Page 26

T he sun was hot and brilliant overhead, bleaching the sails of the two British revenue ships a stark white as they neared the far side of the channel.

Confident in their pursuit of their prized quarry, certain to have them trapped in the bay, the gun ports were open, the crews standing at the ready.

Squadrons of red-coated sharpshooters were braced in the yards and lining the rails of the upper deck, their muskets primed.

It could only be imagined what the captains of both vessels thought when they sailed into the wide bay and saw not one but four battle-ready ships waiting to greet them.

One of the forward gunners was so shocked, he touched his lit fuse to a five-pounder bow chaser mounted on the rail and a shot exploded from the muzzle in a minor spit of flame and smoke.

The ball plopped harmlessly into the sea beside the Black Wind , sending a thin spout of blue water in the air fifty feet from her hull.

Watching from the quarterdeck of the Cygnet , Stubb chuckled. “Fairy farts they be sendin’ over. I’m dreadful affeered for my life,” he said in a shaky falsetto. “Best we haul down our flags an’ surrender.”

Beside him, Billy Burr smirked then looked to Rose, who nodded.

“Show them how it’s done, lads!” Billy shouted. “Aim high and fire away!”

As one, five of the gun crews on the main deck touched the glowing tips of their linstocks to the touchholes and unleashed a thunderous volley at the Renard .

They were loaded with chain shot—two heavy balls linked by chain—that spun like dervishes and screamed across the narrow distance to slice through the upper yards, shredding sails, and cutting cables, sending a score of sharpshooters scrambling to secure their footing as the broken yards fell into the sea.

Behind the Renard , the Daffodil came up too fast to avoid a similar round of scattered shot from the Black Wind. The fiery results were much the same: broken yards, scrambling men, sporadic and ineffectual musket fire from the soldiers lining the rails.

The uniformed officers standing on both quarterdecks stared in open-mouthed shock.

Rose St. Clare reinforced that shock by ordering a second round of shot that sliced through the remaining yards and rigging aboard the Renard .

Faced with the combined batteries of the four vessels, and with wreckage falling on their heads there was little debate.

The revenuers took in sail and lowered their pennons then ran up a brace of white flags.

Having signaled their capitulation, they followed the orders shouted through a speaking trumpet to bring their damaged ships to a limping halt and drop anchors in the deepest curve of the bay.

With the British officers confined and the crews disarmed and under heavy guard, Rose, Fonteyne, and Alexander St. Clare met again in the great cabin of the Nighthawk .

Rose and her father were intent on reading through the logbooks and documents Stubb had found on board the Crown ships. Fonteyne seemed more intent on enjoying a cup of rum and watching the patterns of sunlight dancing on the cabin ceiling.

The watery reflections held Fonteyne’s attention until he could no longer resist the temptation to study the two people seated opposite him.

The resemblance was unmistakable between father and daughter.

They had the same high cheekbones, the same generous shape to the mouth.

They shared the same silvery-blue eyes, though in Rose the shade seemed more exotic set against the red-gold color of her hair.

There was a fierce beauty to this woman derived from strength and confidence rather than feminine delicacy.

Not that delicate would be a word that came instantly to mind upon first meeting her.

Her jaw was a little too square, her gaze too direct.

No downcast, fluttering eyelashes for this one.

Her hands were too calloused for doing needlepoint, her thighs strong enough to hold his own captive until she took what she wanted from him.

His first glimpse of Rose at the governor’s ball in Port Louis those many years ago had won his interest and despite the five year separation, that interest had not waned.

Aye, he had remembered every detail from that night. It was imprinted on his memory alongside the most recent shock of seeing her stride into Lafitte’s tavern on Barataria, any hint of delicacy belied by leather and steel, and the well-used pistols she wore on her hips.

Alexander leaned back in his chair and tapped his forefinger on the documents.

“The troops who captured and destroyed Washington City were probably as inexperienced as the troops who failed to defend it. The fleet this Admiral Nicholls is bringing, however, will be filled with soldiers seasoned on the bloody battlefields of France. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the admiral himself, though the name seems oddly familiar. ”

Fonteyne shifted slightly, pulling his thoughts away from two naked, entwined bodies.

“I had the misfortune to run into him back in ‘05, at Trafalgar. The ship I was on took heavy damage and limped into port with a useless rudder and few working sails. We managed to heel over so we only scraped along the length of his hull instead of hitting bow-on, but he took great offence that his paintwork was spoiled. He used it to his advantage, however, writing in a later report that the damage was done by a French vessel in the heat of battle.”

“Are you implying he took no actual damage in the battle?”

“I’m implying nothing. I’m stating flatly that he never brought his ship within range of any French guns.”

Alexander pursed his lips and nodded as if that was the only reference, he needed to form an opinion of the admiral’s character.

“This report mentions that the fleet was due to leave the Azores almost a month ago. Unless the ships are being rowed across, he should have made landfall by now. Most likely in Nassau to re-supply before carrying on into the Gulf.”

“It was my thought to sail up Pirate’s Alley and see if we could find them,” Rose said.

Alexander pondered that thought for a moment then slid several folded papers across the table. “Both of you might want to take a look at this first.”

The top sheet was a remarkably detailed map of Barataria Bay and the two islands, Grande Terre and Grande Isle, along with a myriad small inlets and bays depicted along the flanking coastlines.

Accompanying the map was a note, which said in part:

I recommend the approach likely to reap the most success is from the west, where an assault would be least expected.

I would further advise a blockade of the eastern access and all other avenues of seaborne escape whereupon the pirates will have no choice but to surrender or scatter into the mangrove swamps.

Once you have Lafitte and his two most capable lieutenants, Renato Beluche and Sebastien Fonteyne in chains, or better yet, swinging at the end of a rope, the pirates will be headless and gutless.

There was no signature on the note but Rose knew her brother’s handwriting like she knew her own, the precision of each letter having been whapped sharply onto their knuckles by their shared governess.

From the grim set to her father’s mouth, she knew he had recognized it as well.

Wordlessly, she slid the note across the table to Fonteyne. While the privateer studied the map and the note, Rose risked a glance at her father, but a slight shake of his head bade her hold her tongue.

When Fonteyne was finished reading, he pushed the papers away in disgust. “So much for the British wanting to negotiate with Lafitte in good faith. I did try to warn him, but he’s a stubborn Creole bastard, often too full of himself to see what he doesn’t want to see.”

“I am led to understand he commands a federation of upwards of a hundred vessels?” asked Alexander.

“None of which are actually under his command, as such,” Fonteyne said. “Jean is merely the middleman who distributes and sells the cargo our ships bring in. For easing us of that tiresome burden, he does command a certain amount of respect and loyalty.”

“As well as a handsome share of the profits, I warrant?”

“No more so than usury fees and taxes collected despite so called free trade.”

Alexander noted the distain in his voice. “Exactly how much convincing would it take to turn Lafitte’s thoughts from profit to patriot?”

“I would be talking out of my arse to suggest he would be easily swayed. On the other hand, he is not well pleased with the way the city council and Governor Claiborne have been treating him. They have issued a warrant for his arrest on charges of piracy, thrown his brother in jail again, and confiscated the goods on a score of his barges.”

“Have the Americans made any effort to reinforce defenses around the city?”

Fonteyne huffed at that. “They have two schooners patrolling all of the gulf coastline from Pensacola to Galveston. They have a few gun boats for show on the river, but nothing bigger than a twelve-pounder on board and no stores of powder or shot to fire them.

“Having said that,” he added, “Lafitte has warehouses filled with enough guns, powder, and shot to start a small war of his own. To that end, he will defend Barataria with every last ball and ounce of powder in his possession. New Orleans, on the other hand, with its current council of pompous fools, I would not lay too high a wager on his wanting to extend a hand or a barrel of powder to help them.”

“Do all of his captains feel the same way?” Rose asked. “Do you?”

“We are a fickle lot,” Fonteyne admitted with a shrug.

“The reason most of us stay with Lafitte is because he has half the judges and revenue agents in Louisiana on his payroll and he can move cargo inland on barges for a guaranteed profit. Threaten the flow of those profits and some of the captains will go elsewhere quicker than you can blink.”