government proves as incompetent as the last, and who will they turn to?"

"Jesus?"

"Well, yes, of course, but I mean as a government. The mayor is next in line for Old Whitie's chair, and London will need a strong leader down here. When that day comes, you'll make a fine sheriff."

Blower looked confused. "Aye, make him a what?"

"No, you will be sheriff when we rule Port Royal."

The constable smiled haughtily. "I'll be a fine sheriff of this here city."

Edmund took out another payment. "I have a job for you. I'd like the red-headed pikey girl released to my custody."

"Judge Gobbles ain't gonna like it. She has to have her hearing done."

"Of course she will. I'll see to it; you know me."

"Aye, but she killed someone."

"Did she? I don't remember that. Who?"

"A guard."

"Oh, a guard. An indentured man?"

"Aye, he owed money to the crown."

Edmund gave a carefree wave. "I'm sure Judge Goblet doesn't need the headache. Just tell him the guard suffered from melancholia. She hasn't been charged with murder, has she?"

"Not yet, but we all saw it. The page is all scribbled out. We gotta do a new one."

"Well, there you have it. Just leave out the part about her killing someone. What charges are left?"

"Only mischief." The constable stuffed payment in his pocket. "Aye, I'll fix it."

"Excellent. Good day, Constable." Edmund held open the carriage door.

"Good day, Mr. Coggshall, sir." Blower stepped down.

To secure the paperwork for the red-haired pikey, he had to get Beckford's signature. Blower grabbed a stack of pending paperwork and paid a visit to the colonel's office. He knocked on the door.

"Come," Beckford said.

Blower pushed open the door.

Beckford's shoulders sank at the sight of the papers. "Leave them here." He pointed to his desk. "I'll get to them when we unpack at Fort Charles."

"These be the ones Judge Gobbles wants signed today."

"It's Goblet, and everything is today with him. A message can take eight weeks to get here from London, and he wants it all done now. I mean, in the morrow is quite sufficient." He thumbed through the pages. "Yes, yes, I thought we already executed that one? Yes, yes." Something caught his eye. "Why does Atia Crisp ring a bell?"

"Cuz she wants her supper?"

"No, the pikey girl. Why is she in the stack? Does Judge Goblet not want her for questioning."

"Aye, he does. But the prison's full, and Coggshall Junior has ownership. So, we thought he ought to hold onto her."

"Oh, yes." Beckford paused. "Wait a minute, she killed a guard!"

"Well, true. But the family didn't want to press charges, and he was working off an indent-indent..."

"Indenturement?"

"Aye, indenturement."

"Why doesn't the family want to press charges?"

"They say he suffered from melon-melon..."

"Melancholia?"

"Aye, melo-cholera."

"Oh, then perhaps it's for the best. As long as she is available for questioning."

A knock came at the door. "Colonel, your slave is here."

"Send her in." Beckford looked at Blower. "I'll have these to the temporary courthouse today. On your way, Constable."

"Thank you, sir." The constable exited as a young mulatto woman entered, carrying a note. The door behind him shut, but voices could be clearly heard.

"It's your wife, sir," the slave began. "She's not well. She asks that you come at once."

"I can't go. Not now," Beckford said.

"What should I tell her?"

"Tell her I miss her terribly and it pains me to know she's not well, but my duties will not permit me to leave the city at this time. Dismissed."

Blower's curiosity was piqued; he'd heard stories that Beckford's wife was sick. However, he lost interest as the afternoon drew to a close, for it was time for his favorite event: the press gang wrangle. He would round up drunken scoundrels into prison carts, and by the time they sobered up, they'd be crewmen at sea.

Facing the Future

The parrot, Henry V, recited a passage from Shakespeare's Macbeth while Laurens de Graaf pruned and watered plants along the windowsill of his cabin. He pinched a sprig of rosemary from the small balcony garden and inhaled. He rubbed his temple as the refugees disembarked along the docks of Cayman Brac Island. "How did it come to this, King Henry?"

"Fair is foul, and foul is fair," Henry V said.

"Well put."

There was a rap at the door, and la Roche entered.

"You goddamn fools. How did this happen?" Laurens asked.

"Goddamn fools," Henry V agreed. "Macbeth does murder sleep."

"Right you are, King Henry." Laurens tossed the parrot a dead beetle before eyeing the weary-looking Frenchman. "You were not to set foot on Jamaica until official notice had been given. Now I have a boat full of your casualties and Strangewayes refugees to deal with. And Cormac the pikey is dead. Someone we needed very badly."

"The English had Cormac's girls. Strangewayes arranged transport for them, and the English found him out."

"Strangewayes was reckless as were you. The invasion of Jamaica is delayed."

"Port Royal is ripe for attack. I almost took it myself. I blew up Henry's Loft. You should have seen what they did to the place. But instead I find you are playing with treasure and Du Casse is in St. Kitts."

"I have a mind to box you up and send you there myself! We'll take Port Royal the way we planned, unless you blew our chances."

"I must find a way in for my ship and my men. I'm taking Cormac's girls out of there too."

Laurens smiled mirthlessly. "Well, it's that way." He pointed to the water. "You'll have to swim for it. I have to get to Saint-Domingue and rework a new plan. You entered the Cagway, Capitaine, the bloody gateway to hell and you woke it up."

"I know how to take Port Royal. I will come with you."

"No, you can't. You will get these people to where they're supposed to go and lay low. And if you want to take Port Royal in time, stick to the business at hand and collect as many men as you can."

"I'll be ready. You make sure everyone else is." La Roche exited.

Laurens straightened his hat and fluffed up his ostrich feather. "You're in charge, King Henry."

"Aye, aye," Henry V said.

The Blarney Stone tavern was a welcome sight. Laurens thirsted for a pint of beer and a chaser of rum. Inside, the stone hearth was ablaze, and the new billiard table awaited a challenge.

Gladstone and Yaguara rolled in fresh barrels of water, while refugees carried Carlena on a hammock. A Taino healer was summoned. She wore bead and shell necklaces and carried satchels filled with medicinal herbs.

"This is Yuma. She knows more of medicine than I do," the tavern keeper, Bartolomeo "Bart" Portuguese, said. "She says that Carlena must have a room upstairs."

La Roche slid a gold bar across the counter. "See that she is well looked after."

"That covers it."

La Roche waved. "Easy come, easy go."

"Remind me to thank Atia," Gladstone said.

La Roche put down another bar. "Oui, she would want nothing but the best, and she would want us to take extra booze."

Gladstone grinned guiltily. "For medicinal purposes, of course."

"But, of course."

They all ordered drinks before Laurens and la Roche followed Bart to a private booth hidden by a curtain.

"Why have you brought people here?" Bart's scarred, and leathery face glowed against the lantern light.

Laurens took a long drink. "They are refugees from Strangewayes's plantation."

"I heard about that."

"Well, we found them a place a few days northwest of Santa Catalina where they can live. I'll sail on Cymru and lead them there." La Roche eyed Laurens. "How did you know Cymru was coming to Montego Bay?"

"I know everything. I'm Laurens de Graaf."

"This Carlena, is she Strangewayes's slave?" Bart asked.

La Roche lit a cigarette. "She's no slave."

"What are her chances?"

Laurens shrugged. "None, I suspect."

"She has a chance," la Roche said.

"She's not going to live. Look at her. Don't make her suffer."

"Forgive me, but she wants to see her home, and try we will to get her there."

Bart drank from his mug. "Is it true Cormac the pikey is dead?"

Laurens nodded.

"Cormac was under the protection of the Brethren of the Coast. Was it Slazerelli as they say?"

"Sí. I've posted a thirty-thousand gold piece bounty on Slasher Al for Cormac the pikey," Laurens said.

Bart pondered this information. "We must make an example of him. Slasher Al's bounty should be especially high. I'll double it."

Bart then addressed la Roche. "You know the Brethren of the Coast will not allow the French to take Jamaica. Yet you landed and started a fight."

"An accident. The hurricane and then I tried to save Cormac's girls."

"You both have Brethren brothers, English and Frères de la côte. This war will make us take sides."

La Roche rubbed his forehead. "I just want to retire in peace to my Sérénité."

"Let's hope so. A war between us would spell disaster for all, Capitaine. I will speak with Laurens alone, compadre."

La Roche retired to the bar.

"What do you want from me?" Bart continued.

"We need to cause a distraction. Who have you got down in Bocas del Toro?" Laurens asked.

"Samuel Seele."

Laurens spat out his drink. "Sammy the Seal, you're jesting?"

"And Harris."

"Harris the Elder?"

"No, he's dead. Harris the Younger."

Laurens spilled the beer. "Oh shit, he's as bad as Sammy the fuckin' Seal!"

"Or the Freebooter Republic?"

"Our choices are getting scarce. Fine, I'll make do."

"Just make sure I have Slasher Al's head."

"Aye, you'll have it."

"Laurens, if one buccaneer from Hispaniola enters Port Royal, it's war. And I will send every cutthroat and pirate in the Caribbean to destroy Saint-Domingue and Frères de la côte. That, my friend, is a promise I must keep."

"Then let's hope the King James flag flies over Port Royal soon, or war it is, my friend." Laurens finished his drink and slammed the mug down on the table.

Gladstone sat on the edge of the bed and admired the seascape. Provisions and an extra case of rum were being loaded onto Jones's Cymru. He held Carlena's hand gently. Perspiration trickled from her face and neck. "Now, you stay alive and be here when I get back. I won't be long."

"I know."

He peeked beneath her bandages, and she slapped his hand. "See, that's the spirit."

A cough rattled from her lungs.

"You do what the witch doctor tells you and get lots of rest. We're on our way to Sérénité, love. Don't you quit now."

"I won't."

"I'll be back for you, even if I have to swim."

Carlena gave a faint smile. "You can't swim."

"I'll swim like a fish if you want me to, and don't you forget it." Gladstone's mouth met hers, and he held her until she fell asleep. Quietly, he left the room. He stared at the swirling pattern in the carpet until his legs slowed at the top of the stairs. He wiped the moisture from his eye and descended. A barrage of French cursing livened the atmosphere. Off in the corner, Laurens and la Roche were poring over a map, while Arsenault and de Kreep remained silent at the bar.

"Capitaine, when you have delivered these people, you and I will meet to discuss the future of Jamaica at the location indicated on this." Laurens handed over a note. "Only you and I know where it is. Arsenault will go with you to make sure you're not late again."

Arsenault seemed exasperated. "I am to go with them?"

"Need some time off, do you?" Laurens snapped. "Serves you right. I'm heading home to spend two days in my copper tub with twenty women while you go on with Gator Gar to Swamp Island and think about what happens when you deviate from my orders in the tiniest fucking way."

Arsenault hung his head. "Sieur."

"You make sure Capitaine is at that meeting or start rowing for China."

They dispersed.

"Your orders, Capitaine?" Arsenault said.

"Inform Cymru that we're ready to make sail."

Gladstone followed the procession to the dock, where a bright, breezy morning greeted them. Once the sails unfurled, they drifted from the harbor. Crewman pulled lines and adjusted the sheets. Gladstone stood at the bow looking back at Cayman Brac Island. The hairs on his arms stood on end. What if I never see her again? He stayed at the bow for most of the day until he ventured down to the deck.

Jones opened a small gold box.

"What is it?" Gladstone asked.

"A lodestone," Jones said. He removed a rock with iron pins stuck to it.

Yaguara watched. "What does it do?"

"It's magnetite. I can make us a compass. If the Capitaine can keep the boat still for a moment, I'll find north."

La Roche raised his telescope.

"Anyone we know?" Yaguara asked.

"A Spanish aviso. A courier maybe or a scout ship."

Gladstone leaned on the rail. "So, we've been spotted?"

"Oui, we've been spotted." La Roche retracted the viewer. "It will slow us down, but we must change course."

"We'll just have to make up the time," Jones said.

"Where's that ship headed?" Gladstone queried.

"Port Royal," la Roche said.

Jones fumbled with the magnet. "I'll have a course in a jiffy."

"North." Yaguara pointed. "We turn south until he's gone and then that way, southwest."

Jones put the compass away and snapped the lid shut. "Show-off."

"Change course, due south," la Roche ordered.

"That way." Jones signaled the crew.

Gladstone gripped the pinrail as the ship turned southerly. The scope of his seamanship extended to falling into the pens of Turtle Crawls.

A key jangled in the lock to Atia's cell. Light from the hall streamed into her dark burrow, and she raised her hand to shield her eyes. "Atia Crisp, you are hereby released to Edmund Coggshall's custody." The guard dragged her through the door and down a corridor. How long had she been in that cell? Weeks? Months?

Once free of shackles, Atia rushed to embrace Livia, who waited at the gate. "Liv, thank the gods!"

"It's a relief to see you," Livia said. "Can you believe it? Edmund got you released in less than a day!"

"It's been only a day?" Atia scrutinized Edmund, who stood beside his shiny black carriage.

"There is a condition upon your release," Edmund explained. "I have work for you."

"What kind of work?"

He opened the carriage door. "Let me show you."

Soon, Atia stepped inside the Swiftsure Tavern for the first time since she'd been held captive as a pawn in a card game. Her nightmares about it had always been so terrifying, but in the morning light it was nothing out of the ordinary. Four large wooden pillars surrounded the bar, decorated with nautical carvings, while huge kegs sat waiting to be bled.

"This is the tavern where you had a knife to yer throat?" Livia whispered, clinging to her sister's arm.

"Aye, this is the place. Looks different by day, but this is it."

"Why is this place not full?" Edmund asked the woman behind the bar.

The robust barmaid polished a glass with her rag. "The Feathers is having a slave lottery. They got us beat today."

"That Mrs. Valentine is a cunning one. Glenda, this is Atia, she'll be helping you out."

"Pleasure," Glenda said.

Atia nodded. "Hello."

Edmund gazed at Livia. "There's a rivalry between the taverns around the Wherry Bridge. The Four Feathers is owned by the Valentine family. There's also the Three Tunns and the Three Mariners across Honey Lane, owned by Mr. Freeman. There are more taverns than the city can hold right now, and if we want to survive until war picks up the economy, we must find a way of luring patrons in."

"Have the girls show off their boobies," Atia said.

Edmund gave a brief laugh. "We do. As much as it's tolerated. Ladies must be dressed according to the church and law."

Livia squeezed Atia's hand. "This will be good for you."

Atia shrugged. What the hell? It's better than Bridewell, but it's hardly freedom.

Edmund ran his fingers over the bar checking for dust but found none. "And show off your boobies as much as you like. This will at least keep you out of trouble until the hearing."

"Where do I work then?" Livia asked.

"You'll live with me as a servant or in the bake house when you're feeling better."

Atia strolled to the patio doors. The stone promenade was lined with trelliswork and pots filled with spiral topiaries. "Will I be living here?"

"No, I have a room for you at one my buildings. I sometimes rent the suites to navy men who want to keep their women safe while they're at sea. We call it the Wild Orchid Palace. You'll like it there."

Atia chewed the inside of her lip.

"Stevens will take you so you can get settled this morning. This afternoon, Glenda will show you around and put you to work."

"Aye," Atia said.

"And you can come visit me any time you want," Livia said. "It'll be fine, Atia. We'll be fine."

The sisters hugged gingerly before Atia was ushered away in a carriage.

The Wild Orchid Palace was pale pink with dusty rose accents. Each of the four levels had private balconies with black lattice railings and stained glass windows. Atia ascended the grand staircase while Stevens carried her bag.

"Your room is on the top floor. Room eight," he said.

The walls had oak panels and curtains of deep plum hanging from mounted wood poles over the windows. At the end of one of the hallways sat a mural of brilliant blue peacocks. On the next level up was a sitting area with a padded medieval bench and mauve pillows.

"Why do they call it the Wild Orchid?" Atia asked.

"This place used to belong to the Duchess of Albemarle. She was a collector of the rarest flowers and had them imported from all over the world. That was before she had to sell it off and flee Jamaica." Stevens pointed down a short corridor and handed her a silver key. "This is it."

For the first time in a long while, Atia filled with anticipation as she unlocked the door. The room was bursting with wonders and an unexpected guest. A plump girl scurried beneath the bed. Atia blocked Stevens from seeing the girl as she looked around.

It was indeed amazing, from the plasterwork on the ceiling to the mahogany wood furnishings, including a wardrobe and desk with an ivory inlay, a canopy bed, and burgundy curtains. The accent wall bore an elegant Italian textile of deep purple flowers against a pale-yellow background.

"So, I suppose yer to watch me undress?"

Stevens placed her bag on the bed. "I'll wait outside while you get settled, and then it's back to the Swiftsure." He departed, closing the door.

She clicked the lock and opened the window. "He's gone." No response. "Hello, you under the bed."

A dowdy young woman climbed out. "Please don't let him find me." Her dress was a faded blue, and her hair was a strawberry tone.

"I won't. Who are you and why are ya here?"

"This was my home once. I'm Rosalie Burghill, just call me Rosie."

"Burghill?" The slaver who was going to sacrifice Atia to Slasher Al.

"My father was..."

"I know who he was. What are you doing here?"

"I have nowhere else to go. They threw me out when he died. My room used to be on the first floor until it was rented. I've been staying in the vacant apartments ever since."

Atia noticed sketches scattered on the desk. They were of Port Royal buildings, landscapes, and people. "Did ya draw these?"

"I did."

"You ain't much like yer father, are ya?"

Rosie burst into tears and hid her face against the bed.

"I take it that's a no then. Did you ask Edmund for help?"

Rosie gazed up with bright blue eyes. "Edmund ain't what he seems. He's as bad as the rest."

Surprise, surprise. Atia sat on the bed next to her. "Don't worry, love, I'll not tell a soul yer here. Yer safe with me. But I must get ready, Edmund has me working at the Swiftsure."

"I can help you unpack?"

"Sure."

Rosie hung dresses in the wardrobe and set toiletries on the desk. "Are you Edmund's slave?"

"In a manner of speaking. He's got my sister, Livia, living with him." Atia looked down at Lime Street and recognized Strangewayes Apothecary a few doors down.

"Just be careful," Rosie said. "The room next door is empty; I'll move my things there." She accessed an opening behind a portrait. "There's a secret passage to each of the rooms, so you can move around without opening doors."

Atia splashed some water on her face. "Good to know, thanks. I have to get going. Stevens is waiting. But I'll be back later."

Rosie grabbed her drawings. "I'll see you soon."

"By the way, me name's Atia."

"Nice to meet you."

They shook hands before Atia stepped out to her new role at the Swiftsure Tavern.

Glenda was an accomplished hand and could run the pub blindfolded. The building was bigger than Atia realized, spanning three floors with twenty-six rooms. Many were designated for whoring, some served as Coggshall's private offices, and six bedrooms were for private accommodation. The basement housed a surplus of kegs, water barrels, and food provisions. Glenda boasted you could survive for months.

After meeting the barmaid's apprentice, Nessie, a kindly Scottish girl, Atia was put to work sweeping the floor and polishing the tables. Since it was her first day, she was sent home before the nightly rush but was expected back for the morning crowd. Atia gratefully returned to her new home for a much-needed night's sleep.

She half expected to see Rosie and was about to tap the wall when a gentle snoring sounded.

Atia adjusted an oil lamp as the sky turned an inky purple with blotches of deep orange. For a moment, she thought the city wasn't so bad after all, and then came a breeze carrying fish and shit. She was about to close the window when something dark and feathered swooped through and landed on the bed.

Minuit stared with beady eyes, and his enormous beak formed a strange smile. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle."

A wide smile lit her whole face. "You never cease to amaze me, bird!" She ruffled the crown on the top of his head. "Oh, yer a clever boy. I've missed you. How is our Capitaine?" She cradled him and fed him cashews from her satchel. The message collar on his leg was still intact.

Atia set the parrot on the desk while she opened drawers to discover sheets of parchment, a quill, and a pot of ink. She wrote a note to her Capitaine:

My dearest love, I'm in Port Royal staying at the Wild Orchid Palace, top floor. Are you alive and safe? If so, get me the hell out of here! Love ya with all my heart, A.

"That should do." She turned down the oil lamp before climbing into bed. Minuit roosted next to her, and sleep came in a matter of seconds. When she woke, Minuit had spilled the remaining cashews from her bag and was busy munching.

"Yer gonna need your strength. I got an errand for ya."

She slipped the note into the collar and gazed into Minuit's dark eyes. "I want ya to find the Capitaine for me."

He stared quizzically. "Ma chérie."

She scrunched up her face and tried to spread her eyes apart with her fingers. "Find the Capitaine."

"Oui, Mademoiselle," Minuit said.

She set him on the windowsill and patted his head. "Stay safe, my little friend."

He spread his wings and took off.

After a shift at the infirmary at Fort Carlisle, Dr. Marcus MacAskill had enough. He was far too old to be tending a hundred patients in one day and it was time to get drunk. Not regular drunk but blow me down and wake up under a row boat drunk. Scarcliff was waiting at the gate to drive him home.

"How long have you been waiting?" MacAskill asked.

"How long have you been in there?"

"All fuck'n day!" MacAskill climbed aboard the wagon. "Take us to the Captain's."

"Aye." Scarcliff snapped the reins.

When they reached Valentine Mansion, MacAskill told Scarcliff to tend to the horse, and then he lumbered to the Inferno Room.

Jayne and Blackmoor were chatting just inside.

"I'm sorry, mate," Blackmoor said.

"Pay it no mind, she don't mean nothing." Jayne met Art's gaze. "So, what did ya want?"

"Ya forgot, yes sir," Art goaded.

A high-pitched bell clanged, and the shrill voice of Lady Crosshatch followed: "My cough! I need another room!"

MacAskill cringed.

"Try the attic!" Art barked. "Take old Lady Crabapple back to the Clubhouse. The city air is too smoky."

"It will be done," Jayne replied flatly, not even acknowledging MacAskill on the way out.

"Why's he so cheerful?" Art asked.

MacAskill was about to answer when Blackmoor picked a smoldering piece of paper from the floor beside the fire.

"Must be hot stuff!" Art opened it and read. "He's gonna be a dab? She spells like he does. They must be made for each other. I passed by a desert island once and saw logs on the beach placed together to spell the word HEPL, so I stopped to pick him up. Ya gotta give him points for trying. No wonder he looks castrated. I told him not to fall for a strumpet."

"We found her dead on the Ligania road. Red Royals killed her," Blackmoor said.

"He's taking it well then." Art pondered. "Better not tell MacAskill."

MacAskill made his presence known by clearing his throat. "Tell me what?" He loosened his collar. "That aside from strumpets and beggars, we got no one to crew our ships with? I already know. Hot enough for ya?"

"If it's too warm, I could send you to fight off the French in Acadia. I told ya, there's able-bodied men at the Mermaid and Three Mariners."

"Aye. Three at the Three Mariners go figure. And ten drunkards at the Mermaid, all wanting payment upfront."

"Of course they do. The plantation owners will have to pay as well as the merchants, and if they don't like it, they can move to Tortuga."

"How many commissions are you gonna issue and to who? You know as well as I do that first mate of yours has got some peculiar habits. The last thing we need is another Roc Braziliano."

Art addressed Blackmoor, "Go on and get busy."

"Doing what?"

"Just keep busy!"

"Aye." Blackmoor departed.

"Thought you were gonna free him and hire him on account."

"I'll get to it. How's the acting chief surgeon of Port Royal?"

"I'll hire Strangewayes back myself if I have to."

Art handed MacAskill the letter. "This was sent to Jayne from the strumpet, Lilly."

The doctor skimmed the note. "Dear Jayne...I wrote a few of these in my day. You're pondering if Jayne should see this or not?"

"He's seen it. She's dead." Art paused. "The Red Royals did her in on the Ligania road."

MacAskill was silent, hesitating. "Well, that's how most of them end up anyway. It was bound to happen." He crumpled the note and tossed it in the fire. "Of course, it was." His voice wavered, "This don't mean nothing no more then, does it? I'm heading back to the Black Dog."

"You no longer need play nursemaid. Violante's being moved to the Wild Orchid where her navy man can have her watched."

Lady Crosshatch's rancorous tone echoed from upstairs, giving Jayne an earful.

"I'll leave now so I don't have to hear that." MacAskill moved to the door.

Art took a swig of rum. "I was hoping you'd take Lady Crotch-itch with ya."

"I liked your harbor tour idea." MacAskill vanished down the hallway and went for the stable. Blackmoor was pumping water for the horses. MacAskill swallowed hard, removing a pouch of coins from his pocket. "You saw the strumpet, Lilly?"

Blackmoor looked up. "Aye. We left her on the side of the road."

"I want ya to go get her and bring her back."

"The dogs got her by now."

MacAskill thrust the pouch into Blackmoor's hand. "Just bring her back. Take her to the mortuary at Smith's Landing." The corners of MacAskill's lips depressed. "Just bring her back."

"Aye, I'll take care of it," Blackmoor agreed.

MacAskill walked down the lane past Scarcliff and the wagon.

"Where am I taking ya?" Scarcliff asked.

"Go home," MacAskill said. He walked down York Street, hiding a tear beneath his hat.

Kriegspiel

Inside the Four Feathers Tavern, Bleedin Art studied a game of strategy, but his mind was on the ships and men he was now responsible for protecting. A three-dimensional tower of checked boards sat with finely carved figurines placed in defensive positions. Art eyed his opponent and knew victory was at hand.

"Knight takes rook," said Art.

Captain White sighed. "Aye, that he did. How come I'm always white?"

"It avoids confusion." Art took a mouthful of ale. "Take yer time."

"I'd like to."

"Sweet British sackers!" Chuck Talbot examined the game. "He's got your king trapped in the tower!"

"Thanks, Chuck," White said. "What do you want?"

Commodore Chuck Talbot ran his fingers through his thick blond locks. He strutted to the table, donning a yellow suit of slashed and braided satin complete with a frilled cape. "The convoy is ready to go. I'll escort them through the channel to the Bahamas. When I see our cousins from the Tongue of the Ocean, I'll cut 'em loose and get back here before you can say: Roger the mermaid's kraken!"

White sneered. "Very good."

"Nothing my navy boys can't handle. Not to step on your toes, Captain Valentine, I know it's a private enterprise and all. Just till yer fleet's back on her keel." Talbot gave a pleasant smile.

"Just a slight setback," Art said.

White slowly moved a pawn. "England appreciates both your sacrifices. I'm sure our ships will be protected."

"More than your king." Art took the pawn.

"This one or the one with the wig?"

Art took another turn.

"Tactful move." Talbot patted Art's back. "He didn't see that one coming."

"Captain White," a woman called.

Art hadn't seen Lady Anne Beeston in a while. Her auburn hair was pinned up, and her dark blue gown was trimmed with white lace. She approached determinedly.

"Captain White, our ships will be ready to sail in a fortnight, and we still have no protection. Where's our privateers?"

"They're coming," Art assured.

"I can't insure the contents until I know we are secure."

Talbot bowed and winked. "Not to worry, Lady B, I've got ya abaft. Just load yer boats on time."

"What a charming rogue," Lady Beeston swooned and fanned her face. "Three-D chess? We had a few of these at the Forge, but pieces went missing."

"It's called Kriegspiel, my lady," Talbot explained. "This is the game from which chess was spawned. Captain White's next move is called a Zwischenzug, a surprise attack before his expected move that Art must counter or be trapped in Trebuchet. But both kings are attacking pawns now, so it looks like White's in for a quick death."

"There ain't nothing quick about it," White said. "You do know this game requires concentration?"

"Where are the queens?" Lady Beeston asked.

"There ain't no queens in Prussian Kriegspiel. Old Queen Elizabeth had that one added with extra moves and powers so she could win a game," Art snickered.

White raised his mug of wine. "If that ain't cheating, what is?"

"The red-headed pikey girl was awarded to Edmund Coggshall, I hear," Lady Beeston said to White. "Shouldn't any slaves recovered from the Coggshall estate go up for bids?"

"Coggshall Junior is merely holding her until the hearing. He has the better claim."

"I will contest it. Coggshall owes us money too."

White shrugged. "So much for death pays all debts."

"That ain't even a down payment in the New World." Art smirked. "Besides, I thought the pikey girl killed someone?"

"Not that I can remember." White eyed Talbot and Lady Beeston. "Now, can we finish the game?"

"I have business with Captain Valentine as well," Lady Beeston said.

"Sorry, love, I'm spoken for."

She tapped her foot. "The ships are loading."

"Fine, I'll stop by the old Forge this evening."

"I'll be at Honey Lane games night. Look for me there."

"How is games night working out for you?"

"We're doing quite well, thank you. We even have patrons from the island coming over."

Art rose, his knees cracking. He went to one of the cabinets and removed a dusty leather-bound book. "Here, I'm donating this to your auction." He wiped it with a handkerchief and handed it over.

Lady Beeston inspected a copy of Alexandre Exquemelin's Buccaneers of America. "A signed copy. You're donating this to the war effort?"

"That'll fetch a solid price."

"Aye, it will. Thank you."

Art grinned. "I'm sure England appreciates my sacrifice."

"I'll see you soon, Captain." Lady Beeston took the side door out.

Chuck Talbot's head cocked. "Check out them hips. I'd like to drop anchor in her slip. That Beesty Bill is a lucky man."

White choked on his wormwood wine. "Lucky? He's been on trial in England since big mustaches were in style."

"He'll be back. We all know it was a frame-job. And that's what he gets to come home to."

"Ever seen her cross? He may yet miss the Tower of London."

Talbot elbowed Art. "Exquemelin's signed book, quite a sacrifice."

"Alexandre was a daisy. He never left the accommodations long enough to witness shit. There's as much truth in that book as the Christian Bible."

White took a pawn. "Next time let's have a match at the public toilets where there'll be less distractions."

Art took the white king. "What distractions?"

Talbot winced. "Oh, the white king loses his head and it's over."

"Aye, serves 'im white," Art jested.

"Seems my afternoon has an opening after all, Chuck." White stood. "Thank you for the game, Captain Valentine."

Art held out his hand. "Leaving so soon?"

White sighed and took out a satchel of coins. "Oh, were we playing for money? I forget these things. I'm getting old."

Art stuffed the pouch in his jacket. "Getting? Thought you were on the Mayflower at Plymouth."

"No, but I scored Cleopatra when she was young and hot." White acknowledged Talbot. "Good day, Commodore."

Art signaled a slave. "Inform my wife I'm heading down to the festivities on Honey Lane."

Vendors and musicians lined the streets decorated with red and gold streamers. A makeshift stage had been erected and patrons sat on benches watching a puppet play. Lady Beeston sat with her five children.

When she noticed Art's presence, she joined him at the back. "I don't have balls," she began. "Yet it seems you have me by them. You managed to rid the city of all her armed merchantmen, and now who comes to our rescue when we have no ships?"

"Ya make it sound like I planned it." He exposed his large teeth. "I have sloops coming. It'll be all we need for protection. I give ya my word."

"Somehow I don't feel secure. Until my husband is cleared and Ruby returns from London, I have no choice but to pay you for protection from pirates. My husband's rule was to never spread yourself too thin. Something I fear you may have to atone for. Where will you find the ships when the French attack?"

"Yer ships will be safe."

Lady Beeston removed a velvet drawstring pouch and placed it in his hand. "I hope so, Captain. For all our sakes, I hope your gamble pays off." She returned to her children.

On the stage, a puppet stabbed his wooden cutlass through another puppet. "A-ha! Take English justice at the hand of Captain Morgan, foul pirate Laurens de Graaf!" the puppet of Henry Morgan challenged.

"Aye, Laurens of the bloody French," Art called. "Cut the bastard's balls off, Henry!" He incurred the wrath of the audience that shushed him.

Widow Bell added more wood to the red brick fireplace to bring the bread oven up to temperature. Next, she measured ingredients into a wooden bowl. After examining the flour, she decided it was of reasonable quality, which was a relief as their last shipment was cut with sawdust.

She kneaded the dough until it formed a smooth ball. After quartering the batch, she placed each loaf on a baking stone and opened the iron oven door. She placed the stone inside using a flat wooden paddle.

A well-fed marmalade cat brushed against her leg. Boots wanted breakfast. Widow Bell fetched a plate of minced fowl from the previous night's supper, and the cat went to work. She'd taken a shine to Strangewayes's cat since he'd bestowed it upon her before he was dispatched to the hurricane relief effort on Nevis.

She often thought of Strangewayes. Port Royal simply wasn't the same without him. Although Mrs. Beazley ran the apothecary part time, his kindness and eccentricities couldn't be matched.

Footsteps neared, and Bizy entered the brick bake house located in the backyard of Widow Bell's property.

"You're late," Widow Bell said.

"Sorry, I overslept."

"No worries, the first batch is in."

"I'll get to work on the next one." Bizy began mixing. She was quiet and distracted.

Widow Bell soaked a cloth in a bucket of cold water and patted her face and neck. "What's got you in heat, beside the bread?"

"Me? Oh, nothing." Bizy wiped her forehead with her sleeve. "Ya know, I'd never seen Peter Beckford in battle before. He was courageous."

"He's a pompous prick."

"Maybe so, but he showed real balls."

"It's full by the way."

Bizy stared straight ahead. "Hmm?"

"The bowl, it's full."

"Oh." Bizy realized she was spilling flour everywhere.

Widow Bell shook her head. "Oh, no. Now don't you go snooping around Beckford's balls."

"I want nothing of his," Bizy insisted.

"You want his ding dong up yer oven is what ya want. He hangs around ya hoping for a whiff of your scent because his wife has never set foot in the city and he can't leave. You're like the last drop from the keg to him."

"He must be so lonely. She's never left that plantation. He must see her five or six times a year at best."

Widow Bell used the wooden paddle to remove the first batch of bread. The loaves were nicely golden, and she set them to cool on one of the tables. "I'm tellin' ya right now, I'm not being party to raising little illegitimate Beckford children, so you keep them legs closed. And mind the bowl, it's full. Yer getting cinnamon everywhere!"

"Hmm, I bet they are full, too," Bizy said absently.

"Oh, what's the use."

"I'm a little hot. Think I'll take me a bath before I head out today."

"Don't lose the soap."

"I'll take a loaf with me when I deliver the linens." Bizy left, forgetting to remove her apron.

"Oh, for pity's sake." Widow Bell took over mixing. "A little hot? She's looking at bread as a potential mate!"

Colonel Peter Beckford flipped through a fat leather-bound ledger belonging to Dr. Sander Strangewayes. Everything seemed aboveboard, yet it was suspicious. Where was the money coming from? He was incredibly skeptical, a family trait, as his uncle was the sheriff of London, while other relations worked in law enforcement. He would pay a visit to Mrs. Beazley, who kept the books.

After he rallied two militiamen, they descended upon New Street. The Broad Street entrance to the Merchant Exchange was reflected in the house's feature window. He marched up the front steps and rang the bell.

The door slowly opened, and Mrs. Beazley appeared. The morning light accentuated her silver hair and delicate skin. She smiled politely and smoothed the skirt of her blue kirtle.

"Good morrow, Mrs. Beazley."

"Colonel Beckford, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I wanted to finish our chat. I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner."

"Oh, I thought you'd finished your little chat."

Beckford stood at ease with his hands clasped behind his back. "But there are still so many unanswered questions."

Mrs. Beazley loitered in the doorway, her own hands in a relaxed grip. "Then perhaps you should hire staff capable of answering them for you."

"Some of the entries in the ledger need clarifying."

"Then hire an accountant. You have the ledger key, as with all the books. If you're having trouble reading them, then I suggest you enroll yourself in school. One opens next month in the new town. I hear reading is something they teach nowadays. This will indeed be a first for you and Port Royal. I wish you all the success in your new position and in your quest to read the written word. Good day." She stepped back inside and closed the door.

The militiamen moved to the entrance.

"No." Beckford spoke reflectively. "Forget her for now. She's tied to those books somewhere. We'll be back." He led them across to Broad Street, where a commotion caught his eye. A strumpet, protesting and struggling, was being dragged by two city guards.

"Where are you taking her?" Beckford asked.

"To Bridewell," a guard replied. "She was caught stealing an apple."

"I knocked it off the bloody cart. I was puttin' it back," she said.

"You're the strumpet who witnessed the stabbingp of Cherry's girl."

"Aye, I did."

Beckford recognized Sierra Lee from when Violante Hayze was stabbed in Bird's Alley. He was the first to arrive on scene. Violante had bled so badly he'd ordered her to the infirmary at Fort Carlisle. Apparently the attacker had white hair and pink eyes. "I want to speak with this one. Give her to me."

Beckford took her arm and dismissed the city guards. "Report to Judge Goblet," he ordered his men. "Tell him I want a proper accountant to go over those books. I'm taking this one in for questioning."

"Shall we go with you?"

"I think she'll behave."

Sierra Lee batted her eyes. "Aye, sir. Behave I will, sir."

"See?" Beckford shrugged. "If only the city officials were so amicable."

Within the hour, Beckford leaned against his desk with Sierra Lee on her knees before him. He finished and released a long gasp.

A knock came at the door.

He fastened his trousers and passed her three coins. "One for your services and two for the information."

Sierra Lee wiped her mouth. "A pleasure, sir." She left by the balcony stairs.

"Never a moment's peace," Beckford muttered. "Come."

A messenger entered with a note. "From Lady Beeston, Colonel."

Beckford read. "Aye. Inform the lady I will be along presently to provide counsel."

The messenger bowed and departed.

Beckford glanced down at the docks, where a fistfight had broken out. "This city will turn me white if I'm not careful." Things grew unrulier by the day. When he'd arrived in '62, his first appointment had been captain of the militia. It had kept him occupied but not overrun, unlike nowadays. He placed a black cavalier on his head and proceeded to The George and Dragon Tavern.

Owned by the Beestons, it was a high-end drinking establishment popular for its apricot brandy and furnished with white walls, black beams, Persian carpets of red and blue, and beech wood furniture. An assortment of landscape oil paintings hung over the stone fireplace.

Lady Beeston scolded a slave, "Mind the Persian rug!" She approached Beckford. "Unruly pirates killed one of my wenches and blinded another. Who is going to compensate me?"

"I'm sorry for your loss, my lady."

"This acting lieutenant governor has no real concept of the dangers associated with hiring pirates for protection."

Beckford met her striking green eyes. "I assure you, the Whig government is doing its best to protect you." He motioned to his militiamen. "These two will remain here to protect your property. I won't allow it to happen again."

Lady Beeston sipped apricot eaux-de-vie from a dainty gold-rimmed glass. "I should hope not. My husband will be appalled when he hears what this government has allowed to take place in our fine city."

"Not to worry, my lady."

"Let us speak privately in my office. I want you to fill me in on matters of security."

"As you wish, my lady. I'll be happy to fill you in." Beckford told his men, "Take up position at the front and the back. Let your presence be known. Port Royal will not stand for disobedience, not even from pirates."

"Shall I bring tea?" one of the slaves offered.

"No. See we are not disturbed." Lady Beeston guided Beckford down a short hallway to a private study with leather chairs and a heavy walnut table carved with scrolls. She set down her glass and perched on the edge, raising her skirt until her thighs were exposed. After grabbing Beckford by the belt, she soon had his trousers open. "Security. That is what this city needs, and that is what my husband provided."

"No one disputes that, my lady." Beckford nuzzled her ear, catching the flowery scent of her hair.

She plunged her tongue into his mouth and then nibbled his ear. "I shall call upon you again should those rowdies return."

"I shall come every time you call, my lady." Beckford accessed the wet warmth between her thighs.

"Oh yes. Oh yes, you shall." Lady Beeston's legs quivered as she thrust against him, using him for her pleasure. Her face flushed, and she bit her bottom lip. "Fuck me harder," she gasped, groping his backside.

Beckford complied until he felt her insides spasm and she moaned unabashedly. She continued to thrash against him and he drove into her with his full length until he finished. Her mouth met his fiercely until she saw fit to release him.

When Beckford returned to Fort Carlisle, he found that two guards had borrowed his office to play cards. They were arguing over a stack of coins as he walked in. "What is this? I could have you both executed. Back to your duties; this is not a gambling den."

They settled the dispute immediately and rushed from the office.

Beckford sorted parchment. "Oh, the pains I go through. I thought paper was supposed to make our lives easier."

A knock came at the door, and Bizy Gale showed up with a basket. "Am I interrupting?"

"What can I do for you, Miss Gale?"

"I brought you some baked goods." She set the basket before him, and the scent of cinnamon made his stomach growl.

"Cinnamon? How did you know?"

"A girl knows these things. A woman knows how to please a man."

"Does she?"

"I realize you haven't seen your wife in such a long time." Bizy slid casually onto the desk. "I know what it's like to be lonely." She slid up her dress and opened her legs. "I've seen the way you look at me. Perhaps I can take away some of your pain."

Beckford fondled her bottom, which felt as luscious as it looked beneath her skirts. She tore open his trousers and gripped his manhood until it swelled. Her legs locked around him. "Take me. Take me now," Bizy panted, and her sex engulfed him.

Beckford's strength was waning when he met with Judge Goblet later that afternoon. He used his musket as a walking stick, which gave him the appearance of rowing down the corridor of the old courthouse.

"Ah, Beckford. We're almost ready to move back in," Goblet said, peering out at the ship repairs.

"Splendid. Shall I inform the Jews they may be returning to their homes on Church Street, soon?"

"Let's not be too hasty. Much of that land is leased to them by grants issued in the name of King James by Morgan and Lynch. We may have to reallocate the properties, in which case they will find themselves with new landlords. Or perhaps another colony would suit them better."

Beckford glanced out at the harbor. "You received my report on the Constable?"

"Yes, and it is verified."

"The strumpet who serviced him said he bragged of being paid to kill Strangewayes and that a privateer had picked the doctor up before the task was carried out."

"Yes, His Majesty's privateer, Blessed William, under some pirate with a license named Kidd."

Beckford rubbed his chin. "I remember him. Lowlife scum who served under Jacobs and Barns in the late '70s for the Flibustiers. That proves the Leeward Islands are issuing letters of marque to any pirate."

"And we may have to do the same."

"Do you want me to bring in the constable?"

"For corruption? If we arrested everyone for corruption, we would have no one left to run the city. No, I have discussed the matter with Acting Lieutenant Governor Piper, and we have decided to promote the constable."

Beckford's eyebrows raised. "To sheriff? You jest?"

"I jest not. And worry not, Colonel, the Acting Lieutenant Governor has a special mission for the new sheriff. He won't interfere with our investigation; I can assure you."

"Gentlemen, good evening," the mayor spoke from the hall.

Goblet and Beckford turned.

"Colonel Beckford, are you ready for our meeting with Coggshall Junior?"

Beckford leaned heavily on the musket. "I've been so busy today, I almost forgot. Yes, let's get going. Good evening, Justice Goblet."

The parlor of the Crooked Compass flooded with evening sunshine. Aromatic herbs and spices filled the air as supper was prepared. Edmund Coggshall studied Livia as she sipped a cup of tea in a dainty fashion. Her long dark hair cascaded over her shoulder, and her pale blue eyes studied the boats in the harbor. Perhaps he could get used to her presence. She would certainly be useful when the time came.

"Is this what it's like to be rich? To have whatever you want when you want?" Livia asked.

"It is."

"But you deal in slaves. People stolen from their homes and made to suffer to please your kind."

"Not always. You can be sold into slavery for many reasons. For example, owing money. You can be sold for being in debt. It happens often in Port Royal."

"Am I in your debt?" Livia scrutinized him.

"No, it is I who is indebted to you."

They continued to watch the harbor with ships coming and going. Slaves brought in a feast of roasted pig, pies, and fruit, all served on silver trays with flower accents.

Stevens poked his head in. "The mayor and Colonel Beckford to see you, sir."

"Show them in." Edmund eyed Livia. "My ownership is also in dispute. We're not all that different." He turned to greet his visitors. "Good evening, gentlemen. I wasn't expecting guests at this hour, but as it is, please join us for dinner. Mr. Mayor, sir, nice to see you, and Colonel, congratulations on your promotion."

"Thank you, young Mr. Coggshall. I suspect you know why we have come."

"I suspect it has something to do with piracy in the '70s."

The mayor removed his hat. "Aye, my sincerest apologies, Mr. Coggshall, but this ruling came directly from London. It has been determined that much of your family's wealth came from acts of piracy against our Spanish allies, and your property was awarded illegally by King James's supporters. The government has also ruled that the Albemarle estate was sold illegally and is also to be reallocated."

"Is he being kicked out of his house?" Livia questioned.

"I'd rather not have that happen," Beckford said. "Mr. Coggshall, Acting Lieutenant Governor Piper has re-allotted much of your estate to myself by order of King William."

Edmund blanched. "I have no property?"

"I'm afraid not," the mayor confirmed.

"Then I shall write to the king and the Royal Africa Company myself and challenge this."

"Which we are sure you will, but that will take time."

Beckford gave a sympathetic look. "Your claim may yet prove to be the better. I don't want to see you on the street, Mr. Coggshall, and the mayor here has vouched for you. As I'll need reliable tenants, I propose you remain here and continue to manage the property as you always have."

"You mean nothing will change, only I'll be paying rent on my property?"

"That is my suggestion and a kind one at that," Beckford replied. "May we speak privately?"

Edmund led the way to an office.

Beckford removed two charred documents from a leather pouch. "The city will erupt into chaos if the slave trade so much as sputters. They need your connections on the Barbary Coast."

Edmund sat at the edge of the chair. "Is there something the Whigs don't want the Royal Africa Company to know?"

"You tell me. You can continue your father's business for the sake of the city." Beckford carefully unrolled the documents. "But what about these?"

Edmund felt a stone rise in his throat as he recognized the documents of freedom for Atia and Livia Crisp.

"These were found at Strangewayes's plantation. They appear to be legitimate, and there is your signature. But then I saw the error here and here." Beckford pointed to obvious spelling errors. "These would never stand. Not unless they're amended by the court and notarized. Justice Goblet has that power. You must want to keep them close. Then I found out that Crisp offered to buy you out. Why would he do that? Not out of kindness, I'm sure."

"Crisp is obsessed with Roman history. He thinks they are pure Romans."

"Aye, Crisp took head measurements of them and claims he can prove their line is true. We found similar measurements in your father's things."

"My father also believed that nonsense."

"And you don't?"

"Not at all."

"But you did agree to hold on to the girls until Crisp arrives. Crisp agreed to split the five hundred thousand doubloons paid by the Sultan of Tripoli for them. They would be free to leave if these documents were fixed. Then you and Crisp would be in a hell of a fix."

Edmund squirmed. "If I was to offer you more than rent. Say, a share?"

"Then I assure you, it would go to good use."

"Do I continue to run my business?"

"I want nothing associated with my name. We can meet later to discuss your rent."

Edmund's face reddened. "Do you take cash or cheque?"

"It's all money." Beckford rolled up the documents and put them in his pocket. "These should be entrusted to me, for now."

Edmund rose from his chair. "They'll not cause us any trouble. I'll see to it. They'll be sweet little lambs."

After a night of frivolous intoxication, all Constable Lief Blower wanted to do when the sun rose was to pull the bed covers over his head. Which he succeeded in doing for about ten minutes until the bell to his apartment rang. Unable to locate his clothes, he stumbled to the door draped in linens.

"What is it?"

"Constable Blower, sir, Judge Goblet wishes to see you at eight of the clock at the old courthouse," a messenger said.

"What time's it now?"

"Quarter past seven, sir."

"Bloody hell!" Blower slammed the door to search for his clothes. His frantic task left him wondering how anything could get lost in an apartment so small. After overturning the bed and checking behind the desk, he noticed something flapping outside the window. "I'll not mix laudanum and Russian vodka again!"

Once cleaned and clothed, he ran from his room above the barracks on the corner of Church and Lime Street. The raising of the flag at Fort Charles was honored with a parade featuring loud drums and a sergeant yelling at the soldiers to march up and down the square. The constable reached the foot of the old courthouse and went inside.

"You wanted to see me, Judge Goblet?"

"Aye, Lief Blower. As I understand it, you desire the position of sheriff of Port Royal."

"Aye, I'm worthy of the title."

Goblet removed the sheriff hat and badge from his cupboard and set it on the desk. "Acting Lieutenant Governor Piper agrees." Goblet passed over a scroll. "He's instructed me to promote you and send you on your first mission."

"On a mission?"

"Aye. You are to be promoted to acting sheriff and charged with going after runaway slaves." Goblet leaned over the desk. "I hear you are a man who can be trusted."

"Aye."

"You will sail with Captain Longstaff to arrest the pirate Gator Gar and the slaves who escaped from Strangewayes's plantation."

"Sail with Longstaff on his ship?"

"Well, preferably. You will also report Longstaff's movements and actions to me. We need a detailed account of everything he does. Can you do that?"

"Aye, you can count on me."

"I know we can. Then, come forth and be sworn in."

Blower picked up the hat. "I swear!"

"Well, that's good enough for me," Goblet said dryly.

The former constable twirled the hat onto his head, missing. He swiftly bent down to pick it up and placed it over his hair.

"Report to Relentless in time for dinner this evening. Carry on, Sheriff Lief Blower." Goblet waved him out.

Blower fastened his belt and collected the shiny badge. He opened the door and stepped outside, posing for a moment. "Look out, men, new sheriff coming through."

"What do ya say, Sheriff?" a guard asked.

He clicked his heels and pranced down the street. "First, I'm going to Cherry Red's Boutique to get me some sweet, high-class strumpet!"

Captain Richard Longstaff nodded off to sleep in the carriage transporting him to the Wild Orchid Palace. He had moved Violante Hayze there the day before, and all he wanted to do was sink into the feather mattress and sleep beside a beautiful woman. When he arrived, he staggered up the stairs to room five to find Vie in a regal blue nightdress, her stab wound bandaged beneath.

They shared a prolonged kiss before collapsing on the bed. For hours they lay there napping on and off. Around noon, Longstaff discovered some of the provisions he had sent from his personal stores, including rum rations, salted pork, and an assortment of fruit. Once they'd feasted, he brought out a game called Ship of the Line.

After propping themselves against pillows, he set up the board and she caught on quickly, soon collecting many of his pieces.

"I win." Vie gave a sultry smile. "I sunk your ship of the line."

"It's one vessel, and I have many more. But you have one move left with this line here." Longstaff pointed.

"But this one here has fire damage?"

"Aye, that's what the little fire chip means."

Vie smirked. "And that's the one with your admiral?"

"Aye, my last admiral."

"Then my ships from this line will fire on this one here."

"How many guns to bear?"

"All of them."

Longstaff laughed. "All of them on one target?"

Vie shook the dice. "Aye, all ships, all guns."

He removed the piece from the board. "We'll just say it's a kill. You learn quick."

"Next ship?"

"Now it's my turn. Prepare to be destroyed."

Vie sunk back into the pillows, appearing like a Renaissance model, dark hair scattered over her shoulder while her brown eyes challenged him. "How did you capture your ship? They say it was French, but we weren't at war with the French back then. How did you take her?"

"I was on HMS Assistance under Admiral Beeston charged with the capture of the pirate John Coxon and his men in '77, and we knew they were working for the French. So, when I heard the French amassed a vast fleet to capture the Dutch island of Curaçao in '78, I knew Coxon's pirates would be with them."

Vie caressed the game pieces. "French ships like this?"

Longstaff used the wooden figures to demonstrate. "Aye, but as they sailed in here from the east, a great hurricane sent the whole fleet crashing into the Avis Island chain, a maze of reefs, cays, and sandy little islands. Most of the vessels were destroyed including the big flagships. The ship of the line, Hercule, was one of those lying wrecked on the beach and abandoned. She was lighter and more agile with the latest Dutch innovations. We were all adapting those by that time.

"John Coxon and some of his men managed to refloat her at the right tide and tried to drag the great hulk away, hoping to rebuild her into a new flagship of his own when we sailed in. Beeston sent me on board the wreck with Cook and Jim and a handful of men to try and save her while he sailed after Coxon. Had we taken her from the French, I would not have been allowed to keep her as a prize. But, as it was, the French had written Hercule off as destroyed, and she was captured from lawless pirates, making her a legitimate prize.

"After weeks of fighting relentless winds and rogue pirate attacks, we got her back to Barbados where she spent the next three years being rebuilt as a third-rate man-of-war. The French, of course, have filed numerous petitions and lawsuits to get their Hercule back. But she's mine now, and I fly two jibs as the French do to remind them that she's mine. As captain, part owner, and investor of HMS Relentless."

A knock came at the door.

Vie's face filled with adoration.

"I couldn't ask for a better ship," Longstaff continued. "Come."

A messenger entered and handed over a note. He read and then glanced at Vie. "Seems I must bid you adieu for now."

"Are we not going to finish the game?"

"But you sunk my ship of the line. The game is yours." He addressed the messenger, "Inform Admiral Holland I'll sail forthwith."

Longstaff gave Vie a kiss goodbye and took his carriage to the north dock where Relentless glowed against the darkening sky, her lanterns lit and the golden lion figurehead beamed in the sunset. Armed with seventy-eight guns, it was a small city with multiple levels and masts that towered over Port Royal. The state room was furnished in oak, and candles in iron wall sconces illuminated the space.

Dinner sat on silver trays. Spicy pigeon pie with a golden coverlet of crust was at its center surrounded by finely sliced smoked tuna, freshly baked bread from the Merchant Exchange, and vibrant fruits practically bursting with juice. After everyone had their fill, they got down to business.

Judge Goblet popped shiny red grapes into his mouth. "Alban Jones's Cymru was spotted sailing southwest from the Cayman Islands. Captain Longstaff is ordered to capture or kill the renegade pirate Capitaine Gator Gar, and our new sheriff will return the runaway slaves."

"And I'll keep an eye on Big Dick here and keep him outta trouble." Blower winked.

Longstaff cleared a spot on the table to spread out a map, weighing each corner down with a plate. "He's either going to the islands in the Yucatán Bay or down here to the Mouth of the Bull, as they call it. An area known for Freebooters and Indians."

"Which way will you sail?" Captain Holland queried.

"Southwest to pick up their trail."

"Fine. Set sail at dawn."

Acting Lieutenant Governor Piper gulped back the remaining wine in his cup. "Godspeed, Captain Longstaff. And all the best, Acting Sheriff."

Blower bowed his head. "Thank you, sir, it's an honor."

After everyone's departure, Longstaff retired to his cabin for some much-needed sleep. It was still dark when he rose. The ship's watch rang four bells and called, "All is well." After cleaning and dressing the cut on his neck, he emerged on the quarterdeck.

Mr. Cook was already checking the weatherglass.

"Prepare for departure, Mr. Cook," Longstaff ordered.

"Aye, sir."

Relentless dropped her main sails and turned into the wind. She sailed southwest for hours with Fishhook in command, while Longstaff caught up on rest. By afternoon, they were up to full speed and deep in the blue of the Caribbean Sea. Longstaff joined his officers on the quarterdeck for the afternoon watch.

"I hear you fired a full broadside over Port Royal during the French attack," Longstaff said to Mr. Cook. "Had some frustrations to work out, did you?"

"Correction, sir. I fired three full broadsides."

"You'll either be promoted or hanged for that one."

"I have yet to see either, sir," Cook said.

"Full speed ahead, Mr. Cook."

"I'll have her running like the wind in no time, Captain."

"Bloody well right, Mr. Cook."

Seaman's Secrets

Inside Cymru's captain's cabin, la Roche thumbed through the pages of a dilapidated book, cursing at regular intervals. Yaguara, Gladstone, and Jones hovered around him, trying to puzzle through the diagrams. They reached the region of Bocas del Toro and were sailing through a chain of small islands.

"Where the hell is it?" la Roche said.

"Under C for Costa Rica," Yaguara replied.

Jones delivered a magnifying glass, and they competed for a look. "Can ya see now?"

"I can see fine." La Roche squinted. "Move it closer."

"What is that?" Gladstone asked Yaguara.

"It's called Waggoner's Book of Charts. Made from a collection of the finest Spanish and Dutch maps taken over the years to provide a detailed library of all the routes, hidden ports, observations, caves, landmarks, and hiding places."

"If everything goes to plan, we can have the first few houses and docks built by the time I get back with Carlena."

"Nothing ever goes according to plan, mate." Jones laughed and pointed at the map. "Is that it?"

"No, you are looking for the Mouth of the Bull," Yaguara said.

"Which is under C for some reason," la Roche complained.

"Bitch to Waggoner," Jones said. "I didn't write the ruddy thing."

"Alban meant, reaction to situations is how battles are won," la Roche said.

"Well, the Capitaine's battle strategies are legendary," Gladstone said.

"Oui," la Roche agreed.

Yaguara rolled his eyes. "First off, the Capitaine always asked Yaguara's advice before making any plans, and second, none of those plans ever went according to plan. They worked because we were flexible and ready for anything. A battle plan must have every outcome anticipated."

Gladstone grinned. "Improvisation is me best quality."

"Improvisation is key," la Roche said wryly and lit a smoke. "Even still, events cannot be controlled as predicted. Years ago, we were on a top-secret mission off las Rancherías in an old coastal barque with twenty-six men when events went out of control and we found ourselves reacting to changing situations at a moment's notice."

Everyone stared at la Roche with anticipation.

"Yaguara was navigator. Capitaine spotted a Spanish pearling fleet coming home, and we slipped right into the middle of them with friendly flags. But the Spanish war galleon, who was guarding the entrance to Rio de la Hacha, sat watching. We looked like one of the pearlers. It worked until they signaled and the Capitaine didn't know the code."

La Roche shrugged. "They changed the fucking code!"

Yaguara continued, "The Spanish use Christian saints as their codes. You signal the name of a saint, and the responder signals the corresponding location of canonization. So when the Spanish signaled St. Augustine, Capitaine responded with Florida."

"Seemed the logical response to me."

"They started shooting at us. Capitaine ordered full speed to close to the distance. We attacked the lead pearling ship, and they fired all their cannons to stop us. The Spanish war galleon realized what was happening and prepared to move in. While the Spanish pearlers reloaded, we closed the distance and took the main ship with muskets. With the war galleon coming our way, the Capitaine scuttled the barque and raised victory flags."

La Roche laughed, choking on smoke. "The Spanish captain on the galleon thought he beat us, so he turned back while we sailed away with the lead."

"The other pearlers began to shoot at us and signaled for help. We caught the wind with full sails, and the splints around the mainmast gave way," Yaguara said.

"Oui, the mainmast broke, who could see that coming? Our ship was stranded, and the war galleon returned. We lived, uh?"

"What happened?" Gladstone asked.

"We were captured and locked away in Rio de la Hacha," Yaguara said.

"Hmm, bum luck." Gladstone bobbed his head. "What was your mission, anyway?"

"To get inside Rio de la Hacha." La Roche pointed to the map where a small chain of islands and cays sat northwest of Santa Catalina. "This is it here."

Yaguara studied the area. "Bocas del Toro, the Mouth of the Bull. It's off the trade routes because pirates and Indians dwell there. Piss someone off and kiss your ass goodbye."

Gladstone peered through the magnifying glass. "The Mouth of the Bull. Is it foamy or something?"

La Roche slid his fingers across the page. "The outer islands block the view of the bay. Any passing ships will think smoke is coming from here or here. If they were to land on a cay, it would give us advance warning. Also, it's surrounded by shallows and reefs."

"Any large vessel fool enough to attempt passage will find itself wrecked," Yaguara added.

"We'll sail to this one first and check it out. Leave all the talking to Yaguara and me," la Roche advised.

"Sounds just fine by me. The Mouth of the Bull? We don't want to get everyone's hopes up too high," Gladstone said.

"Here we will find Sérénité," la Roche assured him.

"Now that's better. I'll not hear this Mouth of the Bull nonsense no more. Sérénité it is." Gladstone rubbed his hands together.

Early evening sun baked the decks of Relentless. Captain Longstaff struggled to find a comfortable position as he scanned the blue horizon with his telescope. He absentmindedly rubbed the cotton bandage covering his throat. Traces of blood covered his fingertips, and he tried to tighten the dressing.

Fishhook approached. "I can take the watch, sir. Why don't you retire for the day?"

"I'm fine, Jim."

A guttural grunt of vomiting came from the main deck, where Sheriff Blower hunched over the rail.

"They didn't tell us he was such an old sea dog," Fishhook mused.

"Sheriff," Longstaff said. Receiving no response, he cleared his throat. "Sheriff Blower."

Blower suddenly realized they were speaking to him. "Yes, Captain?"

"It's 'aye,' when you're on board ship. Come up."

"Aye, Captain Longstaff."

"Is your cabin to your liking?"

"Aye, it's bigger than my apartment."

"You might find it more comfortable."

"My job is to observe and report everything that goes on."

Cook stepped forward. "The deck of a warship is no place for a civilian. No offense."

Blower's face almost turned purple. "A sheriff of the court is not a civilian, sir. Is he?"

"We sail after the French buccaneers, the most ruthless of all the pirates of the Caribbean," Longstaff said.

Panic creased Blower's brow. "I thought it was just the Capitaine and some runaway slaves?"

"Oh, no, Sheriff, we're going into battle with not only the Capitaine, but I'm convinced he must be with Laurens de Graaf and John Coxon."

"The worst pirates in the Caribbean?" Blower loosened his collar.

Longstaff contained his amusement. "Never been to battle before?"

"Nay, never been in a battle."

"The last time I was sent down to these waters after buccaneers, it was Laurens, the Capitaine, and John Coxon in November of '86. The result was a huge battle that sunk many ships, killed hundreds of men, and even put Relentless back in for another year of repairs. My first officer was smashed to pieces by a cannonball, right where you're standing."

Blower took a step backwards. "Perhaps I will retire to my cabin, Captain."

"Prudent idea, Sheriff."

The acting sheriff disappeared below deck.

Longstaff sensed his men's amusement. "Jim, Mr. Cook, join me in my cabin. Mr. Fox, take the watch."

"Aye, sir," Fox said.

On the captain's balcony, they took advantage of the shade. The gold leafing on the pillars surrounding the terrace gleamed in the sunset. Longstaff continued to watch the horizon, knowing that the Capitaine could appear at any time.

"The Frenchman knows these waters better than anyone," Cook said.

"His Indian is better than he. They also have hundreds of settlements to hide behind. None of which will provide assistance without incentive. We mustn't waste time."

"Chasing the Capitaine in these waters would be like chasing a chicken." Cook raised his new telescope and leaned on the rail.

"Precisely. After all, we have all the latest technology at our disposal." Longstaff admired his Hanover-made Braunschmidt collapsible telescope. Made from paper and vellum with bronze rings, its contoured glass provided the clearest view. "Gifts from Beesty Bill." Longstaff fetched a book from his pocket.

"I see you have the book The Seaman's Secrets in your collection," Fishhook said.

"Also a gift from Beesty Bill. He read it after the Capitaine gave it to him."

"So, the Capitaine has read it?"

"And much of his sailing and seamanship comes from this book. It may prove to be invaluable. I suggest you read it." Longstaff handed it to Fishhook, who smirked. "At night, not on watch."

"Aye, sir."

"Don't worry, mates, our quarry will soon be at hand." Longstaff extended the telescope.

Cymru was deep in Bocas del Toro, navigating a chain of small islands. White sandy beaches led to clusters of tall trees and lush green foliage. La Roche explained the advantage of such a terrain: Any passersby could easily be seen through the trees.

"Such as those?" Yaguara indicated the island ahead, where three masts skimmed by.

"Whatever it is, it's big," Jones said.

"Man-of-war." La Roche observed a lion figurehead. "Relentless."

"You forgot to say 'merde,'" Yaguara added.

"He didn't need to. Stretch every sheet. Run for it!" Jones ordered his crew. "You know where you're going, Yaguara."

Yaguara took the tiller. "Thirty degrees to starboard."

"Trim the sheets," Jones called nervously. "It makes me sound important. If she sees us, I'll dump the cannons and head north."

"Not just yet." La Roche watched the enemy vessel until she vanished behind the trees. "We are faster, and he will expect that. Trust me, I know where I'm going."

"Maybe he didn't see us," Gladstone said hopefully.

Minutes later, the masts of the man-of-war skimmed past the trees again, turning around.

Gladstone's eyes widened. "Has he spotted us?"

"Maybe he just lost his hat," la Roche said.

"Let's hope so."

"Of course he spotted us, idiot!" la Roche snapped.

"We should make for the shallow cays to the north where he can't follow," Yaguara said.

"Or we can turn around and let him chase us into the night, leading him through the rocks of peril south of Santa Catalina," la Roche countered.

Jones pointed to Yaguara. "His idea was better, and I'm captain."

La Roche cocked his head. "Then oui, Capitaine."

"Northwest on the double!" Jones ordered.

Through a maze of islands, they sailed with the sunset ahead. Crewmen checked the lines, indicating one hundred feet and getting shallower by the minute.

La Roche trained his telescope. "Head between those two islands there."

"Relentless will have a shot on us by then," Yaguara said.

Jones instructed his men, "Break out the oars! And run like the wind, my darlin' Cymru."

The oars were deployed, and the ketch raced between the small islands.

La Roche pointed to a swampy lagoon with trees and vines drooping into the water. "There!"

Yaguara steered straight for the thick green mesh.

"Uh, where are we going?" Gladstone asked.

"Brace for impact," called Jones.

Gladstone gripped the rail. "I had to ask."

Branches and weeds slapped the bow of the vessel. Soon came a thud and a crunch as they were thrown forward. Cymru slammed into a swampy tree line and tilted towards the bank.

"Now cover the ship!" la Roche instructed, leaping out to chop up trees.

Leaves and vines were strewn all over the rigging and bowsprit. Quickly, the masts were disguised as trees, all the more convincing beneath the twilight.

Gladstone dabbed his forehead. "What do we do now?"

La Roche desperately wanted a cigarette. "We sit here dark and quiet while they look for us."

"I can be quiet," Gladstone said.

"And no smoking. We cannot let them see the flame."

"It sounded like a great plan, all the way to no smoking."

The flicker of lanterns came from the sea.

Yaguara approached. "Yaguara will watch the other side of the island and come back." He dashed off into the dark brush.

Gladstone shifted in his seat. "I bet he's going for a smoke."

"Quiet!" la Roche said.

"The lucky bastard."

After a dark, damp night of watching the flickers of Relentless travel back and forth, searching, the sun peeked out along the skyline. Rays of light streamed through the jungle. The crew began unloading cannons to bury them inland.

La Roche stood on deck within the vines and weeds. His eyes drooped, and he yawned.

Gladstone crept through. "Well, you'll be happy to know that a wide variety of snakes have taken up residence below."

"You will prefer a few snakes to one Big Dick, believe me. Make do."

"There was a spider in my bunk. It called me a shrimp and told me to fuck off."

La Roche smiled. "And here you are. You are learning to take orders like a true seaman."

"What are we doing with those?"

"We are burying the cannons."

"So, we can sail faster?"

"Oui. We can sail much faster, and we can carry more. We are going to need wood. Lots of wood."

Gladstone nodded. "Then you stop by and pick up the cannons when you're done. It's brilliant!"

"But, of course."

"Anyone ever find your cannons while you were away?"

"No. But back in the day, Roc Braziliano was beached off the Yucatán and had to bury his cannons just when a Spanish cavalry patrol chanced by."

"What happened?"

"Roc ate horse meat for months."

"When do you think we'll be on our way to Sérénité?"

"Oh, have you not been introduced?" La Roche motioned to their surroundings. "This is the swampy side." He cleared his throat. "Gentlemen and ladies, I have your attention. Your quest is near an end; you have reached Sérénité."

Everyone remained quiet, looking around at the abundant forest and marsh.

"This is it?" Gladstone sulked.

"Oui. Sérénité. You were expecting harps and dancing kittens? This is it."

"There is plenty of food and even a running stream up the rocks." Yaguara reappeared beside them.

"Did I mention the spider?" Gladstone bemoaned.

"Oui, stay away from the spiders and the snakes," Yaguara said.

"Watch for caiman-gators too. One of them can rip your head off," la Roche added.

"Thanks." Gladstone's voice cracked slightly. "I'm quite done containing my enthusiasm for Sérénité. Why bring our people here, then?"

"Because no one will care they are here, and if they can live with the galliwasp, they can live with the caiman-gators."

Gladstone glanced around, defeated. "We'll have to wait for the English to leave before we can properly scout the island."

"There is not enough logwood. Gather some of the strong men and load the longboats with food, water, and axes. You are coming with me," la Roche said.

"Logwood? I thought I'd be more the mayor type for Sérénité."

"You are the mayor of dirt. Now let's go get some wood."

They journeyed to the longboats with over a dozen men.

"Columbus didn't have to chop wood," Gladstone said.

"Queen Isabella is not funding your exhibition, so you must make do."

"Think she'll be upset?" Gladstone asked.

"Who?"

"Atia. For spending her inheritance?"

La Roche contemplated for a moment, knowing he'd have to make it up to her. "She will be fine with it. We'll make her mayor."

"But I'm mayor," Gladstone said.

Arsenault stayed at the bow with a musket while they rowed the boats around the island, taking note of useful terrain and neighboring islands.

"It's perfect. There are friendly natives nearby, who were decimated by the conquistadors and don't mind the business, and it's off the trade route," Yaguara said.

"There are some real pretty spots too." Gladstone smiled while they passed a grassy green bay.

La Roche winked and inspected the area beyond "There's a small bay surrounded by tall trees, perfect for hiding a ship. Oui, this is the place."

"Miles can begin building right away," Yaguara said.

"He can?" Gladstone's ear cocked. "Well, we'll be much happier on this side. This is Sérénité."

"But first we are going over there," la Roche said.

Gladstone looked around. "Where?"

"That small island over there." La Roche pointed.

"Where? I don't see it."

"Exactly," said Yaguara. "It's thick with brush like the lagoon back there."

"We will use it as a logging camp," la Roche explained. "And a base to begin building."

They detoured to the small island and set up camp. Gladstone supervised while men chopped paths into the jungle. Over the next three days they established a fully functioning logging camp. They built bungalows and storehouses around the site.

Inside his command tent, la Roche flipped through charts, making calculations and taking note of the distance between islands and wind direction. He paused to pull at the leather cord around his neck. He examined a small wooden ankh with the letter A engraved on its bottom. He had met Atia when she was a child, as he assisted her family's escape from the slaver Crisp. Back then, she had given him the charm as a token of gratitude. He kissed it and stuffed it back in his shirt.

Arsenault arrived.

"I did not say enter." La Roche eyed him.

"Forgive me, Capitaine but Laurens ordered me to keep you on schedule, and you have been in here for days."

"We will make the rendezvous on time."

"I was getting concerned. We have not even prepared the ship."

"Do you know your way around Bocas del Toro?"

"No, Monsieur."

"Then leave the thinking to me."

Arsenault turned away. "Oui, Monsieur."

"That was not meant as an insult. We must have absolute secrecy. Come here." La Roche rummaged through papers. "Laurens trusts you with his life. Even the location of Neptune's Rest and Coxon's Hole."

"And de Kreep, he trusts him most of all."

"As do I. It's my fault de Kreep is injured. He should be inside Marshallsea Prison right now. Instead he may lose his leg."

Arsenault's eyebrows raised. "You intended to get us inside the city?"

"What do you think? Laurens sent you on a fishing trip to Jamaica? Maybe some smoked snapper?"

Arsenault sat quiet and somber, looking over the pages.

"That was more than a scouting mission. You must know him by now. Since that failed, we must find a way to get someone else in. Laurens may ask you to volunteer." No response. La Roche knew where Arsenault's thoughts were at. "The young Indian girl, you liked her? Yaguara liked her too. He is also taking it hard. Your last wife died too, Dashiell told me. We must move on and remember them."

"I didn't want to love her. I have loved four women before. They all died. I have a curse."

La Roche's curse had long red hair and green eyes, and she was sitting in a dark damp prison cell wondering why he wasn't there to rescue her. He hadn't meant to fall in love either and found it equally difficult to focus on the task at hand. "Uh, and we must move on and remember them. And move on."

"Ekene is inside the city, as is Atia."

La Roche frowned defensively. "Atia cannot help us, but we can use Ekene to get a message to Picard."

"Ekene may not be able to get messages to Picard. You have a harder time risking young Atia than you do Ekene or Tanama?"

"We cannot bring back the dead. All we can do is move on. Any messages into the city must be coded, and we will use only the Julian calendar. Right now Laurens is on Roatán to pick up supplies at the French harbor. He has let it be known so the Spanish will send ships."

"A decoy. Then we meet to attack Port Royal!"

"It's not a decoy. He's there. He wants to lure the Spanish out for a fight, so he can smuggle supplies into Roatán, Isla Barbareta, Neptune's Rest, and the French harbor. Then we will meet to plan the invasion of Jamaica. And it will take months."

"Months you don't have, and the men are restless. You've dropped off the settlers; now it's time to meet Laurens and join the fight."

"And I told you, I decide when and where we meet Laurens, and I will not say it again. You can tell Laurens whatever you want when you see him, and the responsibility is mine. We stay here. Now get back to work and stop moping."

Arsenault departed without another word, and Gladstone passed him on the way in.

"What do you want?" la Roche asked sharply.

"The plans for an irrigation system. I think I found my true calling."

They spread the plans on the table.

"You use rock instead of wood. I am impressed."

"The ship is loaded with wood and ready for transport. When do we sail?"

La Roche rolled up the plans. "I will sail right away and get this started. You are going to have another load of wood ready for transport by the time I get back."

"I'd like to do the water system meself if ya don't mind."

La Roche gathered his things and secured his cutlass. "I'll take them with me. You will build your water system once we have enough wood for the housing. So be quick. I will send a boat back shortly."

"Glad there's no slavery in these parts. Where are you going?"

"I have business with de Graaf. You are in command here, Mayor Gladstone."

Gladstone grinned. "It does have a nice ring."

"Let's go, we have a deadline to meet," la Roche said and advanced to a longboat, where he was joined by Arsenault.

They rowed back to the lagoon where Cymru was ready for sail. Jones was busy supervising the cleanup. Once aboard, la Roche went on deck.

"It's gonna take months to clean this place up," Jones said. "Here, have a snake!" He tossed a small slithering creature at la Roche.

They chased the sunset for two days until they found the Yucatán coast and followed through an endless maze of islands. A familiar long shape came into view. La Roche had called this place home since the battle of '86, when the buccaneers were almost wiped out by a combined fleet of English, Spanish, and Brandenburg vessels.

They docked at a French settlement on Roatán.

Arsenault went to the inn to find information on Laurens's whereabouts, while la Roche arranged for food provisions and water barrels. Jones continued to complain about the cleanup while his men loaded the supplies.

La Roche rolled a cigarette, double-checking the crates. Gladstone would have made a good cooper, and he regretted not bringing him. Oh well, I'm sure he's enjoying the snakes. Once the last of the barrels was lowered into Cymru's hold, Arsenault tore along the path from the village with his fists clenched.

"Take it easy, men, let's all take it easy," Jones called.

La Roche met Arsenault at the end of the path, and the two men stood toe to toe. "He is not here."

"Laurens? No, of course not."

"Then what are these that we pick up?"

"Supplies. Every settlement needs supplies."

"Then what are we to do now?"

"We must get back to Sérénité."

Arsenault's face hardened. "You were ordered to meet with Laurens de Graaf, and I was ordered to make sure you get there."

"I am the Capitaine, and you take orders from me. I will meet de Graaf after I take these back to Sérénité."

Arsenault bumped la Roche's shoulder as he stormed aboard. On La Lune, it would have been a hanging offense. La Roche finished his smoke. "Enfants ces jours-ci."

The door creaked open to the Blarney Stone Tavern, and polished black boots tromped against the stone floor. Laurens de Graaf winked at the barmaid and tipped his hat. The bronze Spanish medallion inlaid into the shackle he bore around his neck gleamed. "Permission, Captain Bart?"

Bartolomeo "Bart" Portuguese motioned to a private table partially covered by a thick velvet curtain.

Laurens took a seat, and the barmaid came over with cups of Madeira wine. He held up a dead beetle for Henry V, who nestled on his shoulder. "Governor de Cussy is upset he was not consulted about Strangewayes and the pikey. We all had business with him. Dewar sold them out."

"Strangewayes acted recklessly and had to be dealt with. We could no longer protect him with impunity. Same goes for Cormac the pikey. I hear he made a deal with the French," Bart said. "But you would know nothing of that."

"There is talk of repercussions in Tortuga over Cormac the pikey. De Cussy will not attack Jamaica under a flag of King James, but no English or Spanish allies. There is no turning back. Dewar had better have the backing of King James himself."

"He does. Port Royal will be the Jacobite stronghold in the Caribbean, run by the Brethren of the Coast. Governor de Cussy and the Flibustiers have been given free run of the Leeward Islands. If there is to be an alliance, the French will blockade Jamaica, but if any buccaneers under a French flag set foot on Jamaica, it breaks the agreement and it's all-out war between us," Bart said.

"I'll take any ship under an English flag until King James retakes the throne, and I'll do it under French colors."

"As long as you remain at sea, we have an agreement and will remain at peace."

Laurens drank back the wine. "The bounty for the pikey has been raised. Every fisherman and buccaneer in the West Indies tossed in a coin to see Slasher Al on the rack for Cormac."

"Slasher Al has gone into hiding."

Laurens rose. "I'll smoke him out."

"See Yuma about our guest from Strangewayes's plantation."

"Carlena, she's still alive?"

"Barely and she's not stayin' here any longer. There's something for you at the bar. I figure you will run into him before I do."

Laurens stopped at the counter, where the barmaid unveiled a bird cage. Minuit ruffled his feathers in annoyance and eyed Henry V.

"The Capitaine's broad-biller, Minuit. Bonjour, Minuit."

"Bonjour, sieur," Minuit said.

"You are well?"

"Comme ci comme ça."

Laurens noticed the note in the leg bracelet. He opened the cage to let Minuit on the counter and skimmed the parchment.

"He turned up with a message from Port Royal. You can see why I didn't find it of much use," Bart said.

"My dearest love?" Laurens cringed.

"Ma chérie," Minuit said.

"I'm reduced to delivering love letters?" Laurens scoffed. "Or is it a farewell passage? 'Dear Capitaine, you're just not old enough for me. I'm leaving you and running away with John Cabot.'"

Bart shrugged. "Like I said, you can deliver it."

"I'll take the love sonnet and the bird with me. Fine by you, Minuit?"

"Oui, Monsieur."

Laurens eyed the barmaid. "Where is Carlena?"

Yuma emerged on the stairs. "Top floor, end of the hall. She smells bad. It won't be long."

"If she was my slave, I'd end her suffering."

"But she is not your slave."

Laurens sighed and went to obtain two small vials from Ravenau before ambling upstairs. The door next to Carlena's room unlatched. He stood still a moment, listening. Someone was whistling the tune "What To Do With a Drunken Sailor." Laurens leaned further into the room. A tall, slender black man in a deep purple suit with gold stitching and an elegant walking stick came into view.

"How are the stepdaughters?" Laurens asked Theodore Binge.

"Sick of insects. They want to go home."

Binge was a hustler and card shark who'd been gathering information for Laurens. During their long business association, they helped each other out many times and in many ways.

"That's gonna take a while. And it's under the name of King James now."

"I heard." Binge folded his arms. "The Whigs are declaring all the land deals under King James illegal in Jamaica."

"You had a sizeable estate in Port Royal. Did you lose it?"

"No. I was able to sell it to some fancy fellow with peacocks." Binge grinned, his teeth glistening. "He paid money upfront. I'll feel appropriately sorry for him when King James reverses all the land deals and I take it back. Maybe I'll rent him the stable."

"Where did Slasher Al go?"

"He was last seen heading southeast of Hispaniola. That sounds like Barbados to me."

"Hmm. To Hansel Crisp. Not surprising. Thank you for the Columbian coca leaf powder."

"The very best. I trust your delivery went smoothly."

"It did." Laurens leaned closer. "I'd be obliged if you had another shipment sent to Baldran Imports in Port Royal."

"I certainly will."

"For medicinal purposes only," Laurens assured. "It helps my back and shoulder."

"Speaking of medicinal. I think it's past time. Even the good doctor himself, wherever he is, could do nothing to save the poor woman in the room next door."

"She's that bad, they say."

"She's been dead for weeks. She's just been denying it. Even my stepdaughters have taken turns trying to nurse this one. Carlena's been trying so damn hard, but she's tired now."

Laurens nodded. "It's not right to let her suffer this way. It has to end. Didn't anyone offer her poison or a way out?"

"She won't take it. Because of hope, I guess."

"Because of stubbornness."

Laurens handed over a payment of gold before he and Binge parted ways.

Next door, the sickly sweetness of putrefaction hung in the air. Carlena's shallow breathing rattled, and she was too weak to even lift her head.

Yuma rose from the bed. "She has the fever. The infection spread, and there is no way to stop it. She's bleeding in the bowels and can no longer eat."

"Add this one to Strangewayes's price tag." He prepared a mixture of water and the contents of one of Ravenau's vials. He looked into her withered face. "You gave it a hell of a fight. You really did. Are you ready to go home?"

A sigh escaped Carlena's lips, and she closed her eyes. He put the mixture to her mouth and managed to get some down her throat.

James Fishhook came to a stop in his longboat beside Relentless, now anchored in the Yucatán Bay. The waters around Roatán made him uneasy, for it was here in '86 under Longstaff's command that they were charged to hunt down the buccaneers. What followed was a two-month nightmare of bloodshed, fire, jungle sickness, and death.

A gunpowder explosion had concussed him and sent him flying overboard. When they'd fished him out, blood was oozing from his ears and nose. When he finally regained consciousness, he was with his wife, children, and parents in New England. Three years later, duty returned him to the Caribbean as first mate aboard Relentless.

Fishhook climbed onto the attached dock while his men secured the boat.

"Are we pulling out again?" one asked.

"I hope not." Fishhook huffed up the stepladder to the main deck where he was instructed to meet Longstaff in his cabin. Upon his arrival, his captain examined a map and fidgeted with dividers.

"What have you?" Longstaff asked.

"Cook and I have checked the next two settlements. Both French, both didn't know there was a war on."

Longstaff handed him a page. "A Spanish aviso spotted Laurens de Graaf sailing west of here at top speed."

"Shall we give chase?"

"We shan't go chasing Laurens around. That would be adding another chicken to the pen. In any case, Relentless has been sitting here too long. I'm dropping you and Mr. Cook off to finish scouting the Mouth of the Bull with Bilwi and his Miskito scouts while I loop up around the waters to the Caymans. Then I'll come back to pick up you up."

Within a few days Relentless sailed off the islands of Bocas del Toro. Upon the main deck, Blower hung off the rail as a seagull landed on the water, catching something. It then appeared to choke as it was pulled by a string line.

Blower snickered as the seagull flapped its wings. "I got-cha, ya little vermin."

Longstaff motioned to the sea. "The fish are that way."

"I been catching birds since I was a youngster. I got the nax. Just cuz man can't fly don't mean ya got us beat, vermin."

"Do you eat it, or just kill it?" Fishhook asked.

"I let 'em go, but with a surprise. I can make them explode when they take off. It's so funny."

Longstaff shared a look with Fishhook. "Sheriff, Relentless is sailing right away, and you'll remain here guarding Fishhook and Mr. Cook."

"I'm supposed to report what you do."

"Then report I sailed away and left you here under Fishhook and Mr. Cook. They are close to finding the runaways, and we need you ready to take them in."

"Where are you going?"

"If you must know, Laurens de Graaf has been sighted. Relentless will move to intercept him."

"Ah. I'll stay here and find our runaways," Blower agreed. "Great plan."

Longstaff took Fishhook aside. "Port Royal has a history of losing sheriffs in a short time, Mr. Fishhook. It's almost a tradition, you might say. The navy is particularly traditional; wouldn't you say?"

"Aye, sir, traditional and dutiful officers do their best to uphold them, if I may say so."

"Excellent, Mr. Fishhook. Go to the Miskito village. Bilwi will guide your men. Check every island if you must."

"And perhaps the next small chain of islands?"

"Whatever it takes, Jim."

"Aye, sir."

From the longboats, Fishhook watched Relentless sail off into the night.

Gladstone patted dry his forehead. "Why is something called Sérénité so much work?" They'd been stranded in the hot, swampy log camp for weeks now. With the Capitaine gone and Yaguara off on a scouting mission, he and the Strangewayes refugees continued to build bungalows and storehouses. When two of their men went missing, Gladstone and the carpenter, Coffie, went searching. Footprints led to a swampy lagoon.

"What's up that way?" Gladstone said. One of the trails from the beach led into a vine-congested area where the ground softened. Naturally formed caves, dark and quiet, sat in abundance. He stood at the entrance and peered in.

"There's something moving," Coffie said.

The jaws of a caiman alligator snapped, and bodies shifted, disturbing the water within.

Coffie yanked Gladstone backwards by his jacket.

"Thanks." Gladstone's voice wavered. "Let's avoid the caves, shall we?"

"You're the mayor."

Back at the logging camp, the final touches were put in place for the new water canal from the creek. Refugees hammered together a wooden channel with a trap door leading to a table near the bungalows. Gladstone inspected the contraption and was quite impressed with his first attempt. "Alright."

Coffie looked confused. "You'll write what?"

"No, it's all right, it's an expression...oh, never mind. Start the water."

One of the men raised the trap door, and water started to flow.

"It's perfect, if I may say so meself," Gladstone said. The table began to break, and water spilled out. "Well, near perfect. A few minor fixes." The contraption collapsed, and a great splash soaked him and the others. "Fine, needs work. Can we turn the water off now?"

Everyone wiped their faces.

"Well, it's just a model. Too early to be planning fountains and sprinklers just yet anyway." Gladstone turned to find a Spanish sword aimed at his throat. "And, uh, who was on watch?"

A pirate gang of six stood before them wearing fine Spanish fabrics and gold chains around their necks. The wild gleam in their eyes revealed starvation.

The pirate leader wore a black patch over his left eye. "Food! Where's your food stores?"

"No need for violence. We got all the food ya need." Gladstone turned to the refugees and called, "Bring food and water." He glanced at the mud. "Clean water."

"Where did you come from? Where's your ship?" the one-eyed pirate asked.

"We're hiding from the English. We have rowboats and canoes."

"But no ship?"

Once presented with food and water, the pirate gang gorged themselves.

Gladstone was silent a moment. "How long has it been since you've eaten?"

"Days." The one-eyed pirate glanced around. "Where are your women and children?"

"We don't have any. These are all runaway slaves like you."

The one-eyed pirate looked to his fellows and said something in Spanish. They all grumbled. "Now you are our slaves. Get to work."

Gladstone nodded and led the men back to work. "It would be nice if the Capitaine and Yaguara came back soon," he said quietly to Coffie.

"What are you saying? What captain?" the one-eyed pirate asked gruffly.

"The captain we escaped from."

"And his cat...Yaguara," Coffie said.

The pirate gang revealed a sizeable wooden trunk.

"We can't carry it anymore. We gotta bury it. Our slaves will bury it for us." The one-eyed pirate opened it and addressed his men. "You can take a ring or chain each, and the rest stays in the chest."

"I know where you can hide it," Gladstone volunteered.

"Where?"

"The caves." Gladstone pointed. "Over there. Hidden caves, near the shore. I could even help ya draw a map."

"Let's see the caves."

The pirate gang split; half stayed with the treasure, the other half followed Gladstone down the beach to the cove. A trail led them through a dense brush and then to an area where the ground sank under foot. Through a curtain of vines sat openings in the rocks.

"Just in there." Gladstone motioned. "They go back a long way."

"You been in there?"

"Not meself, but a few of the lads went in."

The one-eyed pirate put one foot inside the mouth and stopped. "You go in first."

"I should go back and get us a lantern," Gladstone said thoughtfully.

The one-eyed pirate squinted. "What's moving in there?" He pushed one of his men ahead.

Gladstone waited with a peg-legged pirate. Discreetly he reached for a knife and then paused as the men emerged from the cave.

"Too wet and soft. It will sink into the swamp. Bury it back over there." The one-eyed pirate gestured towards the beach.

Gladstone sighed. I thought that would have worked out just fine.

The one-eyed pirate gazed at him suspiciously. "You're lucky it wasn't full of gators. I would have fed you to 'em."

In the full heat of the afternoon, Gladstone, Coffie, and some of the refugees slowly dug into the sandy terrain. The pirate gang was off arguing in Spanish over the wooden chest.

"Now what are they saying?" Coffie asked, keeping his voice low.

Gladstone's Spanish was a bit rusty, but he gleaned some details. "They're gonna bury their treasure and then make for an island with more food and women. Dig slower. They're going to kill us when we're done and take our boats."

"They might take us for sale," one of the refugees suggested.

"They have nowhere to go where they can sell us. Also, we're burying their treasure. You expect they'll let us go on the honor system?"

Coffie panicked. "One of us must escape and find the Capitaine!"

"I'll do it," Gladstone volunteered.

"But you're the slowest one here," Coffie replied.

The pirate lookout tore up the beach, yelling, "The English are coming! Lots of canoes with Miskito warriors."

Gladstone looked to the water and covered his mouth for a moment. He recognized the Miskito warriors and who was leading them: Bilwi. Bilwi had provided the English vital information that was instrumental in destroying Strangewayes's plantation. Gladstone's lips pursed. He also spotted Captain Longstaff's first mate, Fishhook, but not Longstaff. "It's the pirate hunter Big Dick!"

"Big Dick!" The one-eyed pirate seemed fearful.

"You can hide in the caves," Gladstone said.

"Bury the treasure and I may let ya live."

The one-eyed pirate gathered his men, leaving the lookout behind, as they tore off down the trail towards the swampy caves.

"Bon appétit." Gladstone smiled to himself. It was now time to take care of the lookout and set a few surprises for the intruders. And after that, in his capacity of mayor of Sérénité, he firmly believed they should all run and hide.

The innocuous-looking cove drew closer. Fishhook crouched at the head of one of the longboats, his telescope aimed. No movement among the bungalows, nor in the surrounding landscape. This was either going to be easy, or something terrible would ensue.

Bilwi's party of Miskito warriors was the first to land. Their spears were drawn and ready to battle. They spread out across the beach. Blower's boat and Fishhook's were next to land.

"Secure the beach for the Sheriff," Fishhook called.

Blower stepped from his boat, catching his foot, nearly tripping. "No need, men. I have arrived."

"Aye, we noticed," Cook said.

"Take command, Sheriff," Fishhook instructed.

"Search the island. Burn it all down. Find the runaway slaves. Let them know Sheriff Lief Blower has come to sweep them from the island and return them to captivity."

"Very wordy, sir." Fishhook clapped.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Blower charged ahead. "Move out, men!"

Cook leaned in. "I didn't know you made lieutenant."

Fishhook shrugged. "Let him have his fun. Besides, lieutenant has a nice ring to it." He readied his musket and aided in the search. Movement down the beach led them to a swampy lagoon. Fishhook caught sight of a man behind the trees and raised his sword. "Over there!" Shots fired through the foliage.

"Take cover and return fire," Fishhook called. His men dived and started shooting back.

Swiftly, a figure was dragged away, flailing and screaming, and then another. Soon, men in soiled Spanish clothes ran towards them, guns blazing. Fishhook's crew blasted their muskets with deadly accuracy. As the last body fell in the bushes, Fishhook saw something snatch the corpse away.

Cook crept cautiously to have a closer look and signaled back.

"Report," Fishhook said.

"I found some caves."

"And?"

"You better come see, sir."

"Bring some men." Fishhook turned to Blower. "Well done, Sheriff. Maintain command here. I shan't be long."

"Aye. I'm in my elementary now."

"Aye, that you are, sir." Fishhook smirked, guiding a group of crewmen along the path leading from the beach.

"Burn it all down!" Blower's voice carried through the trees.

Fishhook and his men arrived at the caves. One held out a lantern. Splattered blood and body parts littered the inside.

Bilwi arrived through the curtain of vines. "You don't want to go in there."

Fishhook jumped, catching his breath. "Thank you."

"There are caiman in there and every other cave and swamp. Don't go in there, or you will be eaten. Which is probably what happened to their group."

Fishhook rubbed his neck. "Search the last two sectors and let's get the hell off this sandy shithole." He returned to the beach in time for a bungalow to explode into a ball of fire. Men scattered for their lives, and then came another explosion.

"They left rundlets in all the huts," Cook said.

Fishhook shielded his face with his hands. "Perhaps Sheriff Blower should have checked for that first."

"Strangewayes's people either left before we got here, or they are with the bodies in the caves," Bilwi speculated before speaking with one of his warriors. "He says boats have been seen to the east. Rowboats."

"Mr. Cook, help ready the canoes. We don't want them to get away," Fishhook said.

The sheriff staggered across the sand. "The bastards fought back."

"Aye, the fiends. The leaders went this way." Fishhook directed him to the path leading to the caves. "They're getting away."

"Not from Sheriff Lief Blower they won't."

Fishhook followed behind, navigating the vines and overgrown weeds. The caves before them looked like giant black throats ready to swallow. "They went in there."

Blower hesitated. "Brave lads, I'll give 'em that."

"We better go in after them."

Movement stirred within.

"There ya are, ya little Negroes. I got ya!" Blower charged in.

Fishhook took a step back, grim anticipation forming on his face. A brute force attacked. Rows of needle-sharp teeth could be seen. The caiman snapped its massive jaws on the sheriff's head. There was a brief scream, flailing, and sounds of wet tearing. Another caiman joined in, ripping and rolling, before they dragged the corpse back to their lair.

Fishhook climbed back down the path.

"What happened?" Cook asked.

"Sheriff Blower lost his head. There are no survivors here."

"The rowboats are ready, sir."

"They won't get far. Let's get going."

Bilwi and Cook shouted orders, and men came running.

"What was Blower doing in there?" Cook eyed the ominous beach path.

"Upholding tradition." Fishhook stepped into one of the canoes. Behind them the village burned to the ground.

Santa Catalina

On the island of Santa Catalina, bright blue water glistened in the afternoon sun. At the mouth of the harbor sat a stone villa guarded by a massive wrought-iron gate. Dozens of gravel paths led all over the estate, bordered with red carnations and yellow-copper gazanias.

Governor Juan de Sánchez relaxed on a wicker chaise-longue upon a white and black marble checked promenade. He wore a black doublet with gold stripes and matching breeches, and a frilled white collar clung to his neck. He'd been living on Santa Catalina since 1668 and had been appointed governor in '86. He raised a silver spyglass and looked to the water. A razée galleon with a dark hull and white sails entered the bay. The bishop's flag flapped in the breeze.

Sánchez rose. Only one bishop would pay him a visit. He watched as the ship landed and Bishop Eromenos was met by guards at the dock. The bishop's red and black cassock swayed as he strolled through the maze of paths leading to the gate.

Sánchez signaled his slaves to continue fanning as he rose to greet his guest.

"Bishop Eromenos, welcome. I have not seen you for such a long time, you are well?" Sánchez began.

"As well as can be in this heat." The bishop's cheeks flared red. "What's happening with that ship out there?" He pointed to Candelaria, the vessel anchored just off his villa.

"A galleon. One that was taken by the pirate Laurens de Graaf six years ago."

"And is just now returning home? Extraordinary."

Sánchez removed a scroll from his jacket. "A gift and show of friendship to the Lord of Santa Catalina from Laurens de Graaf."

"A gift from Laurens de Graaf? He's the devil himself. It must be a trap."

"I am having the vessel searched thoroughly by Captain Guillermo Hernández."

"It was returned loaded with fine liquor and Cuban tobacco," an aide said.

Sánchez coughed loudly. "The bishop is not here to discuss trade ships returning from the grave."

The bishop clasped his hands. "On the contrary, I'm intrigued. A gift from Laurens de Graaf. Poison, perhaps?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps I should take the ship with me when I sail for Cartagena. If the cargo is proved genuine, it will benefit the relief effort of San Juan."

"I know nothing of a relief effort." Sánchez shook his head. "The breeze in San Juan must be quite nice right now."

"San Juan is where I came from. Everything from the Leeward Islands to Puerto Rico is ravaged by the hurricane."

"What hurricane? I was unaware."

The bishop slid a silk handkerchief from his sleeve to pat his forehead. "Surely you received the plea for help from Governor Carlitos to send aid at once. His most trusted corsair, Jorge-Miguel Rivero, was sent at all speed."

"Rivero is a pirate and a traitor. He is locked up in the dungeon awaiting death."

"The church does not normally get involved with such matters; however, Governor Carlitos says you spent money collected for the King of Spain and the holy church itself."

Sánchez furled his brow. "A loan to cover the cost of ships. Ships needed to protect the city. I assure you, I did not steal anything."

"The same five you bought off Carlitos but have yet to pay for?" the bishop questioned.

"I-I sent a sloop with payment some months ago. It must not have arrived."

"I suggest cooperation. Governor Carlitos has petitioned to the King of Spain to have you tried for treason."

"That is preposterous!"

"As it is, the wife of Viceroy Don Tomas, the Lady Doña María Luisa Manrique de Laura, is bound for Cartagena for the wedding of her son to coincide with the arrival of Armada de Barlovento, who captains a ship. It would be in your favor if I was to arrive from Havana with Rivero, whose father was killed by buccaneer Captain Morris on a pirate raid with El Capitaine Gator Gar. His usefulness as a corsair far outweighs whatever bad blood there is between Governor Carlitos and yourself. The Huguenot buccaneers have been seen heading this way, and a gift from Laurens de Graaf only adds suspicion."

Sánchez paced. "What could they possibly want down here? You can fry an egg on my patio in the shade! I assure you, I have no connection at all with the buccaneers or Laurens de Graaf."

"The armada, to which you are obliged to contribute, is to be the most powerful ever assembled. Rivero could bring us Laurens de Graaf; Laurens is the leader of the Samaná Bay Buccaneers, the worst ones of them all."

"I know who they are. It is dangerous to send away our defenses."

"God will protect you. Or, let me simplify it for you. If you make a wise choice, the church will reward you, and you will remain governor of Santa Catalina. If you make a poor choice, well then, that would be a poor choice."

Sánchez paused. "I will release Rivero to your custody. But I will hold that ship and its contents until its purpose is determined." He signaled to his guards. "Release the prisoner Rivero."

The bishop bowed and departed.

Sánchez seized his aide by the collar. "Laurens de Graaf is coming this way? How is this possible? He said he was taking Jamaica."

"But God will protect you."

"Shut the fuck up and summon Captain Hernández, pronto!"

The aide rushed from the room.

"I know better than to mess with Laurens de Graaf."

Sánchez's wife arrived in a pale gold gown with embroidered flowers. Sofia was in her early thirties and had born him a daughter, Carmen, now fourteen. They were both dark-haired beauties whom he loved, but he feared he may have indulged them too much.

Sánchez gripped his wife's hand. "Laurens de Graaf is coming this way. You must leave!"

"Why is he coming here? You paid the bribe."

"Uh, it was lost."

Sofia's jaw dropped. "You didn't pay off the buccaneers? They'll rape us to death!"

"Me too!" He swallowed hard.

"You stupid fool!"

"You forget who you are speaking to!"

Sofia slapped him upside the head. "You stupid fool! Carmen! Carmen, come here."

Their daughter appeared in the doorway, her hair in braids with flower accents.

"We must leave right away," Sofia insisted. "We must have protection."

"What is happening?" Carmen asked.

"Buccaneers are coming to rape us."

"Really?"

Sofia looked grimly at her daughter. "To death!"

"Oh."

"Núñez!" Sánchez yelled.

The heavy clank of armor drew near and the guards opened the door to Captain Guillermo Hernández. His dark mustache curled, and he wore a red feathered helmet, and in his arms was a small wooden chest. Behind him, the mulatto servant Núñez entered.

"Ah, Captain Hernández, come with me to the citadel. Núñez, get my wife and daughter to the English settlement on Providencia and hide them."

"Sí. It will be done." Núñez guided them out.

Sofia looked back with her copper brown eyes. "Whatever happens..."

"It is my fault." Sánchez released a strain of curse words under his breath. "One less arsehole and two less headaches. It's not turning out to be such a bad day." He rubbed his hands. "Now, let's see what's on this galleon from our good friend Laurens."

Sánchez and Hernández went to the stone tower that had a clear view of the entire harbor. They stopped at a table, and Hernández set down the chest. Inside was full of white powder.

"Pure coca leaf powder of the finest crystals," Hernández said.

"How many boxes?"

"Six, Señor."

The aide stepped forth. "Laurens's letter made reference to a box for each apostle for the lord of Santa Catalina. There are twelve apostles. Twelve boxes counted."

"I must've lost count. I will double check," Hernández assured.

Sánchez removed a small silver spoon from his pocket and scooped up some powder.

"I have not tested this one. It could be poison."

Sánchez sneered and passed over the spoon. "Then go ahead and test it."

Hernández snorted. "Oh...oh...marvelous."

Sánchez took out a second spoon, and they both dived in.

"Holy Christ." Sánchez felt the burn in his nostrils.

Hernández went red in the face. "Sí, Holy Christ!"

"No, no. Prepare the Holy Christ for sail."

"Surely the treasury is not that broke?" White powder crusted the entrance of Hernández's nostrils.

"No, to sail." Sánchez made a sailing motion with his hand. "You will join Armada de Barlovento at Cartagena as my contribution."

"That will leave the defenses of Santa Catalina too weak."

"Nonsense. Would Laurens de Graaf send me a present like this if he was pissed at me? Clearly, he wants a favor. We will entertain his generosity enough to find out what he wants. And I want you to sail with the armada. I will need constant updates on the armada's movements."

"Then I must be paid in advance and the voyage funded."

Sánchez's eyes rolled upwards and his front teeth went numb. "Yes, yes, I will see to it."

"In advance. And, I will take six of those chests."

Sánchez cocked his head. "Three."

"Six. Armada de Barlovento is a commitment for a year or more."

"Five."

"I hear Governor Barreda in Campeche is looking for a captain."

"Fine, six!"

They took another sniff. The doors opened and the pair stood there in a cloud of white.

"What, what, what, what?" Sánchez asked wildly.

A guard pushed a shackled prisoner. "Bishop Eromenos and a prisoner."

"Sí, thanks. Bishop Eromenos, my friend, welcome back. Rivero, the bishop has pleaded for amnesty for you, which I will grant. We are at war and must all contribute. You shall both sail on the Holy Christ for Cartagena as my guests."

"The church thanks you, Governor, and rewards those who deserve it."

"I fucking hope so," Sánchez said softly and took another great sniff and shivered. "Godspeed to you all!" He held the chest while Hernández thrust his head into the white mound.

When afternoon arrived, Sánchez sat on the marble promenade, snorting the occasional spoonful. His chin was covered in powdery residue, and he sank back into a wicker chair, watching the ships in the harbor.

"Holy Christ has set sail for Cartagena," his aide said.

"Holy Christ! Sí, that is good." Sánchez signaled for his slaves to fan harder. By evening, he raided the galleon of its spirits and suckled a bottle of fine Puerto Rican rum. From his chaise-longue, he watched his wife and daughter on the dock bicker about what was being loaded on the boat. "God help the poor souls of Providencia."

The alarm bell sounded, and guards ran by.

"Would someone mind telling me what is going on?" Sánchez said.

"Several small ships on the horizon under a black flag."

"Well, maybe they were ejected from a race or something?"

"It's the pirate Silent Sam!"

Sánchez dropped his bottle, which shattered on the marble tile. "Silent Sam! Oh, why didn't I pay the bri-bring my robes and sound the alarm! Close the gates and prepare to defend the city."

"Shall I retrieve your wife and daughter?" a guard asked.

"No, it's too late. Close the gate. The safety of the city comes first."

Sofia and Carmen continued to argue.

"My slaves, Núñez, we can't leave without my slaves!" Carmen yelled. "Bring me Wiri or I shall stay here and be raped!"

Núñez massaged his temple. "Bring Wiri."

Carmen's slave arrived and boarded.

"Now we are going to sink," said Núñez.

"If we're too heavy, perhaps you should throw yourself off!" Carmen scolded.

"Just paddle!" Sofia ordered and passed everyone an oar.

The boat slipped away as the approaching ships fired off cannons and flairs.

Sánchez retreated to the citadel, where he was fitted with armor. He looked to the harbor through an opening in the stone wall. "What is their strength? How long do you think we can hold out? A week? A month?" he asked a guard.

"An hour."

His face sagged. "An hour?"

"It will take them that long to dock, and there's barely any wind."

"Prepare to fire cannons!"

"But that will make them angry."

Sánchez thought for a moment. "Quite right. I must take immediate steps. Draft a letter of apology to Laurens de Graaf and courier it to Saint-Domingue."

"Do we have any, say, more immediate action? Like recalling the Holy Christ?"

"Christ won't return in time. Not until after the rendezvous with Armada de Barlovento."

"We could ask Port Royal for help," a guard suggested.

"Then I am opening the gate to hell for protection, from the devil himself."

In less than an hour the pirates were at the dock, ready to disembark. Sánchez stood behind the gate, guards gathered beside him. Silent Sam led them with guns cocked.

"I claim this island for the Brethren of the Coast. He who dares challenge me make it be known or surrender your defenses. Or ye shall all die," Sam declared.

"Open the gate," Sánchez said. The wooden doors opened, and the iron bars were raised.

"Santa Catalina is mine. Where are the hostages?" Sam addressed his fellow pirate, Younger.

"She's not here."

"Lady Sánchez or the viceroy's wife?"

"They left for Cartagena. You will not find my wife or daughter," Sánchez asserted.

"Surrender the wife of Don Tomas."

"Sí, I can do that as soon as she gets here."

Sam frowned. "What?"

"Don Tomas's wife ain't here," Younger said.

"Then whose ship is that?" Sam's nostrils flared at the galleon, Candelaria, anchored in the harbor.

Sánchez removed a scroll. "A present from Laurens de Graaf."

Sam snatched the parchment and read. "Laurens de Graaf! Soddin' bullfrogs! That back-stabbin' cunt tricked me here for nothing!"

"At least he left us an apology of twelve boxes of coca leaf powder," Younger said.

Sánchez took a spoonful and snorted. "Holy Christ!"

Longstaff hung onto the rope at the bow of Relentless. They had sailed all the way up to the Cayman Islands and saw no trace of the Capitaine, Laurens de Graaf, nor John Coxon. They were as slippery as ever. Now it was time to race back for his men in case they themselves were caught in a trap.

"Sail," the lookout called.

A small Spanish aviso, a cutter-type vessel, was chasing them.

Longstaff grumbled. "Find out what they want and be quick about it."

If Fishhook were caught, this was exactly how Laurens would slow them down, but he had no choice. The Spanish aviso came alongside the ship, requesting a meeting.

Longstaff reluctantly gave the order to stop.

The messenger boarded and passed over a scroll. "Pirates have taken the islands of Providencia and Santa Catalina. Your Spanish allies humbly call for aid. Governor Sánchez is held up in his residence, and his wife and daughter are on Providencia in hiding."

Longstaff took the note. "Which pirates?"

"The one they call Silent Sam."

A bemusement formed on Longstaff's lips. "Sammy the fucking Seal? Tell Sánchez to fight back."

"Governor Sánchez is surrounded."

"Return to Santa Catalina and inform Governor Sánchez that HMS Relentless is coming to his aid. She'll be off his shores in a fortnight."

The messenger saluted. "Sí. Thank you, Captain Longstaff." He climbed back down and jumped to the deck of his ship. They untied and took off at top speed.

"Are we abandoning the hunt for the buccaneers?" Fox asked.

Longstaff passed a scroll. "This arrived from Port Royal this morning."

Fox read a note from Admiral Holland indicating that pirates had moved against the Spanish port of Santa Catalina. They were to deploy there to defend the islands and use it as a base to track buccaneers.

"I see Admiral Holland is well on top of things," Longstaff said.

Fox passed back the note. "Set sail for Santa Catalina?"

"Aye, pick up Fishhook and Mr. Cook and then take us to Santa Catalina." Longstaff extended his telescope to the blue horizon. "Laurens hides in plain sight, there's no point in chasing him. We'll wait to see what he does next, and Santa Catalina is as good a place as any."

Sérénité

Within the secluded island chains of Bocas del Toro sat a quaint sanctuary shielded by a bright green forest. La Roche stood upon Cymru's deck, marveling at the sight through his telescope. Men, women, and children were already building bungalows that mirrored the ones from Strangewayes's plantation, and Gladstone was overseeing the construction of the irrigation system. It was exactly as la Roche pictured it. The place he dreamt of where he could spend the rest of his life and raise a family. Only one thing was missing. This is our Sérénité, my Atia. I will bring you here to live with me or die trying.

La Roche scanned the beach, and he came across Yaguara with a spyglass aimed right back at him.

They both waved. La Roche had sent Yaguara to negotiate with the local tribes and secure an agreement. If the natives of the islands were going to allow them to stay, Yaguara could make it happen. And here, they both were.

"I gotta say, you couldn't have picked a better spot." Jones plucked a branch from the rigging and tossed it overboard. "I'm still bloody cleaning though!"

"You are the one who wanted to hide there," la Roche countered.

"Take us in and tie us off," Jones called to his men. "And unload the supplies straightaway, lads, I have a feeling these people want to celebrate tonight."

Once Cymru was tied off, la Roche was the first to disembark. He was met by a clapping crowd, and merriment commenced as the provisions were unloaded. He wandered across the beach, where Gladstone met him, and they shook hands.

"I never thought I'd see them happy again." Gladstone smiled. "Thank you, Capitaine, from all of us."

La Roche found his pre-rolled cigarettes and offered one.

"Sérénité." Gladstone lit one and took a puff. "My dear Carlena." He hesitated for a moment. "Do you think she's still alive?"

"We will soon find out, I promise." La Roche patted his shoulder. "Why don't you go join the fun?"

"I just can't, not without her."

"We are all missing someone tonight, are we not, Miles?" La Roche looked to Yaguara, who stood alone facing the sea, and Arsenault sat with his back to all of them.

A woman ran over from the point and called, "A ship!"

People gathered on the beach.

"Laurens is right on time," la Roche said.

Gladstone reached for a spyglass as a light blue schooner glided around the point and into the bay. Cometa's arrival was met with cheers.

Arsenault even joined them, his mouth ajar.

"I told you we would be on time." La Roche laughed.

The schooner anchored and deployed her boats.

"They have wounded," Arsenault said.

Yaguara checked through his spyglass. "Carlena!" He ran into the shallows to guide them in.

"What?" Gladstone's mouth gaped. His limp turned to a full on sprint to the landing boats, as Carlena was lifted on a stretcher. "Oh dear God, Carlena, my love!" He helped to carry her.

Word spread quickly of Carlena's arrival, and the residents came running, their faces grave.

"We did it, dear. We made it to Sérénité," Gladstone said.

Carlena gave a weak smile. "We did it."

"Come on." Gladstone led them up the beach. "Let's get ya comfortable."

Laurens came ashore with Henry V on one shoulder and Minuit on the other. "So much for my welcome."

La Roche whistled, and Minuit flew to him. He patted the parrot's head, and they had a pleasant conversation in French.

"Brilliant to see you too," Laurens griped, passing la Roche a note. "Here, he had this. Didn't know you and he were so close. Clever bird you have, Capitaine. He and Henry V recited Henry V in my cabin the entire way here. In a way, we all banded."

La Roche unrolled the note, his hands trembling. "My God, Atia!"

"We need someone who can get into Marshallsea prison and to Picard. The bird will go right back to her. We just have to find a way for her to get a message to Picard."

La Roche was silent for a moment. "Ekene."

"Who?"

"One of Strangewayes's people. He was captured and is imprisoned in Port Royal."

"Then we're as good as in. Port Royal will be ours." Laurens clapped his hands together and noticed the supply crates. "Got any rum on this rock?"

La Roche read Atia's note. A fragment of a red hair clung to the page, and he plucked it off and put it in his pocket. She had been released but to Coggshall's clutches, and for what purpose? He would plot his visit to Port Royal carefully and bring home the woman he loved.

Sixteen years ago, Gladstone had arrived at a plantation recently acquired by Dr. Sander Strangewayes in the Jamaican Blue Mountains. The property, previously occupied by the Spanish, was home to a large network of tunnels and hiding places. And the doctor soon discovered an elusive slave was living in them.

For months they would catch only glimpses of her. One day, Gladstone was in the stable repairing a wagon, when he accidentally cornered her. Carlena's stunning brown eyes challenged him through a veil of thick dark hair. Her beige linen dress was frayed and dirty. Upon the ground were flecks of blood leading to her bare feet.

"I can fix that, ya know. I'm skilled with me hands, and ya don't want it to get infected. You wouldn't be able to run nearly as fast with a wooden leg. I've seen people try," Gladstone said.

"You can fix it?" Carlena asked.

"I'm not exactly Leonardo de Vinci with a needle and thread, but I'll clean it and stitch it for ya." Gladstone fetched supplies from his wagon. When he returned, he knelt to inspect the cut. She winced as he cleaned it. "Sorry. This is the part when the Doc usually says, 'If it doesn't hurt, then I'm not doing it right.'" He readied a needle and thread and carefully stitched it. She gritted her teeth, cursing in Spanish. After he sprinkled sulfur and bound the wound in a ribbon of cotton, she stood, favoring the foot.

"Try to take it easy. No running for a while. Leaping and bounding is out of the question too. No climbing or dancing, either, just yet."

She gave him a look.

"You get the point." He gave a chipper laugh.

After that, he saw Carlena more often, and she even ventured to meet Dr. Strangewayes, who soon discovered that she had faked her own death in order to gain freedom. The doctor thought it was brilliant: As he said, "Why go through the hassle of being freed when you could legally be dead?" Carlena's determination and vast knowledge of the plantation inspired Strangewayes to start a slave smuggling operation.

Gladstone met Carlena regularly, and the more he got to know her, the more time he'd watch her when she wasn't looking. He helped with daily chores such as filling buckets with water from the well and harvesting fruit from the trees. He surprised her with bouquets of wildflowers, and she'd reward him with a smile that lit up her whole face.

One evening they took a stroll through the plantation to plan out where they would plant sugar cane, corn, and other crops. Gladstone finally gathered the courage to kiss her. Afterwards she grew distant and would offer no explanation. It was then that Gladstone took on more responsibilities back in Port Royal, where he helped with the apothecary trade.

His visits to the plantation waned, but he never gave up. On one of his visits he brought Carlena a pair of leather lace-up boots that suited plantation living. It was then she gave him the smile he missed and loved.

And now, they reached Sérénité. They had worked their whole lives for this moment. Gladstone draped Carlena in another blanket and cradled her on the sand. He massaged her cold arms and rocked her gently. "You're gonna get better real soon. We did it, just like you always dreamed. We made it, Carlena."

"I never doubted us."

"You're my partner in this, remember? I'll never leave you again. Now you gotta make me the same promise," Gladstone said.

She gave a thin smile. "I caught you from the start, my big fish."

"You did." He smiled and indicated to the residents who lined up down the beach. One by one, each placed a flower at her feet and kissed her forehead. Lastly, Yaguara placed a shell necklace over her head and bowed, tears streaming down his face. He wandered off alone down the beach.

Behind Gladstone and Carlena, torches flickered, and someone plucked a lute. Sunset arrived on Sérénité, and its bay ignited with orange and purple reflections within the foamy tide. Bushes of white jasmine released an invigorating perfume, while their wing-like petals flickered in the breeze.

Gladstone caressed Carlena's face. "A beautiful place, this." Her eyes half opened to watch the magnificence before them. "A place we can call home."

Carlena reached for his face and gave him a soothing smile. Her molasses hair glowed red as the sun grew stronger. His grip on her tightened, and her eyelids drooped.

"This is Sérénité," Carlena whispered as the current rolled tranquilly over the shore.

"That it is, my love." Gladstone's tears wetted her face as she slipped away. He cradled her body and stared at the bay. Carlena's Bay.

About the Authors

MJL EVANS wanted to be a writer since she was ten years old and in 2014 she finally got her act together and pursued her dream. She is author of No Quarter: Dominium and No Quarter: Wenches. A huge fan of Monty Python, Red Dwarf, and other BBC shows, her time is devoted to acrylic, oil and watercolor painting, catering to her two senior cats and of course, writing.

You can connect with MJL Evans on Twitter at @artistmjlevans or noquarterseries@gmail.com

GM O'CONNOR is a huge movie fan, writer and visual artist. A lover of sci-fi and history, half his brain lives in the 17th century while the other half sails perpetually through space. He is the author of No Quarter: Dominium and No Quarter: Wenches. He hopes to one day bring the No Quarter Series to film and/or graphic novel format.

You can connect with GM O'Connor on Twitter at @gm_oconnor or noquarterseries@gmail.com

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To Be Continued

No Quarter - Wenches Volume 2

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