Portete
Chapter 29 - Tempers
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NOTE: This story contains some harsh language, violence, and mature themes that might be upsetting to some readers. They are pirates, after all. Ye have been warned.
Want to start at the beginning? Welcome to Portete.
In his office above the sailors’ barracks, Captain Richard Bromwell sat at his window and fumed silently. The sparsely decorated room was functional, with a desk and shelves, but little in the way of embellishment. The closest thing to artwork the captain had hung on the wall was a map of the known world. It was detailed, but small. Hanging by the door were his dress coat and hat, as well as his belt, complete with sword and flintlock. The captain stared out at the dusk falling over Port Royal, images of Beckford’s severed head still flashed in his head. Blood dripping onto the dirt. The look of shock and horror frozen on the pale, overfed face.
“Damn!” His gloved hand came down hard on the stone windowsill. A knock at the door brought him to standing with his hand on the small pistol he kept on his desk. “Come in.”
“Captain?” It was his Lieutenant, Tom Miller.
“Yes, Lieutenant. What is it?”
“There is a Lord Benjamin Bridgeman to see you, sir.”
“Show him in.” Moments later, a large, stern-looking man entered the room. His clothes were dark, but of fine quality. Age and wear creased his face, skin leathery and tanned like one who had spent his younger years toiling in the sun. His grey hair was tied back in a braid with a plain black cord, and an ugly scar looked like it had been cloven in two and then roughly sewn back together. He closed the door behind him with a curt nod to the young officer behind him. Bromwell stepped forward and extended his hand.
“Lord Bridgeman.”
The man took it and stared at him gravely. “Things are not good, Captain.” His voice was low and strong.
“No, sir, they are not. Any word yet on who is responsible for this?”
“None yet. I need a drink.”
“Indeed. I think we could both use one. Whiskey? I have a fine bottle from home.”
“Aye. I am tired of the rum.”
Bromwell drew a key from his front jacket pocket and unlocked the cabinet behind his desk. He produced a bottle and two crystal glasses, placed them on the table, and sighed.
“Ben, what is going on here?” The captain uncorked the whiskey.
“I wish I knew, Richard. I really do. The murder of a Lieutenant Governor?! It is difficult enough explaining what he was doing, traipsing around the countryside, let alone how he was discovered.”
“I have that taken care of, Ben. The house belongs to a mutual friend of ours, so a visit should not raise any eyebrows.”
“Very good. But then to have the Governor set sail the very next day? It can’t be a coincidence.”
“My thoughts exactly. Any idea as to where he is going? He refused a Navy escort and took his personal ship.”
“Word is he was headed for Petite Goave. Some shite about a trade discussion with the French governor there.”
“Petite Goave?” Bromwell nearly choked on his whiskey. “Are you sure?”
Bridgeman sipped his drink and nodded. “Absolutely. Why?”
“This can’t be a coincidence!”
“Are you going to tell me what the fuck you are talking about, Richard?”
“Admiral Throckmorton set sail this morning as well. He dispatched a message to Commodore Sexton that he was meeting with a French delegation to discuss our mutual hostilities with Spain. Care to guess where this supposed meeting was to take place?”
“Petite Goave,” Bridgeman breathed. “Sweet mother of God. The Admiral is part of it, too!”
“Part of what, though? We still have nothing solid to implicate anyone in anything. Beckford was supposed to have letters. Documents. Ledgers and the like. He indicated to me that he had enough to, at the very least, open a formal inquiry into Mara’s conduct.”
“So where are those documents now, hmm? A shilling says they are burned and scattered to the wind.”
The two men sat in silence for a moment, drinking deeply. Bromwell refilled both of their glasses.
“So where does that leave us?”
Bridgeman nodded and lifted his glass. “Indeed, that is the question, my young friend.”
“We could send a ship to Petite Goave after them,” the officer suggested.
“And then what? Confirm that they are there? Verify that they talked to French people? And a second British warship showing up in a French port is less than inconspicuous. What do we know for sure?”
“Beckford said there were irregularities in the finances of the Lord Governor’s estate, to begin with.”
“Missing monies?”
“To the contrary. Huge increases unexplainable by any legal means.”
“Interesting. What else?”
“Letters sent on unfamiliar ships. Arriving from unknown origins.”
“That is certainly vague.”
“I know. He did not want to go into detail until he could show me. Now I wish I had pressed him harder. But the most disturbing thing to me was the reports of piracy.”
Bridgeman coughed, nearly spilling his whiskey. “The Governor? A pirate?” He could not help but laugh.
“No, of course not, Ben. But I am certain you have heard about the recent increase in pirate attacks in the region. Well, so did the Governor. And yet, sometimes he demands action and the heads of those preying on our citizens, and other times it is as if someone mentioned a stray dog was wandering by.”
“That is curious,” said Bridgeman slowly. “Any pattern to this? Description of the pirates?”
“If there is, it was lost with Beckford,” sighed Bromwell.
Bridgeman crossed the room and studied the map on the wall. “Do you remember our first conversation, Richard?”
“Of course, Ben. In the salon of Pierre-Paul Tarin de Cussy. You were declaring that piracy was dead and gone in the Caribbean.”
“Aye,” the older man chuckled. “One of the few moments in my life I was dead wrong, it seems. You were bold to point that out, my young captain.”
“I was only a Lieutenant then. Merely there as an escort to make Captain Genshaft look good. I should have held my tongue.”
“Indeed. But you didn’t, and I put in a good word for you with the Admiral. But never mind all that. There is a pirate problem in the Caribbean. No one can dispute that. There is also something very unseemly going on that involves the governor and the admiral. At least one good man has died because of it.”
“But what can we do? Especially if the Admiral is involved.”
“We need more information. We need to know what is going on in Petite Goave. And who else is there.”
“And how exactly do you propose to do that? We are back to where we started!” Bromwell slammed his glass down on the desktop in frustration.
“Patience, Captain. I know some people who might be able to help. They specialize in this sort of thing.”
The younger man raised his head and looked at Bridgeman. “I will not be party to anything illegal, Ben.”
Bridgemen dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Of course not, Richard. I won’t jeopardize your precious reputation. All we want is information. It is not like we are killing anyone.”
The officer nodded. “Not yet, anyway.”
The crowd at La Débarcadère was boisterous, even by harbor tavern standards. Petite Goave was a French port, but openly welcomed any and all comers, even pirates. When the Irredeemable had arrived earlier in the day, shopkeepers and tavern owners either closed up early or put on a happy face and hoped to make some extra gold. Paddy Griffin was one of the latter and was already smiling at the coin being spread around. The owner of La Débarcadère hurried his staff to fill and refill the mugs of ale being consumed at an impressive rate by Captain Johnson’s crew, and he even sent a bottle of Jerez sherry to the lovely Dulcinea del Vigo, who was sitting alone in the corner. The case of Spanish wine had cost him dearly, but he knew that if he kept Johnson’s men – and woman – happy, he could expect a great return. Griffin felt elated when del Vigo graced him with a slight nod as the bottle was being presented, yet a knot appeared the same instant as well. With a nervous smile and a half-bow, he trundled his huge frame through the tavern, urging his staff to keep up.
“Hey, David,” called out one of the sailors. “Give us a tune, will ya?”
David Rowles, one of Johnson’s long-time crewmen, stepped onto the small stage, waving a mandolin in one hand and a flagon of mead in the other. “You louts want a song, do ya?”
“Aye!!!” The roar was unanimous.
“Then sit yer poxxy arses down and listen,” he laughed loudly. He took a swig from his cup and set it on the stage next to the stool that had been provided for him. He gave a half-hearted attempt at tuning the instrument, and then broke into a bawdy verse.
Here’s to the whores of Sailortown,
The white, the black, the yellow and brown.
Walk right in, lay your money down
And fuck the night away.
The men crowed with laughter and banged their mugs on the wooden tables, singing along.
There’s Betty from Port Adelaide,
The prettiest hooker I ever laid.
She has a cunny that is snug enough,
And tits as big as the Sunday duff.
There’s Nancy lives in Port Mahon,
By God, she is an Amazon.
She’ll wrap her legs around my waist
And mash her tits against my face.
Verse after verse he sang, each raunchier than the last. The pirates loved it. Ewan MacDonald rolled his eyes, but laughed as he leaned in the doorway to the other main room of the tavern.
“You’d think they’d never heard the bloody song before,” he said incredulously. When no response came, he looked back into the room behind him at Johnson, who sat expressionless at a table all alone. In fact, other than Matthew Hall tearing into a roasted lamb shank at another table, they were the only three in the room.
“Something the matter, Captain? You’ve not even touched your ale,” said MacDonald.
Johnson wordlessly picked up the large flagon and drained it in one quaff. He slammed it back down on the table, and a pretty serving girl rushed in to refill it. As she scurried out, he repeated the motion, slamming the tankard down again.
“Okay,” said MacDonald. “At least we know your drinker works.”
“Where is he?” Johnson still didn’t look at either of the men.
“Who, Captain?” Hall mumbled through his meal, juices running down his beard and fingers.
“MacRorie, dammit. He is supposed to be here!”
“I cannae say, sir,” said MacDonald carefully. “We only arrived this morning. And we dannae know where’s he’s coming from, eh?”
“I thought he would be here.”
“Whatta ya need him for, anyway?” spat Hall. “He’s just another scabby lout like the rest of us.”
Johnson finally looked up and locked Hall with his gaze. “I need him here to discuss matters your infinitesimal mind can’t fathom, you syphilitic cockstain. MacRorie has more brain in his left nut than you have in your entire head!”
Hall stood, clearly angry. “Maybe so, but you’ll never see him letting some bitch lead him around like a puppy.”
Johnson’s pistol was suddenly in his hand and pointed at Hall’s chest. MacDonald tried to control the situation.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you stupid blighters! Put it away, Captain!”
Johnson didn’t move. He spoke very quietly. “Do you feel like dying today, Mister Hall?” The man shook his head quickly, looking furious and terrified at the same time. Johnson continued. “Good. Then I suggest you sit your stupid, limp-dicked ass down and finish your dinner.” He slipped the flintlock back into his waistband and stormed towards the back door.
As he reached it, the door flew open, and John Abbott ran in, laughing. “Captain, you're gonna love this! I just saw…” His eyes widened as Johnson drew his pistol again. This time, there was no hesitation. The explosion brought the music in the tavern to a stop, Rowles looking to MacDonald in the doorway.
“Carry on, Davy,” he called. “Captain’s just making a point.” The room erupted in laughter, and the musician picked up the next verse.
In Antwerp, by the Kattendyke,
Annie sings a song I like:
’Jiggy-jiggy, Johnny, it’s so fine –
Come and get some sixty-nine.’
Paddy Griffin cleaned up the remains of John Abbott himself and dumped the body in the harbor. MacDonald assured him no one would miss the boy, and besides, the Scotsman had given him a bag of Spanish reales worth a fortune. Griffin didn’t know what had happened and did not want to know. The only thing he heard when he left was MacDonald saying to Hall, “I never liked that little arse-weevil anyway. But watch yer tongue next time, Matty. Something’s vexing the captain, mark my words. And that bodes ill for us all.”
You can get a bottle at your local ABC.