Bridge of fire, p.24
Bridge of Fire, page 24
He drew up another chair and sat facing her. “I realize that this may be an ordeal for you. I’m sorry about your husband, a brave man, but such are the fortunes of war.”
She wanted to spit at him, but her mouth was so dry, she couldn’t bring moisture to it.
“So you do not choose to speak.” He looked her up and down, coolly, without desire, much as a man would assess the good points of a horse or a mule he has won as a prize. She was aware in a dim, dull sort of way that her grimy face and torn dress did not impress him, and she was glad. If hate could kill, he would have been dead by now.
“I see by your eyes that you are angry, and rightly so.” Blanchard gave her a small smile. “But let me assure you that no harm will come to you. As soon as your ransom is collected, we will set you free.”
Ransom? From whom? Who was left of her family to buy her freedom? No one, no one at all. The unreal nightmare of grief and terror she found herself in, capped by a polite request for ransom, struck her as insanely funny. And suddenly, as if a dam had burst, she began to laugh and sob, gripped by a hysteria she could not control.
The buccaneer struck her. His slap had the weight of a powerful arm behind it and snapped her head back on her neck. The laughter and the tears ceased abruptly. She sat still, eyeing him, her hand on her stinging cheek.
He rose and went to a cabinet and removed a bottle, pouring some of the contents into a chased Venetian glass. “Rum,” he said, holding it out to her.
“I don’t want it.”
“Drink it,” he ordered, pushing the glass at her.
She was too drained to argue. The rum burned her throat, and she coughed. He waited a moment, then put the glass to her lips again.
“Finish it. Please.” She swallowed, closing her eyes momentarily as the raw liquor spread warmth through her body.
Blanchard put the glass aside. “Now we can talk in a more civil manner. Please, what is your name?” He had a way, she noticed, of being civil, of saying “please,” that carried with it an undertone of threat. He was courteous, but it was a courtesy that masked a ruthless will.
Gathering the tatters of her exhausted strength, she drew herself up, meeting his hard black eyes. “I am your prisoner, señor, and I suppose I have no choice.”
“None. I think it would be wise if we understand each other from the beginning. You are called…?”
“My name,” she said with biting clarity, “is Doña Francisca de Silva de Diaz y Roche.”
“And your husband, the captain—I assume he was the captain—of the Espíritu?”
“Don Miguel Velasquez del Castillo.”
A flicker of interest passed across his face and was gone. “Then you were a passenger.”
She did not correct him.
“And your husband, then, is…where?”
“He is dead.”
“Your family?”
“They are either dead or in prison.”
He leaned back in his chair, contemplating her again with cool appraisal. “It will gain you nothing to lie, Señora. If you are no good to us for ransom, then I have no choice but to pass you among my men for their amusement.”
Francisca felt her skin crawl. She had seen enough of the pirates to know that they were a crude, barbarous lot. Hairy and unwashed, they had crowded around her, their eyes filled with lust, before Blanchard had ordered her transferred to La Duchesse. To lie stripped naked before them while each took his turn, panting like animals over her, was a horror she did not want to contemplate. If the buccaneer chose to kill her, she could accept death, but not mass rape.
She realized now the mistake she had made in telling the truth. If she had named her husband as ransomer, it would have taken months before the pirate’s emissary traveling to and from Mexico City would have discovered Ruy was dead, months during which she might have attempted, and perhaps succeeded in, escape. But wait, she told herself; it might not be too late to invent a lie.
“Very well,” she said after a few moments, as if she had given the matter weighty thought. “I have an uncle in Acapulco. He trades in goods from the Philippines and could well afford to stand my ransom.”
“I see.” He had eyes that seemed all of a piece, pupil and iris black and as hard as stone. “And you and this uncle are on good terms?”
“Yes. I am his favorite niece.” Did he believe her? She couldn’t tell.
“His name?”
“Don Alonso de Cardenas. He lives on the Calle de Flores, not far from the waterfront.”
“I see.”
She wished he would stop saying, “I see.” She wished she could read those implacable features, the eyes that gave away nothing.
“Acapulco is a long way from here. It means sending someone across the isthmus on muleback, unless we chose to go round the cape. And then there is no assurance that your uncle would be forthcoming. It depends…”
Again the black eyes assessing her.
“You could put me ashore in Jamaica,” she suggested. He smiled, a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I am afraid I would not receive a hospitable welcome in Jamaica. I would say the same goes for Havana, if you are thinking of that.”
“No.”
“We might have had another alternative had you been a virgin.” He shrugged, a movement of powerful muscles that rippled under the claret velvet. “There is a certain gentleman that pays fairly well for untried maidens—white, that is, and fairly young. But, of course…”
Again that smile that in the growing dimness of the cabin seemed sinister.
“Why don’t you run me through with your cutlass and have done with it?” she asked wearily, irritated because she was forced to bargain in this manner with a scoundrel.
He leaned back in his chair, fingering the inlaid ivory and silver handle of his cutlass. “You have spirit, I see, Señora. But I make it a rule not to use violence against my female prisoners.”
“But you would have them raped?”
“Used, Señora,” he corrected. “But…” He leaned forward so that his velvet-clad knee touched hers. This time, oddly enough, she felt no impulse to shrink back. For a span of moments her irritation and dislike, lulled under his suave civility, gave her the false sense of dealing with a gentleman. “I will consult with my men before I make a decision. In the meanwhile, I am sure you will want a fresh gown. And a bath—sea water, I’m afraid.”
She stifled the impulse to thank him. Why should she thank him for murdering Miguel, for taking her captive?
“You may use my cabin. I advise you not to venture too far from it since my crew is not always of the same mind as myself. There is a key to the door you may use for safety’s sake.”
He rose, brooding down at her for several moments. “It will be a long voyage for you, Señora. Let us hope, for your sake, it is a successful one.”
While she waited, she had time to study the cabin, which was furnished more luxuriously than the Espíritu's. There were rich carpets underfoot, a heavily carved wardrobe against one bulkhead, and a bed, wide enough to be shared by two, hung with brocade and silk. Another chest, decorated with fruit and flower marquetry, was brought in by a tall, thin pirate, who gave her sidelong glances as if he had been warned not to look at her but could not help himself. When he had gone, she lifted the lid and found that it contained gowns of satin and velvet, in hyacinth blues and apple greens. In addition, there was silk underclothing, petticoats and shifts, minutely stitched with gossamer threads, and beautifully embroidered. And slippers of doeskin leather.
Booty, of course. From what ships had this apparel been stolen? Who had worn the gown and petticoats, and what feet had walked in these slippers? The furnishings in the cabin, the Venetian glass, the gold-knobbed press, the inlaid table, the bed itself, perhaps the rum, too, had all come by the sword, murder and pillage done with callous brutality.
And she was a prisoner of these men, bound to them, their possession until redeemed, an impossibility since there was no generous uncle in Acapulco. The thought of taking her own life as a way out of her dilemma flashed through her mind. With Miguel dead, what reason did she have to go on? But even as the thought occurred, she dismissed it. There was Jorge. For him alone she must survive; she could not surrender. As long as there was the possibility—even remote—that she and her child would be reunited, she would face whatever had to come. Perhaps, if God was with her, the Duchesse would be captured by a merchant ship whose sympathetic captain would set her free.
No one disturbed her while she bathed in a rusty tin tub, the sea water stinging her skin. Dressed and combed, she was silently served by the thin man, who brought in a supper of beef packed in vinegar, and rice studded with currants. After he had removed the tub and the tray, she locked the door. Then, fully clothed, she lay down on the bed and, finally giving vent to her grief for Miguel, cried herself to sleep.
In the afternoon of the following day Jean Blanchard knocked upon her door.
“Señora—” the same courteous bow “—may I come in?” His gaze took her in: the crimson gown with its clinging bodice, the slim waist aproned in lace, the white arms exposed from elbow to wrist. Something moved behind those black eyes, an unfathomable thought or emotion. Surprise? Male admiration? She could not tell.
“I can understand now where your uncle might be well disposed to pay the one hundred thousand pieces of eight,” was all he said by way of noting the change in her appearance.
It was, at best, a left-handed compliment. Yet Francisca had to stifle the civil urge to thank him.
“I’ve come to tell you that we are bringing the Duchesse into a lagoon to careen and refit her. You will be transferred to one of the smaller ships until we are ready to sail again.”
“Would it be possible for me to go ashore and stretch my legs on dry land?”
“No. I assure you, señora, that this particular island is uninhabited, if you are thinking of seeking assistance. Furthermore, the men will be dividing booty, then celebrating with drink and boisterous carousing. It could be unpleasant.”
She wished he wouldn’t smile that way. There was something in the curve of his lips, the steady, dark gaze, that inferred he might enjoy the unpleasantness himself. She did not like him any the better for it.
After a week the fleet set sail again, on the prowl, looking for the Spanish flota that was rumored to be on its way from Cartagena to Puerto Rico. A few days later in the early afternoon as they lay in wait in the Mona Passage, they caught sight of the fleet. Twenty-three ships, all heavily armed, with the snouts of their cannon poking out below the taffrails. Francisca, watching from the porthole, saw them sailing majestically by and thought, with a lift of her Spanish heart, that Blanchard’s pirates would not dare to attack. She was right. The pirates kept their distance. But after the others had disappeared over the horizon, a laggard came along, a galleon alone and unprotected.
Francisca heard a cry go up. She went out on deck and watched while a pinnace, a boat with a single sail and eight oars, was made ready. It was launched after nightfall and joined by two others from adjacent barques. It was too dark and the Spanish galleon too far away for Francisca to see what was happening, and although she strained her ears, she heard no sound of shots.
The pinnaces returned toward dawn laden with booty. As Francisca learned later, it had been a bloodless capture. The man had scrambled up the poop and, surprising the officers over cards and brandy, had seized the great ship without firing a shot.
Two weeks later the pirate fleet dropped anchor in the harbor of Tortuga, their home port. Levasseur, the French governor of this tiny island off the coast of Hispaniola, acted as middleman, buying the cargoes the corsairs had captured, then disposing of them to his advantage at Port Royal, Jamaica.
Here on Tortuga, Blanchard had built his stronghold. Like the governor, the buccaneer had placed his fortified dwelling on a high, rocky promontory, reached by a series of stone terraces, each of which accommodated a battery of guns and ten men. The last thirty feet to the top was accessible only by means of an iron ladder which could be raised or lowered. Francisca, making that climb, felt her heart sink. Though she had a magnificent view of the sea and the mountains to the north, she felt just as imprisoned as she had been on the Duchesse. How could she possibly escape from this rampart, where the eagle eye of Blanchard’s sentries could detect anything that moved along the face of the rock?
Yet she would not allow herself to despair. Some day, she told herself, an opportunity would come, how or in what guise, she could only imagine in fantasy. But she was determined that she would not surrender to apathy, that she would never permit herself to be reduced to a slave or used as a whore by Blanchard’s thugs.
She was given a large, airy room, where sunshine poured in from windows framed in crimson velvet. The walls were hung with beautifully wrought tapestries depicting Aphrodite rising naked from the sea and Eros poised with bow and arrow. The bedposts, carrying out the love motif, were carved in the form of cupids. The chest containing the apparel she had used aboard the Duchesse was carried in. But there were more gowns hanging on pegs in a lacquered Chinese cupboard, lovely wide-skirted silks of gray, turquoise, and black.
Francisca wondered who had used this room before her, what woman had slept in the bed, fingered the gowns, stared out of the window. Another prisoner like herself? Or perhaps at one time Blanchard had had a wife or a mistress, a woman who no longer graced his island home.
He came the next day to inquire if she was comfortable.
“As comfortable as anyone confined against their will can be,” she answered tartly.
“How you fare depends entirely on you.” He was dressed in black velvet, the white of his shirt contrasting with his dark skin. Handsome, Francisca thought dispassionately, in a sinister sort of way. “You may have the run of the house, if you wish. And if I see that you have accepted your situation with grace, then you may go anywhere on the island you choose.”
“You would trust me, then?”
“Tortuga is a small place, Señora, eight leagues in length and two in breadth.” He seated himself in a high-backed chair and stared at her with impassive eyes before he spoke again. “You may hide in the woods, perhaps, or swim to Hispaniola, but I doubt you would do either.”
“Are you that certain?”
He shrugged. “We would find and bring you back, in any case. And then…well…” He spread his hands. “I shall leave it to your imagination.”
She said nothing, her mind refusing to imagine.
“The governor dines with me tonight,” he went on. “We should be honored by your presence.”
She was on the point of refusing when it occurred to her that she might appeal to Levasseur for her release. True, he dealt in pirate booty, but he was an official of the French government and might be persuaded to negotiate or order her to be freed.
“I will be pleased to attend,” she said, smiling sweetly, thinking that rancor had not accomplished much. Should the governor fail her, she might lull Blanchard into believing her docile, and thus make him less watchful.
She wore crimson, her skirt and low-cut bodice slashed over with cloth of gold. She had no jewels—the few she had received from Miguel had been taken from her—and her slender white throat rising from a creamy bare neckline cried out for the sparkle of precious gems. Yet gazing at her poised and regal reflection in the baroque-framed glass, she asked herself, what is vanity? If Miguel was not here to see her, what did it matter if she had no jewels? What did it matter if her cheeks glowed pink again, and the black hair he loved so well (worn tonight in a braided crown intertwined with a golden ribbon) had regained its glossy luster? It was for Miguel she wanted to be beautiful, and for no other.
The governor rose and kissed her hand, his small, slitted eyes going over her in a frank disrobing sweep. He was not alone. The woman with him was introduced as Madame Lenoir, obviously Levasseur’s mistress. Madame, no longer young, with pale blue eyes, a painted face, and blond curls piled high on her head, gazed at Francisca with undisguised venom.
Francisca ignored her. Seated next to Levasseur at a table laden with silver and gold service, Francisca tried to engage the governor in conversation and found, to her dismay, that he did not understand a word of Spanish. What few French phrases she had managed to pick up since her capture were woefully inadequate to convey her message. Nevertheless, she smiled a great deal at him, and later, when they had retired to the grand salon for coffee and brandy, she managed a few moments alone with him while Blanchard was engaged in showing Madame Lenoir the recent acquisition of a marble statuette. By using her hands and what she believed were eloquent facial expressions, Francisca sought to explain her predicament. The governor, however, took her efforts as flirtatious, and covertly grasped her hand, guiding it to his swollen member.
She moved away from him quickly and seated herself in a chair across the room, where she remained until the couple bid their adieus.
After they had gone, Jean Blanchard gave Francisca his arm and escorted her back to her room. Instead of leaving her in the corridor, he came inside, closing the door behind him.
“I am very tired,” Francisca began. “I would prefer—”
“I don’t give a damn what you prefer. Sit down.” There was cold fury behind those words, all the more intense because his face did not betray a sign of emotion. “Sit! Por favor! Please. That’s better.”
He towered over her, observing her with a cool malevolence. “What did that performance mean in there? And don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. You were batting your eyes and thrusting your bosoms at the governor like a prostitute soliciting a client.”
She went red to the roots of her hair.
“So you can still blush. Did you have the mistaken notion that he would pay your ransom, or perhaps that by offering yourself as a bed partner, he would help you escape? Let me dissuade you. The man is venal. But not stupid. He knows better than to cross me.”
“Then you own him, too,” Francisca said, recovering from the insult, meeting his hard gaze with a determination not to allow this rogue to intimidate her.
