Chapter 12
Hawke had both hands on the ship’s wheel as he navigated into the familiar waters of the windward passage. From the crow’s nest, Li Chen had spotted land the day before, and Hawke had adjusted course, following the northern shore of Hispaniola.
At last, in the northwest, he sighted a rocky hump rising from the morning mist. The island was rounded with patches of green, its shape like a turtle shell. They had reached Tortuga.
The crew gathered on the deck, watching at the rail as they neared.
After weeks at sea, their anticipation of a break in routine was palpable.
A feeling Hawke understood completely. He still felt the excitement of arriving at a new place.
Seeing new sights, learning new customs, meeting new people, wondering what adventures awaited.
Unfortunately, he knew all too well that the experiences Tortuga had to offer involved too much rum, ribald shanties, and uninhibited revelry only to wake with hazy recollections of how he’d ended up lying in a pigpen with a black eye, a splintered table leg, and missing trousers. Fond memories, all.
The harbor of Basse-Terre was three leagues from Hispaniola’s shores and protected by reefs, though Hawke could navigate them with his eyes closed.
As Calypso’s Quest entered, Hawke scanned the harbor, but he didn’t recognize any of the vessels in port. A part of him had wondered if he might encounter The Cormorant. He frowned, disappointed that she wasn’t there, bobbing among the others. Where had that blackguard Wilkes taken her?
A French fort sat atop the north hillside overlooking the harbor, and beneath was the town, rising up on terraces.
It was here that the “Brethren of the Coast”—a fraternity of buccaneers who adhered to strict articles that they were sworn by oath to honor—was created.
The Pirate Code had governed these seas for decades, establishing rules for discipline, distribution of captured treasure, and injury compensation.
The Code was what distinguished pirates from common criminals, and in Hawke’s eyes at least, gave the profession a modicum of honor.
Once Hawke was satisfied with the ship’s position, he gave the order to drop anchor. A breeze blew, bringing smells of vegetation and cooking fires. Birdcalls and voices from the other vessels sounded, and Hawke could feel the crew’s restlessness as their time to go ashore neared.
Grieg supervised as the small boats and rope ladders were lowered, and Shadbolt had already assigned rotating watches to remain with the ship. He was giving assignments to the unlucky men with the first guard duty while others prepared to disembark.
Hawke started toward the rail, eager as any to go ashore, but he stopped when he saw Lady Annabelle step out onto the deck, buckling her sword belt.
She wore a straw hat and a simple blue dress, one which had likely belonged to her maid. The tight bodice highlighted her curves and small waist, lace around the neckline skimmed her collarbones and, when she walked, the skirts swished around her hips.
Hawke changed direction to intercept her. “Absolutely not.”
“I beg your pardon?” She looked as if she was not sure whether to be confused or angry at his interference.
“You are not going ashore,” he said. “Especially not dressed like . . .” He flipped his hand up and down. “Like that.”
“What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?” She held out her skirts, looking them over as if searching for a tear or a stain.
It is far too fetching. That’s what’s wrong with it. The color emphasizes the blue of your eyes, and your entire neck is exposed.
Hawke kept his gaze firmly on her face. “Tortuga is filled with cutthroats and violent criminals of the most depraved nature. It is not a place where women want to draw attention to themselves.” He crossed his arms, shaking his head.
“It is certainly not a place for a young lady.” She could start a brawl on the island with merely a glance at the wrong person or a toss of her curls.
Lady Annabelle scoffed. She pulled on a pair of white gloves and started around him. “You cannot simply order me to remain aboard.”
Hawke caught her elbow. “That is precisely what I am doing.”
“I have just as much right to go ashore as any of the crew.” Lady Annabelle pulled away her arm. “And besides, I know for a fact there are plenty of well-respected women—wives and daughters of wealthy planters and merchants—living in Tortuga.”
“They do not live in Basse-Terre,” he said, glancing up at the terraced town. “My lady, I insist—”
“We are going to purchase merchandise from a woman’s shop.” She cut off his words. “Something with which I have more experience than anyone aboard. We do not have the luxury of time in this case. You need me.” She narrowed her eyes. “And you cannot stop me.”
Shadbolt glanced at Hawke.
Grieg let out a low whistle.
Hawke sighed. Short of locking her in the brig, she was right. He couldn’t stop her. And she did have a point. Madame Dauphiné may very well prefer to do business with another woman. Hawke gritted his teeth. “Fine. But you must stay with me—right next to me—the entire time. Do you understand?”
Her response was an exasperated look, eyelids at half-mast. “I am not a child, Mr. Hawke. And you are not my nursemaid.”
“Captain Hawke,” he muttered as he watched Shadbolt assist her over the rail to descend the ladder. No one with eyes in his head would mistake Lady Annabelle for a child.
And that was precisely the problem.
Twenty minutes later, Hawke, Annabelle, Shadbolt, and Greig stepped out of the small boat. The healer’s shop was on the other side of the town, which frustrated Hawke. If not for the mangroves and rocky cliffs, he’d have preferred going around rather than through Basse-Terre.
The town’s main street was lined with taverns, shops, gambling dens, and warehouses.
All of them dilapidated. Glaring faces peered out from darkened doorways and alleys.
Clusters of men gathered on street corners, making hushed deals and watching with murderous eyes as the group passed.
Buccaneers who’d spent all their coin on drink and gambling begged with desperate eyes.
Others lay motionless and were kicked out of the path when they became an obstacle.
Within a few days, the heat would reveal whether they were simply unconscious or dead.
Hawke and the other men kept their hands on their weapons, seeing danger in every movement, in every shadow.
Lady Annabelle, on the other hand, appeared completely delighted with the town. She stopped to see a pet monkey on a string, giving its keeper a coin and laughing when the animal climbed up onto her shoulder.
Hawke grimaced, hoping the creature didn’t carry fleas.
She purchased pastries for the four of them, happily eating the sweet treat as she chatted with a vendor with cages of colorful birds.
Hawke tamped down his frustration. He stepped up beside her, inclining his head to the bird seller. “We should continue.” He pressed his hand on the small of her back as they walked, his eyes scanning for quick movement or the glint of a weapon.
The smell of opium smoke drifted through the boarded-up windows of a deserted-looking building.
Men’s and women’s coarse laughter rose over the sound of fiddle music.
Somewhere, glass shattered. But it was the eyes following Lady Annabelle from every direction that kept Hawke on edge.
He wished he’d forced her to change into her breeches, although he didn’t think it would deter their notice.
Lady Annabelle would turn heads no matter her attire.
He glanced to the side to where her ladyship was smiling at the women leaning out of a window above a tavern. “Such brightly colored dresses,” she said before her attention was caught by a butcher’s window display.
Hearing her, Grieg glanced back, brow raised.
Hawke rubbed his forehead and prayed her ladyship couldn’t hear what the women yelled to the men on the street below.
They continued, Hawke stopping every few moments while Lady Annabelle peered into a shop or a vendor’s cart.
Shadbolt and Grieg drew farther ahead.
Hawke looked behind to ensure they were not being followed. When he turned back, he stopped, pulling his tricorn low to hide his face.
Eugene Crandall, the owner of a gambling hall, was walking in their direction, accompanied by his daughter, Pearl.
Hawke glanced around for an escape. If he had to wager—which was the reason for his problems in the first place—he would say Eugene didn’t hold him responsible for the brawl that broke every bit of glass in his establishment as well as most of the furniture.
His daughter, however, was a different story. Pearl certainly held a grudge.
Hawke tugged Lady Annabelle’s arm, pulling her down a side alley and out of sight.
The alley led behind a row of houses that were under repair.
Wooden scaffolding supported the wall of one the buildings, blocking nearly the entire lane.
Ladders leaned against it, and ropes attached to pulleys hung from the upper levels to raise up tools and bricks.
They would have to walk through it. “This way,” he said.
“But the others . . .” Lady Annabelle pulled away her arm and glanced back down the alley. “Shadbolt and Grieg—”
“We will meet up with them. Make haste.” Hawke continued beneath the shadow of the scaffolding, walking with quick steps as he ducked beneath ropes, dodged around the supporting posts, and stepped over a pile of bricks to emerge on the other side.
A muffled sound came from behind him, and he looked back, his heart plummeting when he saw Lady Annabelle wasn’t there.
Hawke cursed and rushed back between the posts, the sound of men’s laughter driving him forward. There were three of them.
Lady Annabelle drew her sword, brandishing it at the men. “Halt!” she called out in a voice that held only the slightest tremble. “Keep your distance!”