Pirates of the Timestream (13 page)

“That’s right, Commander,” Boyer admitted unflinchingly. “I revealed that we’re time travelers, and that we know she’s one. It seemed the only way to induce her to open up. And it did.” He proceeded to relate Zenobia’s story. “And so,” he concluded, “she’s out for herself now. She’s not inclined to join us, but she’s hardly likely to tell the Transhumanists about us.”

“What if she
had
still been on speaking terms with them?” Mondrago demanded. “How could you be sure she wasn’t?”

“I couldn’t be sure,” Boyer admitted. He turned to Jason. “I’m sorry, Commander. I know I took a risk, in violation of orders. But . . . I felt a need to be honest with her.”

Jason considered for a moment. “All right. What’s done is done, and you did obtain some valuable information. And I gather that there are a couple of things you didn’t reveal. One is that we know the ‘demons’ are Teloi.”

“That’s right. I was hoping she’d volunteer some information about them, but she didn’t. Maybe she doesn’t know what they really are.”

“I suppose that’s possible. Same goes for the spacecraft wreckage Asamoa found. You didn’t tell her about that either, did you?”

“No. I felt I’d already told her enough—”

“That’s one way to put it,” Mondrago interjected.

“—and for that reason I also didn’t tell her about the
Oxford
explosion, even though I really wanted to. Commander, we’ve
got
to warn her about that!”

“Why?” Mondrago sounded genuinely puzzled.

Jason shushed him. “Maybe. But for now, no more revelations without my express permission. We’ve got to hold on to all the cards we have left to play.” Then, as an afterthought: “Oh, one other thing, Henri. Don’t tell Nesbit about any of this. He might have a stroke. And,” he added, addressing Mondrago before the latter could open his mouth, “
don’t
say it!”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Morgan had a great bowl of rum punch set up on
Oxford
’s quarterdeck. The captains needed to have their wits more or less about them for their council where the fleet’s destination would be chosen and the articles approved The real drinking would begin afterwards.

The council would be held on deck in the afternoon sun, in full view of the crew crowding around. It was part of the overall rough-and-ready democracy of buccaneer society, unique in this century. Jason and his companions had elbowed their way into a good position, against the starboard rail in the waist just forward of the quarterdeck, for viewing the proceedings, which Grenfell would have cut off one of his own arms rather than miss. From there, they watched the procession of small boats arrive carrying the captains.

Nesbit’s jitters had waxed as the day had progressed. He glanced around the deck as though expecting it to erupt in flames at any moment. “Are you
sure
the explosion isn’t supposed to happen yet?” he asked Grenfell, not for the first time.

“Quite sure, Irving,” Grenfell sighed. “The historical record is quite clear. It doesn’t occur until late at night, well after the captains’ conference has adjourned and the subsequent party has been in progress for some time. We’ll have plenty of time to slip off the ship and steal a boat.”

“But what if someone sees us and raises the alarm?”

“We’ve been over all that, Irving. No one will be in any condition to notice our departure.”

Jason paid no attention to the conversation. He was watching the captains as they clambered up the gangway one by one and came aboard. The French captains looked like what they were: men whose cupidity just barely had the upper hand over their smoldering resentment. All, regardless of nationality, were about as villainous-looking a crew as Jason would have expected. Grenfell thought he could identify some of them by name: Richard Norman, captain of the
Lilly
, Joseph Bradley of the
Mayflower
, Richard Dobson of the
Fortune
, Lawrence Prince of the
Pearl,
John Morris of the
Dolphin
(a particularly close associate of Morgan’s) and others. The Dutch were represented by Bernard Claesen Speirdyke, whose name his English associates perhaps understandably shortened to Captain Bart. Morgan greeted each of them effusively, generally confirming Grenfell’s guesses as to their identity. For this occasion he was dressed as they had first seen him in Port Royal, in his flamboyant version of gentleman’s attire as he felt befitted the Admiral of the Coast.

One of the last to come aboard took a while to get up the gangway, for he was a very big man indeed, and presumably very strong as well, judging from his almost simian arms. He was also, Jason thought, one of the ugliest human beings he had ever seen. His hair, parted in the middle of his massive head, and his drooping mustache were a yellow suggesting exceptionally greasy butter. His eyes, under beetling brow ridges and a notably low and sloping forehead, were a grey so pale as to be practically colorless; they were like empty holes in a face that was hideously scarred and screwed up into a seemingly permanent scowl, lower lip outthrust.

“So much for evolution,” Jason heard Mondrago mutter.

“Roche Braziliano!” Morgan exclaimed. “I hadn’t dared hope that you’d be able to make this rendezvous. Welcome! Thrice welcome! We’ll drink later.” The new arrival’s scowl went down a couple of notches of intensity; Jason got the impression that this was his equivalent of a smile. He gave a couple of grunts; Morgan beamed in apparent agreement with whatever the grunts signified.

Grenfell looked fascinated. “Well, well! We never knew that Roche Braziliano was involved in this particular expedition. It’s recorded that he raided Campeche in 1669, but that could be later in the year.”

Da Cunha looked askance at the name. “If he’s Brazilian, I’m Tibetan!”

“Actually,” Grenfell explained, “he was born Gerrit Gerritszoon at Groningen in the Netherlands. His family moved to Brazil during the mid-1600s when the Dutch controlled it. When the Portuguese recaptured it, he made his way to Jamaica and joined the buccaneers after leading a mutiny. He rose rapidly to the status of captain—of a vessel stolen from other pirates. His greatest claim to fame is the time he was captured by the Spanish at Campeche. He escaped by tricking the local governor, by means of a forged letter, into thinking his followers were standing ready to avenge him if he was hanged.”

“He must be cleverer than he looks,” said Da Cunha in a damning-with-faint-praise tone.

“True. Evidently, he could even read and write. Afterwards, he got back in business by buying a new ship from L’Ollonais, who was an associate of his.”

“What a surprise,” commented Mondrago.

“Finally, I should mention that he is widely regarded among his fellow buccaneers as being . . . well, insane.”

Mondrago stared at the throng around him. “How could anybody
tell
?”

“How did they even
notice
?” Da Cunha added.

“It might have had something to do with his practice of cutting the limbs off Spanish farmers and roasting them alive over pits if they refused to hand over their pigs to him. Also . . . if he ever offers you a drink, I advise you to accept it. He was noted for killing anyone who didn’t.”

Zenobia was the last to arrive. As she strode like a lioness across the deck to greet Morgan, she ostentatiously ignored both leers and surreptitious signs against evil. But she exchanged a brief eye-contact with Boyer and flashed a smile at him before the captains got down to business, surrounded by the audience crowding the deck and clinging to the shrouds and ratlines. When it came to their leaders’ decision-making proceedings, buccaneers were evidently believers in “transparency.”

“My friends,” Morgan began after wetting his throat with rum punch, “I propose that we first settle on the articles to govern our company for the duration of our voyage.” There was a chorus of affirmative-sounding noises.

“This is a departure from the usual procedure,” Grenfell whispered in Jason’s ear. “Generally, pirates would settle on a target first, then hammer out the articles. I suspect that Morgan’s articles are standard ones, and are so well known and so widely accepted that in this case it’s mere routine, to be gotten out of the way at once, without much discussion.”

And so it proved. First came the not unimportant matter of compensation. Plunder was to be allocated on a basis of one share for each common pirate, while a master’s mate got two and a captain got five. As Admiral of the Coast, Morgan would get six. Ships’ boys had to settle for half a share. There were additional bonuses for specialists: a carpenter got a hundred and fifty pieces of eight, a surgeon two hundred and fifty. (Boyer and Nesbit had to endure their companions’ elbows in the ribs at that.) And then came the provisions for recompense for serious wounds. Anyone who lost an arm got six hundred pieces of eight if it was the right and five hundred if the left. For the right and left legs it was five hundred and four hundred respectively. And so forth, down through lost eyes and fingers.

“Disability insurance among pirates!” said Nesbit wonderingly. “I never would have thought it.”

“It was a quite standard element of these articles,” Grenfell assured him. “As was incentive pay,” he added as bonuses for various acts of bravery in battle were enumerated. “In some ways, the Brethren of the Coast were centuries ahead of their times.”

“But what if they didn’t capture any booty?” Da Cunha sounded curious.

“Then nobody got anything. The basic rule was:
no prey, no pay.
”

“Which must be quite an incentive in itself,” Jason reflected. It was yet another reason why the buccaneers fought better than their ill-paid Spanish adversaries.

Next the captains turned to the provisions of the articles governing shipboard conduct. These too were approved expeditiously. Most were fairly commonsensical. Fighting was prohibited, as was gambling—Jason suspected that the latter was considered likely to lead the former. Theft, cheating on the division of spoils, and failure to keep one’s arms fit for action were strongly interdicted. Punishments for violations included death and marooning (which, no doubt, amounted to merely an elaborate and gratuitously cruel sentence of death), but in some cases they were left up to the discretion of the captain and company. Then came a provision that piqued Jason’s interest. When it was read out, there was no dissent, and indeed a mutter of agreement arose from the spectators:

“Any man who shall, in the hold, snap his firelock, or light matches, or smoke tobacco, or carry a lighted candle uncovered by a lanthorn, shall receive Moses’ Law.”

“‘Moses’ Law’?” queried Nesbit in an undertone. “I didn’t know these people were Jewish.”

Grenfell smiled. “It means thirty-nine lashes on your bare back. There were very few offenses for which buccaneers were willing to agree to flogging as a punishment. This was one of them. However wild and crazy these men may seem in most respects, they’re only too well aware that the ships they live aboard are floating fire bombs.”

“And they’re not likely to get drunk enough to forget that,” Jason mused. It made what history said was going to happen to
Oxford
more difficult to understand—downright puzzling, in fact.

After the articles were finalized and signed or marked by all the captains, there followed a brief discussion on their supplies of fresh meat. This too had an air almost of routine. Their favorite was tortoise—and, indeed, the time travelers had found it delicious. It was agreed that they would supplement their supply of it with pork, obtained along the south coast of Hispaniola by nocturnal raids on Spanish hog yards, where Roche Braziliano’s reputation would doubtless help predispose the proprietors to a cooperative attitude.

Finally, Morgan stood up with an air of getting down to the real business. “And now we must choose our destination.” He motioned to a pair of men, who set up a large cowhide map of the Caribbean. It was crude, but it looked to be about as accurate as the current state of cartography permitted. “Everyone may have his say, of course, in accordance with the rules of the Brotherhood. But I want to hear no cautious, timorous ideas.” He swaggered over to a rail and theatrically pounded
Oxford
’s heavy timbers with his fist. “This is a true fighting ship—the greatest ship any of us have ever had. Now is our chance to show the Dons that we can strike them where we will. This is a time for boldness! Let no one propose small, easy targets.” Abruptly, his eyes twinkled and his tone turned mischievous. “Let no one propose Portobello either. I don’t think we’d find much there.”

There was general predatory laughter at Morgan’s pleasantry—which, of course, was his way of reminding them of his coup of the previous year, when he had done what Francis Drake had failed to do. “Campeche?” Captain Dobson suggested hesitantly after it had died down.

“Come, I said no lesser towns,” Morgan reminded him.

“Havana?” someone else offered, in a French-accented voice that suggested he himself didn’t take the idea seriously.

“Bah!” spat a third captain. “That’s not a city, it’s a fortress. One of my men was once held prisoner in one of those three great castles that guard it. He says it would take fifteen hundred men to even attempt it. We’ve got less than two thirds of that.”

Other names were tossed back and forth. Finally, Roche Braziliano spoke up in a basso whose Dutch accent was so thick as to be almost incomprehensible.
Hey, he can talk!
Jason thought. “You don’t fool me, Henry. You already know where you want to go. Why don’t you just go ahead and tell us?”

“That’s right, Captain, let’s hear it!” Zenobia called out. “Don’t keep us waiting.”

Morgan let a dramatic pause last just long enough. Then he drew his cutlass, placed its point on the map at a spot on the northern coast of what would one day be called Columbia, and spoke one word. “Cartagena!”

The stunned silence was followed by a flabbergasted hubbub.

“Hear me!” roared Morgan. “It’s the greatest port in all of Spain’s empire. It’s where they collect all the treasure of Peru! Imagine the booty! And remember, Drake took it. If Drake could do it, so can we.”

“But that was in our great-grandsires’ day!” Captain Norman protested. “The Spaniards learned their lesson from it. Since then they’ve ringed the lagoons with castles, bristling with guns.”

“L’Ollonais tried it, and failed,” rumbled Roche Braziliano lugubriously.

“L’Ollonais didn’t have this ship!
Oxford
’s guns can silence those batteries, and afterwards warehouses full of silver will be ours for the taking! And besides, the strength of Cartagena’s defenses works to our advantage, in a way, because it’s surely made the Dons overconfident.” Morgan’s dark eyes darted around and spotted Jason. “Isn’t that so, Jason? You spent time among the Spaniards, so you know how they think.”

“Aye, Captain!” Jason felt he ought to add something. He recalled a story Grenfell had related. “They say that one day the king of Spain was looking out a window of his palace toward the west. When his courtiers asked him why, he said he expected to be able to see the walls of Cartagena across the ocean, considering how much money he’d spent on them.”

“There! You see? You see?” urged Morgan after the laughter had subsided. “The Dons will never dream that we’ll dare to attack Cartagena, because they don’t know we’ve got
Oxford.
Shall we pass up this chance?”

“No! No!” came the shouts.

“We’ll lose a lot of men,” one pessimistic soul demurred.

Morgan’s eyes sparkled with Welsh devilment, and he spoke with his irresistible Welsh lilt. “Well, the fewer of us who’re left afterwards to divide the spoils, the larger the shares!”

Grenfell had mentioned that Morgan had used this appeal, at once devil-may-care and cold-blooded, before Portobello. Now it worked its magic again, with the aid of the man’s sheer force of personality. The shouts of agreement drowned out any remaining voices of caution.

“Cartagena it is!” Morgan beamed, thrust his tankard into the punch bowl and, after a swallow, poured it out. “Away with this treacle! What a way to ruin perfectly good rum! Captains, you must later come to the great cabin, where a feast is being set out for us. But first, I see the rum-barrels are being hauled up from below decks. Let us all toast the new year, and the certain riches that lie before us!” To uproarious shouts, Morgan and the captains began to lead the toasts.