CHAPTER FOUR
McVie returned within the hour, accompanied by Don Fernando de Pérez y Téllez, of Pérez and Company, traders, shipowners, and principal agents for the brothers Markham in Puerto Rico and other Spanish dominions. Pérez came up the side of the ship nimbly, with practiced ease, took Malachi’s hand, and pressed it. He was a very tall man, about six and a half feet, with fair hair powdered white, smiling blue eyes in a sunburned face, and the middle two fingers of his left hand grown together, apparently from birth. He habitually kept his deformed hand thrust between two buttons of his waistcoat, which was tailored to close right over left for the purpose. As if his great height was an embarrassment, he was inclined to stoop and wore a perpetual apologetic smile. These self-effacing gestures were belied his class and name, “de Pérez” instead of plain “Pérez,” an aristocratic affectation designed to mark him as a man of knightly class, and not someone whose name merely meant “Son of Pedro.”
“Captain Markham,” he said, smiling. “Welcome to Puerto Rico. You seem in good health?”
“I am, thank you,” said Malachi in his far from elegant Spanish. “You seem well and prosperous yourself, my friend.”
“Appearances are not all,” Pérez said. “You have captured prizes?” Malachi grinned at Pérez’s non sequitur, and at the self-evident answer to his rhetorical question.
“Fifteen prizes, sir,” he said. Pérez looked solemn.
“Fifteen prizes at once will be difficult for His Excellency the Captain-General to overlook,” he said. “He will have to issue a statement of policy on the matter. One or two prizes disposed of at a time would have been easier. As it is, the British consul is certain to protest.”
“That is why I came to you, Don Fernando,” Malachi said. “It is well known that you are not without influence.”
“My influence is much exaggerated,” said Pérez with a shrug of his stooped shoulders. “But nevertheless it is true that the Captain-General, Don Joaquin Fernández de Zubillaga, is married to my younger sister, and my brother is advisor to His Majesty the King. It is clear that His Catholic Majesty would be happy to support the American rebellion; but it is equally clear that he would wish to do so discreetly. Fifteen prizes is not discreet, and, as you know, the Captain-General is not the only royal official to have a say in the matter.”
“The Intendant?” Malachi asked. “How could he affect the situation?”
“As you know, the Captain-General is given almost unlimited authority over matters civilian and military,” Pérez said. “But the Intendant is given control of the purse and can refuse to support any of the Captain-General’s actions by cutting off funds. The Intendant is responsible only to His Catholic Majesty, as is the Captain-General; any disagreements between them can only be resolved by applying to His Catholic Majesty for an edict. The edicts covering such disputes currently fill one hundred and fifty volumes.” He coughed discreetly. “The Intendant could refuse funds for the purchase of any of your prizes for use in His Catholic Majesty’s navy, or any of the stores.”
“Aye, that could slow our headway,” Malachi said. “But it couldn’t stop us from selling to private individuals; the Intendant would have little to say about it.”
“I’m afraid it may,” said Pérez apologetically. “You see, the Intendant presides over the Prize Court— it is out of the jurisdiction of the Captain-General altogether. Don Mateo Carbonel de Leone, the Intendant, will entirely decide your case.”
“D’ye think a bribe might be in order?” Malachi asked.
“Don Mateo, I’m afraid, is incorruptible,” said Pérez. “It may be said, however, that he is amenable to certain kinds of influence.”
“I see,” said Malachi. He had dealt with Pérez before and knew his practices. Every conceivable obstacle would be set forth, and Malachi would be made to feel as if he was being driven onto foam-girded, uncharted reefs, his anchors dragging, his canvas split, and his crew mutinous; but then Pérez would appear, like a fabled magician, and the reefs would suddenly roll back, the waves abate, new canvas would be set aloft by cheerful hands, and Malachi would be in Pérez’s debt forever— or so Pérez would make it seem.
“It is fortunate for us,” Pérez said, laying a comforting hand upon Malachi’s shoulder, “that Don Mateo Carbonel de Leone is, like the rest of us, human, and quite fallible. He banked heavily upon certain commercial ventures, ventures which failed. His plantations have been the victims of slave revolts, and the crops that he counted heavily upon have failed. Carbonel would have been bankrupt long ago and forced to resign in disgrace, had his debts not been covered by Pérez and Company.”
“Christ!” said Malachi. “Do you mean to say that you have both the Captain-General and the Intendant under your thumb?”
Pérez held up a cautioning finger. “Do not bank too heavily upon this, my friend,” he warned. “Eventually His Majesty will be forced to rule on this matter, and he must rule against you or be prepared to go to war. In the meantime you must break no laws, or every piece of property they can trace to you will be confiscated. I will not be able to protect you; the laws here are harsh and justice is certain, and however much the Captain-General and the Intendant are beholden to us, they cannot go against His Majesty’s laws if they hope to retain their positions, let alone their necks.”
“Aye,” said Malachi. “That’s plain enough.”
“Boat ahoy!” shouted a lookout. Malachi looked aloft, then followed the lookout’s gaze to the port beam. A thirty-foot barge, red with gold-leaf trim, was being rowed toward them by men dressed in uniform, some kind of anachronistic costume from the previous century, with a ruff, slashed doublet, and hose.
“Mon Dieu!” Pérez gasped, astonishment shifting his tongue to French. “It’s the Captain-General himself!”
“McVie!” Malachi screamed. “Assemble the hands forward of the quarterdeck, and smartly! Have your pipe in hand!“
”Your best Castilian, mind,” Pérez cautioned, straightening his shoulders and adjusting his hat. “His Excellency is very concerned with the formalities.”
“I’ll lisp it out as best I can,” said Malachi, “but my Spanish is more suitable for addressing a dockside harlot than a court official.”
“His Excellency can speak elegant French,” Pérez said. “His English is not so good. Use French if you can.”
The privateers, with kicks and curses, were assembled forward of the quarterdeck: McVie stood by with his whistle, ready to pipe the Captain-General aboard. Malachi, whose French was better than his Spanish, reviewed his rather limited stock of flowery Latin compliments. The Spanish coxswain’s orders came in regular cadence, and the barge thudded gracefully against Anegada’s side. McVie’s whistle shrieked through the rigging as he applied his massive lungs to the pipe, and the Captain-General hoisted himself aboard.
“May I present Don Joaquin Fernández de Zubillaga,” Pérez said, after his formal bow, “Captain-General of His Catholic Majesty’s dominion of Puerto Rico.”
Malachi bent his supple body almost double in a formal bow, then took the limp hand offered him and clasped it respectfully.
“I am honored, Your Excellency,” he said in his best lisping Castilian. “Will you be pleased to ascend the poop and sit in the hammock chair? I regret the Captain’s cabin is not suitable; but there is the poop awning to keep you comfortable.”
His Excellency was a man of sixty or so, inclined to corpulence, in a plain yellow coat with a ribbon and star, and a tall cocked hat with a white Bourbon cockade. His face was brown and lined; his eyes were reddish, either from illness or dissipation.
“That is not necessary, but thank you,” Fernández said. “I am quite happy to stand.” He favored Malachi with a craggy-toothed smile. “I have bestrode the decks of ships-of-war in my time, eh, Pérez?”
“His Excellency’s foes will long remember his prowess at the siege of Cartagena,” Pérez said gracefully.
“Will Your Excellency honor me by speaking French?” Malachi said, shifting to that tongue. “I fear my Spanish is not suitable for such an auspicious occasion.”
“Certainly,” said Fernández. “The speech of the court of Louis is by no means strange to me.” His French was indeed excellent, better than Malachi’s, with an accent Malachi knew for Parisian.
“The enemies against whom you so distinguished yourself at Cartagena,” Malachi said, “are my enemies now.”
“I pity you then,” said the Captain-General with a smile. “I understand that you captured these vessels from a British convoy south of Hispaniola?”
“That is true, Your Excellency,” said Malachi. “All save this ship, which was taken yesterday. You may recognize her as Anegada, which recently left San Juan after making repairs.”
“In truth, I recognize her,” said Fernández, glancing up at the fished mainyard. He turned to Malachi with an air of pleasant melancholy, his eyebrows raised. “You did not, by any chance, seize this ship in His Catholic Majesty’s territorial waters?”
“Porto Rico was barely in sight to the south, Your Excellency,” said Malachi.
“You are fortunate if that is so,” said Fernández drily. “I shall examine the ship’s log to ascertain the facts. Please have someone bring it to me.”
“Certainly, Your Excellency,” Malachi said with a polite, emotionless face. “McVie!”
The bosun was sent to fetch the logbook, while Fernández regarded the proceedings with a detached, wry smile. “Captain Crichton was a guest in this port for some days,” Fernández said. “I hope he has not met with bodily injury.”
“Neither he, nor any of his crew, were hurt,” Malachi said. “They were surprised and seized before they could organize resistance.”
“Mm,” said the Captain-General tactfully. “I am happy to hear he is unhurt; he showed himself a worthy gentleman during his stay, as these Englishmen go. Yet perhaps it would have been better for him had some resistance been made, n’est-ce pas? Ah, here is the log! With your permission, gentlemen ...?”
He examined the log with avidity: it told very little, being simply the usual hourly notation of course, estimated speed, and the state of the wind. The column “remarks” was quite blank, save for a notation, “2:00, Convoy in Sight to North.”
“We shall interrogate the ship’s officers at our convenience,” Fernández eventually concluded, handing the log back to Bosun McVie.
“Certainly, Your Excellency,” Malachi said, bowing. “I will release them this afternoon.”
Fernández drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and glared at Malachi with a regal eye. “Your arrival here places me in a questionable position,” he said. “I shall have to write to His Majesty for instructions. But yet His Catholic Majesty is publicly committed to a policy of respecting the rights of neutrals and has defended that position against His Britannic Majesty in many wars. His Catholic Majesty’s soldiers and seamen are prepared to defend to the death our right to trade with the Danes, Dutch, Swedes, Portuguese, or indeed with the Continental government in rebellion. You understand, of course, that His Catholic Majesty requires a tax on all such commerce encountered in his ports?”
“That is understood, Your Excellency,” said Malachi.
“You also understand that His Catholic Majesty cannot countenance foreign privateers operating with impunity from his ports?” Fernández demanded.
“Your Excellency misunderstands me,” Malachi said. “We would never consider operating from a Spanish port; that would be contrary to all accepted international law. We wish merely to sell our prizes here and to buy water and stores for our vessels. Surely the ship from any nation, obeying the laws of Spain, may buy water and stores?”
The Captain-General nodded, satisfied. “I must consult His Majesty’s edicts; perhaps there is a precedent. For the moment, you have my permission to buy water and stores. You will remain at my disposal. Any of your vessels attempting to leave port will be fired upon. In the meantime, I shall try to release you and your crews from quarantine as soon as the formalities can be complied with. Is this understood?”
Malachi bowed until his queue touched the deck. “A votre service,” he said.
“Good day to you,” Fernández said, and nodded curtly.
“May I beg a ride in Your Excellency’s barge?” Pérez asked with an ingratiating smile. “As you can see, I brought none of my own.”
“To be sure, Pérez,” Fernández said, almost absent-mindedly. “After you, sir.”
“Good day, Your Excellency,” Malachi said. “And to you, Don Fernando.”
“Adieu,” said Pérez briefly. McVie, at towering attention, piped them over the side, and Malachi bowed once more. When he raised his head his eyes were bright with calculation.
“That’s twenty thousand guineas for each West India-man’s cargo, or fifty thousand if we can sell the goods in America,” he thought. “And ten thousand apiece for the hulls themselves. The other prizes might average five thousand apiece. That’s one hundred twenty-five thousand guineas minimum, just if we sell ’em here, and three-eighths of that is forty-six thousand, eight hundred and seventy-five guineas, that goes to Markham & Sons. And my share of the four prizes I took would be one-eighth of seventy thousand, eight thousand six hundred seventy-five, all for me, for less than a month’s work. And this,” he reminded himself, “is just the beginning.”
Malachi sent his prisoners ashore that afternoon, after the ships were taken out of quarantine. The seamen were told, before their release, that the Markham agents in San Juan were Pérez and Company, who would soon be taking on hands to fill vacancies among the privateers; any man who could hand, reef, and steer was welcome to keep in touch with Pérez for hope of future employment.
The seamen would not be paid. Malachi had appropriated the ship’s money chest, and— to no one’s surprise— none of the ship’s officers felt obligated to pay the hands from their own pockets.
The officers were then assembled on deck, together with the passengers, and made ready to drop into the jolly boat. Malachi busied himself as the ladies came on deck, reeving a whip through the yardarm, attaching a net for the purpose of swinging out of the rather prodigious amount of baggage that needed to be dealt with. Lady Georgina, in cool summer white, a wide straw hat, gloves, and a parasol, stood calmly with her maid under the break in the poop, unapproachable.
Paisley Albee— he was wearing a different wig this morning, powdered green, with a ruff of hair fluffed forward over his brow, like the comb of a fighting cock — followed his servant into the boat; the officers, calm, white-faced, in their gold-laced uniforms, followed in reverse order of seniority. Captain Crichton, backed by his family, stood by the entry port, watching each exit, exchanging frozen nods. As Captain Masterson, the Indiaman captain who had been on the voyage as a passenger, descended in haughty splendor, Malachi unbuckled the sword at his waist and stepped forward.
“Your sword, sir,” Malachi said, handing to Captain Crichton the blade he’d been keeping for him. His face made of stone, Crichton took the scabbard from Malachi’s hand and buckled the belt about his waist.
“Thank you, Captain Markham,” he said briefly. Behind him his son Hugh stared at Malachi with an expression of pure hatred.
“Pirate,” he said. “We don’t need your charity, pirate.”
Malachi lashed out backhand, a slap that had the full weight of his shoulder behind it. Hugh Crichton staggered and fell to the deck, caught off-balance, his cheek reddening where he’d been struck. His mother rushed forward with a cry.
“A pirate would have had a knife in that hand, boy,” Malachi told him. “You’d have lost an ear and possibly an eye, and you would have had a scar curling you face, and the girls would never look at you again save with pity. Remember that.”
“I’ll remember,” Hugh said. He pushed his mother away and rose slowly, and alone, to his feet.
But what Malachi would remember was the sad eyes of Hugh’s father as he watched his son’s humiliation, his hand clutching the hilt of his impotent sword. Malachi turned and spat into the sea, hoping to exorcise the haunting feeling the incident had given him. The exorcism failed.
Hugh, proud, red-cheeked, preceded his father into the jolly boat; then Crichton descended wooden-faced down the side of the vessel. Malachi had the baggage swung out in its net and let the officers dispose of it how they would.
The women presented a tactical problem: dressed in full, formal skirts that would not allow them easily to descend the side of the ship into the boat bobbing alongside, Malachi rigged a sling on the line in place of the net to swing them into the boat as he had their baggage.
He swung the servants out first to show the ladies there was no harm in it— they’d probably walked onto the ship on a railed plank, from a quay, but they were moored in the middle of the bay and there could be none of that here.
The ridiculous figures swung, shrieking in delight and terror, at the end of the line, lowered by grinning seamen into the boat. Malachi was thoroughly aware of Lady Georgina’s eyes on him as he busied himself and knew that she had witnessed his scene with the captain’s son. What judgment would she make of that slap? She knew the boy’s insult was challengeable; Hugh Crichton and Malachi could have met at sword’s point or looked at each other over pistol barrels, but Malachi had treated it as a problem of juvenile discipline, striking a child rather than an adult— a child could not challenge him for that slap, but a gentleman could. Two challengeable offenses, and neither redressable because one of the parties thought of the other as a child: what would Lady Georgina think of that? Would she conclude Malachi was a coward, refusing to fight when challenged? Or would she consider him a man of good sense? Most women did not approve of dueling, but Malachi had heard of the other sort, women who loved goading men into fighting for them, who would watch the duel and relish each drop of blood . . .
Utter foolishness, he decided. Lady Georgina was no such person. She had provoked no fights, of that he was sure.
Elizabeth Crichton, the Captain’s daughter, swung out over the bulwark, clinging in mock terror to the hempen rope, her mother standing by the ship’s side with words of comfort and assistance. “Captain,” said Lady Georgina, suddenly stepping forward, her lace-bordered parasol making a halo behind her head.
“My lady,” said Malachi, bowing. Her voice had been cool, formal, with no acknowledgment of the previous night’s intimacy.
“I shan’t be made to look that foolish,” Georgina said, nodding to the squealing Elizabeth. “I shall go down the ship’s side.”
“My lady, I—” Malachi began to protest. She cut him off with a regal look.
“If you should find any of my belongings that I may have inadvertently left behind,” she said, locking his eyes with hers, “I shall be at the Pension Royal.”
Malachi bowed, understanding. “Yes, my lady,” he said, his blood surging with delight.
She turned and walked to the loading port, hesitated only slightly, and then went down the ship’s side before Malachi could quite recover from his bow and hasten to hand her out; Paisley Albee and Captain Crichton jostled, shoulders as they hurried to assist her into the jolly boat’s stern. She took the Captain’s hand and stepped from the ship’s side to the boat with agility, and then sat quietly down next to her servant.
“A cool one, she, Captain,” said McVie admiringly; but Malachi was gone, running down below to the passenger cabins. He tore open the doors and partitions, searching frantically until he found the stateroom marked with her scent; and by the tiny box of a bed he found her ivory fan, strung with lace and pearls, the same she had carried the night before. Whooping with delighted laughter, he stretched himself out on the bed, helpless with amusement, the fan held spread in his hand, held to the light of the cabin’s small porthole as devoutly as pilgrim ever held his cross.
Later that afternoon, Malachi returned to Cossack with the balance of his prize crew and proceeded to send fresh prize crews from Cossack to all his prizes. The original prize crews were exhausted, having been in their prizes for almost three weeks; barely enough hands to work the ship: they’d had to perform back-breaking, palm-scraping labor; they had been forced to battle head-on into the face of the gale that had kept them prisoner for almost a week in the Mona Passage, had slept in sodden clothes and dripping bedding, and had to be ready at any moment for the possibility that the original crews might rebel. The prize crews stumbled, enervated, to the berth deck, where they swung their hammocks in the few inches allotted to them and slept like dead men. Their officers, Keith, Maddox, and the rest, remained aboard their prizes, as McVie remained aboard Anegada, to deal with any harbor officials anxious to inspect the vessels.
But Malachi, owner of the most spacious cabin, played host to Jehu and Josiah aboard Cossack. The former, in an elegant tail coat of tropical green, set off by a gold waistcoat and white silk jabot, also carried a case of captured champagne to celebrate their triumph. The champagne— or two bottles of it, at any rate— was downed between Jehu and Malachi, Josiah restricting himself to his usual two cupfuls, while Shaw brought in dish after dish of fresh food, just brought that afternoon from ashore.
“Two of our prizes are not British-owned,” Jehu said. “That packet brig you took, Mal, and one of my brigs. They were Dutchmen sailing in the convoy to avoid pirates.”
Josiah snorted. “Are we sure they’re really Dutch? Or are they hiding under false papers?”
“What I might suggest,” Jehu said, “is that we ransom the hulls and cargo back to their owners. It will save them the delay and cost of fighting their cause in a prize court. Their credit is good here; the admirable Pérez and Company might see to the arrangements.”
“A fine idea, Jay, here’s to it,” said Malachi, raising his glass. He could feel the unnatural shape of the fan in his breast pocket, pressing against his shoulder as he raised his arm and drank. He’d have to ask directions for the Pension Royal . . .
“We can fetch a better price for some of the goods in America,” Jehu went on, “but we run the risk of the British retaking them.”
“Put ’em in one or both of the big Indiamen,” Josiah said. “The British won’t stop their own Indiamen on the high seas, not when it’s plain as a pikestaff that they’re British-built.”
“We should, perhaps, consider selling them here rather than taking such a risk,” Jehu said. “We’d have to send away crew and an officer with the cargo; that might leave us short-handed.”
“Short-handed!” cried Josiah. “After this last venture every rum-sodden hand in the Caribbean would sell his soul to sail with us!”
“There’s still the possibility that it ain’t worth the risk,” Jehu said, leaning his chin on his hand meditatively. “Perhaps we should take a certain profit over a gamble. What d’you say, Mal?”
“Eh?” muttered Malachi, snatching his gaze from the rim of his wine glass, where it had lingered for an inordinate length of time, one hand stroking idly over the ivory shape in his coat. He put both hands firmly on the table in front of him, casting his mind frantically over the last few minutes’ conversation and realizing he’d heard but half of it,
“Sell to Pérez anything for which we can get a fair price,” he said quickly. “Put the rest in the fastest Indiaman and send it to Boston under a reliable officer. Boston should be full of American ships by now; it should be a safe enough port. Sell the cargo, then return with the officer and crew to sell the ship here.”
Josiah nodded. “That’s a wise course, Jehu,” he said. “You can steer by it.”
Jehu smiled gracefully. “I’ll agree, gentlemen, but we shall have to further define the term fair price before I’ll reckon myself wholehearted.”
The next half hour was spent busily haggling between one another concerning commodity prices: sugar, molasses, and coffee composed the majority of the cargoes they had discovered, but there was also tobacco, cotton, arrowroot, cacao, spices, and even a shipment of lumber from Honduras intended for the voracious British shipyards. They would have to sell their cargoes at below the San Juan market price in order to sell them at all, but the rate of discount was a subject for urgent debate, the more so because their agents would receive a commission from each sale.
Eventually, all this had been reduced to writing, and their scrawling original copy of the price list was sent to Shaw for copying in triplicate.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Jehu affably, pouring cups of champagne for Malachi and himself, “we must decide who will take the prize to Boston. I’m an officer short as it is, and will be sailing for Europe when the season ends; Porter and Konrad are both overworked, and I’ll not part with them if I can help it.”
“I’d spare Maddox for the job if I thought I could count on Stanhope to fill in,” Malachi said. “But Cossack’s a big ship with a big crew, and once the crew’s assembled in the same hull again, with money in their pockets, I’ll need three officers and Martin and McVie to keep them at their drill.”
“I can spare Pound,” Josiah decided. “Piscataqua’s a little vessel, and there isn’t a thing happens on her that I don’t know it. Pound deserves it, what’s more; he was master of his own smuggler before we beached her to outfit privateers. If the officers overstrain themselves, I can have Reverend Gill step into a few of their duties.” Jehu and Malachi looked at each other and shuddered at the horror at that last notion, but wisely kept their thoughts to themselves.
“We can take on additional crew here,” Malachi said. “With our late success, we can pick and choose, prime seamen only. Some of the Indiamen’s crews will be certain to volunteer; many will be American-born. We’ll split them up between us to avoid collusion and conspiracy, and take none to Boston in case they intend to retake the ship.”
“Aye,” Josiah agreed. “If we can’t turn a hundred thousand guineas into our pockets, the Lord is not a businessman.”
The dinner ended early: they all had work to do. Early the next morning, well before dawn, Malachi was roused from his cot by a messenger from the Captain-General: the Markham ships would be permitted to remain in the harbor as long as they refrained from taking on military stores and committed no warlike acts; their prizes could be condemned and sold under strict Government supervision, with Pérez and Company acting as sole agents. Malachi cursed at that: Pérez could afford to offer less for the prizes, having a Crown-granted monopoly, but having no choice Malachi assented and sent the messenger back with a courteously worded note of thanks.
He returned to his desk and wrote a note to Jehu, advising him of Fernández’s decision and urging him to ransom the Dutch brigs immediately. He sent Shaw in a boat to deliver the message and then returned to his cot.
By the time Malachi rose after dawn, Shaw had returned with Jehu’s reply: both brigs had been swiftly ransomed, with their cargo, Jehu’s for 1500 louis d’or, Malachi’s for 2,750 guineas, both in drafts payable at the Pérez and Company bank. Malachi grinned as he ordered Shaw to bring him his breakfast; the ransoming was a simple business contract for all its medieval overtones and not taxable by the Crown of Spain. Malachi would be able to pay the crew their one-half share of the money almost immediately; that would make them happy.
The breakfast was real eggs, bought from a dockside hot, with peppers, onions, and fresh cheese, washed down with captured claret and freshly purchased coffee. Pleasantly full, Malachi brushed his teeth and dressed in his best blue coat, the one with the white facings and firegilt buttons— reminiscent, in fact, of the Royal Navy officer’s coat— a black silk cravat over his white waistcoat, white breeches and silk stockings, his black three-cornered hat with the red-and-white cockade that the Markhams used to distinguish their American allegiance. He buckled on his sword and came on deck, announcing his intention of paying a courtesy call upon Don Fernando Pérez, and ordered the jolly boat swung out and made ready.
Back below decks, in the privacy of his day cabin, he slipped the ivory-handled fan from his everyday coat to his good one, patted the breast to smooth it, and returned to the maindeck. Shaw, who was not only his steward and his clerk, but his coxswain as well, had the boat’s crew ready. “Will you be wanting your pistols, sir?” he asked. “I wouldn’t put it past one of those Britishers to take it amiss that you’re walking through the streets of San Juan instead of jigging at the end of a noose, begging your pardon.”
“I won’t be walking free for very long if His Catholic Majesty’s soldiers see me swaggering about with pistols in my belt, Shaw,” Malachi said irritatedly.
“I could carry them, quietlike, in the case,” Shaw said. “I’d stay right behind you.”
“You damned well will not!” Malachi said. “You’ll stay on the quay with the boat’s crew. You can allow them a little fun on shore, but keep them together and in your sight, understand?”
“Yes, Captain,” said Shaw with a solemn face, dismay mixed with responsibility.
“Boat ahoy!” called the lookout.
It was Albert Stanhope, the third officer, returning with his prize crew after his brig had been ransomed out from under him. Malachi quickly followed Shaw into his own boat, and as they pulled from the entry port to allow Stanhope to come aboard the ship, he turned to the young officer and shouted as their boats passed :
“Stanhope, good to see you,” he roared, noticing that the young officer had hitched the sword on a baldrick and hauled it up to his shoulder, the scabbard falling down his back so that it wouldn’t trip him. “You’r the only officer aboard, so you’ll be in charge; I’m going ashore. I’ll thank you to give them four hours of gun drill after dinner, and more if you think they’ll need it.”
“Ah— yes, Captain,” said Stanhope. He seemed perplexed, but obviously pleased with his new responsibilities.
Malachi brought Pérez some of Jehu’s captured champagne as a gift. The Spaniard, dressed formally in his office, with a dark wig and a particolored waistcoat, had not been slow: his creatures were already poring over the prizes, their cargoes, and the manifests, making an inventory for the purchases. Malachi had always found Pérez and Company efficient; they had made their first acquaintance three years before, and both had derived profit from it. They had both been sensibly convinced of the need for avoiding the royal monopolies both Spain and England claimed for their colonial produce. Pérez had served as an agent to buy low-priced Spanish goods legally, then transferred them from his ships to Markham hulls on the high seas or at deserted cays, for eventual smuggling to the American colonies. Once in America, and the royal duty unpaid, the goods had been sold at prices legitimate merchants hadn’t been able to match. Pérez had collected an admirable commission on all such transactions, and had been both discreet and reliable.
Malachi had made similar arrangements with English merchants and planters, but the latter were now barred by the war from conducting business with him. Pérez and he could make a fine profit in the future, and Malachi was careful to point out to the Spaniard the advantages of a continuing relationship, not only because of the possibility of future gain, but because Malachi wanted to keep Pérez’s offers for the prizes as high as he could, and that could only be done by dangling the promise of future advantage.
That business concluded amicably but, as Malachi expected, without commitment from either party. Malachi bowed his way from Pérez’s office and asked directions from the secretary to the Pension Royal. The Pension was in a part of San Juan that Malachi did not normally associate with visiting nobility; but the area was respectable enough, if by no means elegant, and Malachi set out with long strides, patting his breast pocket. The people in the streets, white and black and mixed, watched with differing faces as he passed, some with obvious envy of the young shipowner and privateer with his sword and cockade, some admiring, some engaged in their daily tasks, with indifference, and some— a few seamen, in striped jerseys, suddenly without ship or livelihood— with the faces of grim hatred;
The Pension Royal was a shabby brown on the outside, the walls stained with the garbage that its tenants heaved out the windows; but stepping inside Malachi found it clean and comfortable— not elegant but far from shabby, lived-in and cared for. Malachi wondered at the name: the correct Spanish would have been Pension Real, or perhaps Regio. Perhaps it had been named with the same impulse toward the exotic which caused American innkeepers to call their establishments Capri or La Casa Grande. Or perhaps the name was meant to indicate that the pension catered to foreigners.
“The gentleman lieutenant wishes a room?” asked the handsome young quadroon who managed the place, a man of Malachi’s age or thereabouts, who spoke with such affectation that Malachi found his Spanish difficult to understand. The man repeated the question.
“The gentleman is a captain,” Malachi told him. “Will you be so kind as to tell Lady Georgina Spenser-Martin that Captain Malachi Markham is here to call upon her, to return a piece of property she mistakenly left aboard his ship?”
The quadroon apologized for mistaking “the young gentleman captain” for a mere lieutenant, and repeated the message, mangling the names thoroughly, first by giving them Spanish intonations, and then by superimposing upon them his own peculiar version of lisping court Castilian. He asked Malachi to wait in the courtyard.
The doors to the apartments all opened off the courtyard; the quadroon went to a door and knocked while Malachi paced outside, sweating uncomfortably in his hat and heavy-lapelled coat. Careful to keep his hands out of his pockets, he adopted Josiah’s habitual stance with his hands clasped firmly behind him, and trod the square gravel walks of the courtyard while he listened to the complicated business of the pension manager giving the message to Lady Georgina’s maid, and the maid then relaying the news further inside the apartment. The chain of command, Malachi smiled to himself, on shore as on shipboard.
The courtyard was pleasant, well-tended, with gravel walks neatly interlacing budding flowers, shrubbery; and a well covered to keep out frogs and other vermin. There was a shuffle of forms in the doorway that Malachi watched out of the corner of his eye: someone was leaving the apartment. A small weasel-looking man, dressed in brown, and somehow familiar... he was carrying a leather case of the sort lawyers used to hold their documents. He tipped his hat to the maid and bustled from the courtyard at the most rapid pace his short legs would carry him. Malachi frowned. A servant, judging by his familiarity to the maid. He returned to his pacing.
“My lady’s compliments, Captain.” It was her maid, dipping in curtsy, come out to greet him. “Will you join her for coffee?”
“My compliments to your lady,” Malachi replied. “With pleasure.” The maid guided him to the door of the apartment and dipped again, like a signal flag in salute.
“Pray go in, Captain,” she said, her black face expressionless. “The parlor is to the right. I must spend the day in town, shopping for my lady.”
“Thank ye,” said Malachi. “Have a good afternoon.” He knuckled the door frame to announce his entrance, then took off his hat and stepped inside.
The apartment was small but respectable, with a tiny foyer, a furnished parlor, and a hallway leading to back rooms, a hallway concealed by a screen. At the moment the place was deserted. Malachi walked uncertainly into the parlor and saw a small round table set for two at coffee. He hung his hat on the rack and parked his walking stick, clasped his hands behind his back, and waited. He did not have to wait long.
There was a rush of silk behind the screen in the hallway, and Malachi turned expectantly. Lady Georgina wore a dress of dark green that set off her eyes, with bare forearms, lace at the elbows, and lace at the open neck. Her dark hair was down— a surprise— and coiled with refreshing lack of symmetry down the side of her throat. The better classes wore their hair up, but Georgina’s choice of hair style married her patrician bearing with a touch of the scullery maid, a touch Malachi found intriguing and vaguely exciting.
Strangely, Malachi noticed, she wore no jewelry, not even a ring.
“Captain Markham, I am pleased,” she said, dropping in a curtsy.
“My lady,” Malachi said, bowing. “May I compliment your grace in getting into the jolly boat? Your agility was quite eloquent.”
“I’m sure you see such eloquence in the foretop every day,” she said, smiling. “But thank you. Will you have some coffee?”
“I’d be pleased,” he said.
She poured from a bronze pot that had been sitting on a tripod arrangement with a candle to keep it warm, and handed him his cup. They sat on opposite sides of the scarred round table and took the required first sip.
“I’m surprised to see you in such modest accommodation,” Malachi said. “I expected to find that the Pension Royal would have opened for you a suite, with a cook and a harpsichord.”
She shrugged, a curious gesture Malachi had learned to associate with Frenchmen. “A larger place would have been hard on Zelda,” she said, “and I didn’t wish to engage any native servants for such a short stay; I had no way of knowing their honesty.”
Malachi sipped at his coffee; it was hard to breakthrough the formality dictated to their relationship by tradition or society. On the deck of the prize Anegada it had been easier, in a world he had understood, surrounded by the spray, the wind, the creak and sway of hempen rigging and cordage, and the surge of the living, sparkling sea. Here, she was at home, and he the stranger. He tugged uncomfortably at his cravat. This was not his way, this silk-stocking world of lace and coffee drunk with the little finger raised. He cleared his throat.
“The Captain-General visited Anegada yesterday, while you were below decks,” he said. “He has given us permission to dispose of our prizes here, at least until such time as he hears from the King. That green dress suits you well, my lady.”
She smiled again, the scar on her face deepening. Somehow the scar made her more attractive in Malachi’s eyes, the small imperfection in some fashion calling attention to all the rest of her regular beauty. She sipped her coffee slowly. “It matches my eyes,” she said, “and yours, Captain.” She carefully placed her cup in the saucer and looked at Malachi with challenging frankness. “Do you not think,” she said, “that we might dispose of the titles? What is your Christian name? Señor Sebastian mangled it so, I could not tell.”
“Malachi,” he said. “Malachi Sword-of-the-Lord Markham, in full.”
She laughed, shattering the morning’s formality to bits, joyous and genuine. He grinned with her.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, covering her smile with her fingertips. “But I’ve not heard of such names since the Commonwealth.”
“They’re not familiar by any means, not even in New England,” Malachi said. “Yet my father gave such a one to each of us, and I’ve escaped the worst. My older brother’s full name is Josiah Rise-and-Tell-the-Glory-of-Emmanuel Markham.”
She bent low with laughter, and Malachi laughed with her, leaning back in his chair with a broad grin.
“And your elder brother?” she asked. “Jehu, is that his name? What of he?”
“Jehu His-Name-Is-Great-in-Israel,” Malachi said, “but I think. Jay would not admit it.”
“I’m sorry, Malachi,” she said, recovering, the name sounding strange on her lips. “I should not laugh so at a man’s name, it’s not courtesy.”
Malachi stood, walking to stand before her; their shared laughter had brought him an eloquence that had been denied to him before. “A Captain’s a king on his own deck,” he said, “and a lady’s queen of her own parlor, or so I’ve heard it. Monarchs make their own manners, and such nice courtesies blush before royalty. In our own place, we may laugh in liberty, and create our own fashion. And the vogue I would like to set, Georgina, is that I kiss you now.”
She rose without a word and stood close to him, her cool eyes looking appraisingly into his. Her eyelids slid down, and Malachi felt the feather touch of her lashes on his cheek as she touched her lips to his. His lips felt the graze of hers, and again, and then she sighed and came into his arms. She wore no stays or corsets, or iron or whalebone, only panniers around the hips to keep her skirt full; and Malachi knew from the way her body moved against his that she was no parlor virgin.
Her dress came off with a rustle and a sigh, along with her panniers and petticoats; and Georgina stood in her simple shift and helped him dispose of his hopelessly complicated male apparel. He tried to raise her shift over her head, but she halted him, shook her head, and took him by the hand, leading him behind the screen to her bedroom. He had come prepared with a product made from sheep-gut, and after he was sheathed she accepted him into her body, candidly eager.
He tongued her tongue, her moist breath warming his cheek, letting her moans call the tempo. He was delighted to discover that she knew her own body well and was aware of its beauty; she was not afraid to use her skill boldly, to deliberately arouse and excite. At length her heels rose and dug into the small of his back, her body arching, raising itself to him; her arms, suddenly as strong as iron, held him against her as they spent their conclusive pleasure.
“My lady,” he said, naming her, his awareness rising into the room, marking the great bed, the wooden crucifix on the wall, the extinguished lamp, the few books on the table.
“My captain,” she said simply, locking him to her with all four limbs, seemingly prepared, in that throbbing instant, to hold him there forever.
*
That evening, in Jehu’s small cabin aboard Yankee Venger, over a great roast of beef and a pepperpot, the Markham brothers looked over their inventory of their captured cargoes, comparing it with that compiled by Pérez’s satellites.
“The Indiamen were carrying twelve-pounders, eighteen apiece, with long sixes as stern-chasers,” Jehu said, trying with vexation to get a spot of ink off one obstinate cuff. “We can reequip our fleet; I’ve naught but short nines on Venger, and Ellyat’s got popgun sixes on Ferret.”
“And my old bronze Danish twelve-pounders are ready to burst,” Josiah said. “Their poundage is Danish measure, what’s more, not English; we can’t put English shot in them.”
“I’ve the same problem, but my twelves are iron and will suffice,” Malachi said.
“Sixteen of the new guns for me and twelve for Josiah,” Jehu itemized. “That will leave eight for Ellyat’s cutter, if he’s got deck space enough for so much artillery.”
“I’ll take four of Josiah’s old green twelves,” Malachi said. “I can enlarge my gundeck; I’ll find the room somewhere. And I’ll put at least six of Jay’s short nines on my quarterdeck, maybe eight of them. That will give Cossack twenty-four guns on the broadside, almost as great as a frigate.”
“I’ve some excellent French brandy just bought ashore,” Jehu said. “Will you drink it with me, gentlemen?”
“With pleasure,” said Malachi. Josiah, with his usual scowl, shook his head.
The admirable St. Croix, dressed to the nines in white-powdered wig and ruffled jabot, appeared with the brandy, poured, and vanished, all with his accustomed efficiency and silence.
“We’ve received permission to leave San Juan at our pleasure,” Jehu said. His face was more rigid than usual; obviously the topic he was about to introduce was an unpleasant one. “There’s no reason for all four of our privateers to remain in port longer than to exchange ordnance and take on fresh stores; but one of us must remain to conduct negotiations with the Captain-General and with Pérez.”
“ ’Tis no problem, Jay,” Malachi said blithely. “I’ll stay.”
Jehu was too well brought-up to stare, but Josiah banged the table and shouted: “By jumping Jupiter! You’re our fire-eater, Malachi; I thought you’d be bucked and gagged before being left behind!”
“I took the big Indiamen. That gives me the greatest share of our last catch,” Malachi said. “It’s only justice that the two of you get your chance to take such prizes for yourselves. Also, I know Pérez, and have dealt with him before; the two of you have never made his acquaintance save through correspondence. I’m sorry not to go, but it’s only good sense.”
”Well, I’ll be blasted,” Josiah said, frankly amazed.
Jehu, who was too imperturbable to offer comment, merely looked at Malachi with glinting eyes as he raised his cup in toast to George Washington; and Malachi, raising his own cup in turn, felt the pressure of the ivory fan against his arm and suddenly laughed into his cup. He had forgotten, in the rush of events that afternoon, to return the fan that had been the ostensible apology for his visit to Georgina.
Well, no matter. He would merely have to visit her again, as soon as possible— and if, by some chance, he forgot to return the fan again, why, he’d have to pay another visit, and, if necessary, then another.
It might well take months.