The Way of the Pirate: Gold for Blood
The Way of the Pirate: Gold for Blood
Another episode from the life's tale of Jaquard du Sang
Commissioned by LeChevalier
By Gideon Kalve Jarvis
The amirante settled into his chair in his personal quarters, the arch-inquisitor having settled into his own, and smiled at the red-robed cleric.
"Wine, padre?" the commodore of the Flota de Indias offered, holding out the bottle. "Your own private stock, I believe. And so kind of you to share it with myself and my officers. They are sure to give you their thanks."
"I fear I must decline," said the padre, holding up a single gloved hand, his face obscured from the sharp eyes of the Spanish civet cat whose chambers the arch-inquisitor had been invited into for their dinner, now that they were finally under way and the chaos of departure was past. "I am grateful that you have given me this time alone with you after dinner, but I am afraid that this is not merely a social call. I am come to warn you of a terrible, mad plot."
"A plot?" the feline commodore said, his eyes wide in shock at such information from the man of God. "What can you be saying?"
"A band of desperate buccaneers has taken it into their heads to raid the dear Atocha, the very treasure ship upon which we now reside," the red-robed padre continued, his voice grave with the dread tidings of his news. "They intend to board and then to steal off in the night while this treasure-laden ship lingers at the rear of its armed escort, and is at its most vulnerable."
"Preposterous!" scoffed the commodore, leaning back in his chair, taking a long drink of his blood red wine. "This is the mighty Tierra Firme fleet, of the even more mighty Spanish Empire. What fool would dare such a wild and mad scheme to plunder the silver of the king? Not a one could have managed it, either, for I ordered the departure from port in a fraction of the former time expected. There is simply no time for any fool pirate to have pulled such a plot together, let alone pulled it off." The civet shrugged dismissively. "Of course I was forced to leave some of the delayed warships behind in the process, but that is their fault for not being on time to our rendezvous at La Havana."
"Nevertheless I tell you that it is true," said the cowled arch-inquisitor, with the same tones of dire portent that had surely sounded the doom of many a sinner in the dungeons of the terrible Spanish Inquisition. "You, and more importantly the silver meant for the royal coffers, is in the most dire of danger."
"Come," said the commodore with a laugh, rising to his feet as he paced the room, taking out a Cuban cigar, offering it to the padre, and then cutting its ends when it was politely refused by a gesture. "You seem to know much about such dark deeds for a man of God. Perhaps I would be more inclined to believe you if you could tell me how you came by such a wild and silly fable."
"As you wish it," said the heavy-cloaked arch-inquisitor with a nod of his hooded head. "I shall share with you the whole tale in the time that we have remaining. Hopefully it shall convince you of the seriousness of the threat from these desperate men."
*
"A simple plot," said the muscular hyena woman, looking the map spread out on the table before the conspirators over one more time before she nodded in approval. "But effective. I think it will work, Jaquard. But I feel I must add that you are indeed crazy like a fox."
Fary Diouf, the sleek-muscled black leopard, a slave Jaquard had freed from his bonds, nodded his agreement with Oona, adding an affirmative grunt as well. Fary didn't say much, but when he did speak, his words held weight.
"It's a wonderful plan," said Mallory, the soft Irish brogue of her speech tempered somewhat by her years among the Brotherhood, keeping it from being as extreme as it had been when she was a mere girl. The red-furred cat's eyes shone, eagerly hoping for the approval of the tall, handsome fox at the end of the table around whom the many hardy souls who would serve him in this enterprise were gathered. "Wonderful body as well," she added in an undertone, looking their tautly-muscled captain over with approval. Jaquard's body was indeed quite handsome, strong and muscular, almost classically statuesque in the Greek style, and visibly displayed before the assembled crew, for he wore nothing but his captain's overcoat at that time. He had been making use of the brothel's other private rooms for recreation before he settled into this one for sake of business.
"Thank you," Jaquard said in his clear, commanding tenor voice to the table as a whole, leaving poor Mallory's face to drop slightly in disappointment that she had not gained the fox's sole attentions. "For such a scheme, I will need all of your support. But united we will conquer, and come off with riches few have even dreamed of."
The plan was indeed simple. As the pirates plotted in the back room of the bar and brothel La Puta Merdosa, away from all the many prying eyes that might seek to catch them unawares for sake of Spanish coin, Jaquard's flagship, the Venom, lay at anchor in the harbor, disguised as a mere Catalan merchant vessel. And only a short distance from the terrible Venom lay the Atocha, the prize and glory of the Spanish silver fleet, the Flota de Indias, heavily laden with taxes from Peru, and the spoils of the silver mines of Mexico and Potosi. As Jaquard was going over his plans one last time for his crew, at that moment more of his men were infiltrating the crew of the Atocha, letting themselves aboard, and preparing to wreak terrible sabotage in that vulnerable time when the ship was waiting for its armed escort to guide it back into the safe ports of Spain and its treasure into the greedy clutches of the Spanish emperor. Naturally Jaquard and his crew felt that their own greed was of greater importance, and before long, as soon as Jaquard and the rest of his crew received word that the coast was clear, they would join in the general plunder of the silver ship before it even left harbor, then make off in the night before anyone was the wiser. What could be simpler? But very few things are so simple, especially not when there is the promise of such a great treasure. These are the tests that challenge the hearts of the bold, and prove the wits of the clever.
"Captain!" exclaimed Ned Ferrum as he burst into the back room, the wild-eyed ferret forgetting to use the secret knock, and just barely avoiding being skewered by Carmen, the sultry black rat, and Jacques Crochet, the one-armed canine quartermaster, who were standing on watch near the door, ready for the first word from the returning infiltrators. "Captain, the jig is up! The fleet's not gonna wait for those warships after all like we planned. The ships're gonna sail in three days time! What do we do, Captain?"
Three days? The sinking sensation of this revelation spread to all the crew gathered there, glances passing here and there, before all eyes started to look down. Three days was nothing for what they intended to do, nowhere near the time that Jaquard's infiltration plans required, in their slow, calculating manner. But before despair set in, the sickening feeling of a fabulous dream dashed on the rocks of cruel reality, Mallory looked to Jaquard with hope shining in her bright, beautiful green eyes.
"But surely you've got a plan for this, Jaquard?" she said, and at her words, all eyes lifted once more, turning to look at the well-dressed red fox, his eyes smoldering with inner fires as he seemed caught up, not with despair and hopelessness, but with deep thought as he looked over the map before him on the table with its many scraps of attached notepaper, stuck with knives at the sides.
Jaquard seemed to ignore the many eyes on him as he considered the quandary before him, letting his mind explore all the possibilities. The room was utterly still, few of those gathered even daring to breathe for fear that it might disrupt the concentration of the captain of the Venom. Their captain, with his mad and ingenious plans. And then, suddenly, Jaquard du Sang's head rose, and he smiled at his crew, the expression as much of a relief as wind to becalmed sails.
"It is little matter, this little foible of Fate," the high, clear tones of the captain's commanding tenor spoke, the words soothing to the souls of the damned men and women in that room. "I have a plan once more." His finger rested on a neatly-penned letter given to him before his departure for the planning session by ship's docteur, Guillaume. "It seems that a way has opened for us once more."
*
Docteur Guillaume, as might be expected of a rabbit, was not a violent man by disposition. But more than the timidity expected of a rabbit, in truth he was brave in his own way, a pacifist who would not raise one of his surgical blades to save his own life, so devoted to his convictions was he. But he was saved from capture by the English by the crew to which Captain du Sang had belonged, when he'd sailed under Michel de Grammont, and his loyalties stayed firm with Jaquard, even as he traveled with the bloodstained pirates, keeping them as healthy as he could. Despite his kindness, and the gentleness for which he was known, there was a dark spot in Docteur Guillaume's past, something that he didn't like to talk about, even to his closest friends among the pirates. It involved the man, Father Delpena, the arch-inquisitor of the Spanish Inquisition. The man that was even then in La Havana, cast off from his homeland in his old age, his weight of cruel sins against humanity too great even for the Spanish crown to bear any longer. This wicked bloodhound fanatic of the faith had been sent to La Havana to die in obscurity.
Or so those who had sent him to this backwater in the New World thought. The old bloodhound might have lacked a tooth in his head, but arch-inquisitor Delpena had many teeth that others thought not of. The keenest of these teeth was his still-sharp mind, ever eager to grasp at opportunity. And opportunity had come, in the form of a message from one of La Havana's grandes, come to warn Delpena of a complot against the crown. The grande, so far from contacts in the homeland, would never be listened to should he try to spread word of this terrible conspiracy on his own. But with the weight of Father Delpena's words to back him, surely he would be able to save the king from danger. Delpena's thoughts, on the other hand, were quite different from those expressed by the letter of the anxious young grande. He fully intended to take this information offered by the grande so as to save the king of Spain. But rather than share the glory, he would have it all to himself. With such a feather in his cap as this, not even the weight of the past could keep him from returning, triumphant, to Spain, there to receive the homage that was due to him in his station. There to wreak bloody vengeance on all those that he had grown to hate over his too-many years of life.
Pleasant visions of the weeping of widows and the cries of orphans as he exerted his wicked desires on the great many of his enemies, and then on their families filing his head - for who was innocent in this world of sin? - arch-inquisitor Delpena walked towards the docks, a tall Spanish stallion walking by his side, the captain of the priest's personal guard. The white stallion was a fearsome fighter, faster with his blade than anyone of his immense stature had a right to be. And the wolves that followed behind, a good half-dozen in all, were hardly less skilled than their captain. These seven cruel warriors for the Inquisition, each dressed in the robes of their office, armor and weapons hidden beneath, had joined Delpena's cause only a few scant years before his unofficial exile, but even in that time they had struck fear into the hearts of all who saw them. They were the agents of the Inquisition, the hands and teeth that replaced the feeble hands and empty jaws of the arch-inquisitor. It was only right that they follow him to La Havana, their departure enough to let them sink into the dark tales that mothers told to frighten their children. At the rear of the little entourage was a hoary grey fox, the arch-inquisitor's secretary, and silent witness to his many crimes against humanity through a great many years, papers that would ensure the arch-inquisitor a place on any Spanish ship of his choosing. The grande, young fool that he was, had said to meet him on his barge at the docks, there to achieve the best possible secrecy, and it was only a brief time before wooden planks clattered under the feet of the spry old bloodhound of the Inquisition. All the easier to dispose of the bodies, and from there to approach the nearest ship headed for Spain.
"Sir?" called a voice, young and beautiful in its tones, with an air of command underlying its masculine sweetness. "You are the arch-inquisitor?"
Delpena's head turned, and the wrinkled old bloodhound smiled in a way that was ghastly to behold. Before him was a young man, not more than in his twenties, a muscular red fox, almost tall and broad-shouldered enough to be a wolf, with a mass of black curls pulled back into a horsetail, tied with a strand of silk. He was alone on the edge of the docks, his only protection a pistol on one hip, a sword on the other. This fool grande was a nothing compared to the seven seasoned fighting men flanking the wicked cleric.
"I am, my son," said the priest, drawing closer to the young fox, holding out his hand, smiling a bit wider as the grande bent and kissed his ring. "Now, you had word of a complot? Some terrible conspiracy against the crown?"
"Yes, padre," the young man affirmed with the boldness and trust of youth, holding out a rolled up paper to the cleric, who greedily clutched the proffered scroll. "It is a terrible conspiracy indeed. Someone intends to rob the Atocha of her riches!"
"A terrible thing indeed," said Delpena, motioning slightly towards his entourage, the white stallion stepping to his side while the six wolves carefully surrounded the young man on the docks, subtly drawing their blades as they kept him with his back to the water, their robed figures making an eerie sight in the darkness of the overcast night, the only light that of a few stray stars and the boat lanterns hanging from the pier's pylons. "A secret that would surely mean the fame and renown of whoever brought it to the king's attention. Shame that you will not be that person."
"What treachery is this?" demanded the fox, his hand going to his own blade, the metal ringing with a sweet, pure note as it departed from its sheath and rose to the ready.
The cleric gave the fox a cruel smile.
"I do not like to share my treasures, my son," he explained, before lifting his hand, ready to give the last order of death, his other hand unrolling the scroll to read it.
He never got the chance. In a heartbeat the fox had whipped out his pistol, a single ball flying with unerring accuracy straight into the chest of the vile old priest, sending him toppling to the planks of the docks, still clutching the blank scroll in his hand. And suddenly the wolves had to scatter as a prodigious figure swinging an anchor came barreling into them from the dark, bellowing a war cry. One of the wolves managed a half-whimper that was quickly cut off as the anchor caught him full in the chest, the shaggy boar swinging it soon giving the young fox some breathing room, letting him step forward with blade at the ready. The white stallion gave his own cry of war, and charged straight at the advancing fox, blade extended for the clash of contact, steel on steel, strength against strength.
The huge bulk of Torrek, Jaquard's porcine boatswain, was slow in turning about after his charge, and he might have had his naked back leapt upon by the remaining five wolves, if the fray were not suddenly joined by others. A flash of a dagger flying through the air was all the warning that the black rat, Carmen, gave, before another of the wolves fell dead to the planks of the docks. Crochet was there as well, his hook-hand catching the blade of a wolf before his own sword gutted his opponent like a fish. The three remaining wolves tried to form up, to mount some sort of defense, but were driven apart as a prodigious bull terrier plowed his shoulder into the gut of the middlemost of them, sending him reeling back into the blade of the peg-legged Jean Dunois, who cut him down with ease. Separated now by the massive dog, the two last wolves fell easily as Oona and Fary stepped into battle, Oona impaling one on a whaler's harpoon, while Fary used his claws to tear out the throat of the last. The entire battle with the wolves had lasted all of one minute, forty seconds.
Not far from the pitched battle, Jaquard crossed blades with the taller, more muscular white stallion, a helmet and breastplate beneath his inquisitor's robes giving the equine an added edge lacked by the unarmored pirate captain. And he knew how to use his armor well, his blade helping to turn the red fox's strikes so that they bounced harmlessly off the curves of the breastplate, rather than caught on more vital points. Jaquard was impressively strong, the equal of the mythical Theseus for contests of strength and skill. But the stallion was a Hercules to Jaquard's Theseus, long schooled in the arts of ruthless brutality as the arch-inquisitor's personal guard, and filled with the special kind of self-righteous fury that comes only in the truly wicked.
"You cannot win, sinner," the stallion declared, pressing the attack, driving Jaquard back. "The advantage is mine, and God is with me!"
"No," said Jaquard with a knowing smile, the stallion suddenly stopping in his tracks, a look of supreme shock on his face. "If the advantage had been yours, I would never have fought. And there is no God."
The report of the little hand pistol Jaquard had palmed sounded a moment later, before the white stallion fell back onto the docks, stone dead, the bullet having gone straight up through his neck, piercing his brain.
In the midst of this chaos of bloodshed, the secretary tried to flee, screaming like a woman. He would likely have taken the desperately-needed papers of passage with him, but for the intervention of Mallory, the red cat dropping from a high piling of the dock right on top of the fox, her knife piercing the back of his neck and then driving up into his skull, finishing him almost instantly.
As the fight came to a close, the creak and splash of oars came from the edge of the docks, and before too long a tall, stoic-faced German Weimaraner ascended to the dock by a ladder, puffing casually on his pipe as he surveyed the scene of melee. A short while after him, a burly rat clambered up as well, the heavily-muscled male saluting as Jaquard drew near, blowing on his pistol to cool it before tucking it away, taking the papers that Mallory held out to him as he passed her with a casual air.
"Good to see you've been having your fun, captain," said Wilhem between gentle puffs. "Vic and his group have been successful. We're ready to head towards the Atocha when you're ready. Though why I had to bring so many barrels along for this plan of yours..."
"Yes sir!" said Vic, the brawling rat, with a grin as Jaquard turned his attention to the rat, ignoring the light grousing by the calm Weimaraner. "Those boats are drilled full of holes, just like you ordered. There's no way those galleons'll be any good to anybody when they try to put on speed. They're just short of foundering as it is, not that anybody's likely to notice until it's far past too late."
"Excellent," said Jaquard, turning towards the bodies littering the ground. He knelt by the side of the arch-inquisitor, his eyebrows raising as he saw that the old bloodhound was still alive.
"Adjútorium nostrum in nómine Dómini," the wicked old priest was forcing out through the blood bubbling up from his lips. "Qui fecit caelum et terram, ne reminiscáris, Domine, delicta..."
"If there is a God, and He is just," said Jaquard, bending to calmly cut the throat of the dying cleric, "then He will most surely remember your sins, padre, and send you swiftly to Hell."
These were the last words heard by arch-inquisitor Delpana on Earth.
*
"What?" said the amarante with an incredulous look on his face. "You mean to tell me that you, arch-inquisitor, died at the hands of a rabble of pirates dead set on taking this ship, the fastest in the Spanish fleet, laden with its greatest treasures, and already two days travel from port, for their own? It is just as well you didn't share this with the other officers at dinner. They would surely have laughed you to scorn, for as we could all see, you are here, alive and well."
"Ah, but the arch-inquisitor surely did die," said the hooded, red-robed figure. "And those who took the place of him and his men in their heavy robes surely did heavily drug his stores of wine, which you and your officers were so greedy to enjoy over the course of the two nights of dining that we have spent at sea. And they have almost certainly finished their tasks by now, of wetting down your signal flares with water, spoiling your cannons with native glue, all hidden in their robes." As the civet's eyes grew steadily wider with mounting, horrified realization, there was a knock at the door before it opened, to reveal the red fox who was the arch-inquisitor's secretary.
"All as planned, captain?" said the hooded arch-inquisitor, his voice now very different from the one that the amarante had grown accustomed to over the past two days and nights.
"The job is finished, Jean," the secretary affirmed with a nod, then turned to smile at the amarante, who was too astonished by this to even speak. "And now, good commodore, let us discuss where you have hidden your silver."
An instant later, just as the amarante was starting forward, scrabbling for his sword despite feeling the sensations of the drug in the wine slowing his reactions, there was the sound of heavy grapnels and boarding hooks clicking into place on the gunwale of the Atocha, followed moments later by the cries of battle being joined. The ship was boarded!
Stepping to the side as the flabbergasted civet stumbled past, his eyes wide with shock and horror as he watched his crew put to the sword, the amarante turned his gaze out towards the fighting galleons who were his escorts. But they were turning slowly - too slow! - to be of any use, just as might be expected of ships that had their bottoms drilled full of holes. Then, as though by magic, the dark sea around them was lit up with the lanterns of a fleet of sloops and schooners, with a single large frigate at their head. The cries of the dying among his crew filled the amarante with despair as he saw his protector ships, outnumbered and in no condition to mount a running battle at sea, turning away, back towards port, soon disappearing over the horizon along with the last of his hopes.
The Spanish civet slumped forward at the gunwale, his arms resting on the wood as he stared at the approaching lights of the pirate fleet that had bested the most powerful and well-protected treasure fleet of the Spanish Armada. How could they have gotten so many ships in so short a time? How was such an upset possible? But then the amarante's eyes adjusted as the "fleet" drew nearer, and he realized, to his horror and shame, that where there had appeared to be a host of ships, there was actually only a single fishing barge and a host of barrels bobbing in the water, lights flickering all over them to create the illusion in the darkness of a massive surprise attack. His shoulders slumped at the humiliation of one who has been utterly outsmarted. And as the strong hand of Jaquard hauled him back, slamming him against the side of the captain's quarters, he didn't even resist.
"You've hidden your treasure on this ship well, commodore," said Jaquard, raising a pistol from his belt. "I could simply take this ship apart, but that would only mean more of a load for my Venom. I would much rather have your little Atocha bear my burdens, and save my flagship for defense. I have three pistols on me," he motioned to his belt, where two more pistols hung at the ready. "Only one of them is still loaded. The other two were spent blowing out the brains of your officers who refused the kind hospitality of the arch-inquisitor's wine. Which is which, I am hardly certain any longer. Now, you will tell me quickly where your silver is hidden, or I fear I may blow your brains out."
The civet looked wearily beyond the vulpine captain to where the "arch-inquisitor" was even then shedding his red robes, revealing a peg-legged canine pirate who soon took to leaning casually against the side of the captain's quarters, only a short distance away, grinning at the overwhelmed amarante like a dog that's stolen its neighbors bone. He turned his head back into the barrel of Jaquard's gun, his mouth parting.
"Bam!" yelled Jaquard as he snapped the empty pistol, then tossed it to the waiting hands of Jean Dunois, the former arch-impersonator. "You are a very lucky man, mon commodore." With a smooth motion, Jaquard drew another pistol from his belt, leveling it at the civet's temples. "Perhaps too lucky for your own good? Let us find out."
"I...I don't know where the treasure is," the amarante got out, his eyes darting this way and that.
"Lies and blasted lies, mon commodore," Jaquard said teasingly, his voice almost an intimate caress, before he squeezed the trigger. "Bam! Ah, another blank! Such a lucky one you are, mon commodore. But perhaps it is bad luck, hmm? After all, had this been loaded," he tossed the gun to the one-legged Jean with a cheery air, drawing his last pistol, "then you would surely have been in heaven by now. That is, after all, where all good little officers belong."
The civet shivered, his blood feeling like ice in his veins as the third pistol's barrel touched his temple ever-so-lightly.
"I think your luck has run out, mon commodore," said Jaquard du Sang, his eyes flashing with a dark inner fire as he looked into the civet's eyes, and through them, straight into the feline's very soul. He cocked the pistol. "Bad or good, it matters little now. Prepare to meet God."
"Wait!" the overwrought man got out in desperation, halting the slow squeeze of the trigger just before the point of no return. "It's...it's in the hold. It's a double bottom. The silver is the ballast of this ship, hidden below the boards of the cargo holds."
"Very clever," said Jaquard in approval. "Perhaps too clever. I would surely be a fool to leave a clever man like you alive, don't you agree?"
The civet's eyes squeezed tightly shut as the report of the pistol rang loudly in his ears, and he waited for darkness to claim him. A darkness, it turned out, that never came, despite many long minutes of waiting. After some time, the amarante opened his eyes, only to watch as Jaquard blew on his pistol to cool it, then tucked it into his belt.
"That was just to let you know," the red fox said with a smile, pulling the civet away from the wall and pushing him into the waiting arms of the other pirates, who were even then taking the prisoners below, "that in close games like this, I do not bluff. You may spread that word around as you please, wherever we let you and your crew off."
So saying, Jaquard turned to Jean, giving the canid a salute before he began to walk towards the Venom.
"I leave her in your capable hands, my friend," the captain called out to the one-legged pirate. "From the spoils of this night, we are all rich as kings."
"And a king is poor as a pauper," laughed Jean in turn, before gripping the wheel, making ready to bring the ship about, taking them to safety, fame and fortune swelling the hold below.