No Quarter: Wenches - Volume 5

No Quarter - Wenches

Volume 5

By MJL Evans and GM O’Connor

NO QUARTER SERIES COPYRIGHT @ 2014

No Quarter: Wenches COPYRIGHT @ 2017 MJL Evans and GM O’Connor

ISBN: 978-1-988616-10-0

Artwork: GM O’Connor

E-Book Production: MJL Evans

All rights are reserved to the authors. No part of this ebook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smoke on the Water

Thick smoke billowed from all sides of Port Royal. City defenses were depleted. Sloops, spider ships, flyboats, piraguas, and canoes had been arriving in the harbor for days. Pirates flooded the streets and taverns. Hostages were taken to be used as shields and bartering tools, while key areas of the government were captured.

Royal Rook itched the skin beneath his eye patch. His good eye squinted to see through the hazy afternoon sun. The moment had come to seize the slave capital of the New World and declare it a Jacobite state in the name of King James. Revenge for the murder of Bartolomeo Bart Portuguese was a high priority. Bart was not only the founder of the Brethren of the Coast, but also Rook’s father, a fact unbeknownst to him until the settling of Bart’s final affairs. Deep down, Rook had always suspected, as he grew up on Cayman Brac Island under Bart’s watchful eye.

Rook extended his telescope to the harbor. Their captured frigate, Incorrigible, led the way, displaying friendly flags and signaling the proper code words. This was a complicated battle; the different pirate groups had varying interests. There were Les Flibustiers out of Saint-Domingue with their English cousins, the Filibusters; the Samaná Bay Buccaneers, led by the French Capitaine; and the Freebooters, led by Pierre Poilu le Grande.

Chaos, however, had erupted the moment they arrived. Les Flibustiers were not where they were supposed to be, and the city was not taken. Everywhere Rook looked, it had been the same situation. The city defenses had held them back, and they lost valuable time.

Cannons fired from the nearby Fort Carlisle, as Incorrigible was secured on the causeway. Rook’s crew seized townspeople fleeing for their lives. Once the hostages were secured aboard, they charged on the fort. Pirates scaled the walls while Acting Quartermaster Quinton Winter stormed the gate. Once it was breached, Rook led the assault inside with cutlasses swinging. Guards were cut down quickly, leaving blood splatters on the stone foundation.

A messenger arrived, and Winter met up with him. Less than a minute later, the walls ruptured from cannonball blasts. Everyone scrambled for cover.

Winter coughed. Is this according to plan?

Rook snorted. Report, damn it!

We have the armory, Winter said. There are still defenders holed up in the towers. They’re barricaded in. Guess who?

Captain Prins, yes, I’m aware of that part. Rook scanned both directions. Where is Coxon? Why don’t we have the forts?

Coxon hasn’t landed yet. He’s still outside the far fort, unable to get a foothold. We have the King’s House to the Market Square, but Coxon is off target. He took a Spanish galleon across the harbor.

Rook’s shoulders dropped. He had warned Laurens not to underestimate Port Royal. They had planned it down to the last detail. No one could be late, particularly les Flibustiers, who were renowned for their lightning-fast seizure of fortresses and bridges. Curse Laurens. He’ll kill us all. His neck and face went red. We’re cut off. Are we supposed to stay here with our dicks in our hands? Where’s the Capitaine?

The Capitaine failed to capture Fort James. He’s taken the East India ships hostage at the Bonham Point Docks, Winter said.

"Aye, he may have needed les Flibustiers to support him."

Explosions and heavy fire made them run. They ducked beyond the gate wall, crouching behind barrels. Flipped carriages and dead horses littered the streets.

Rook glared up at the tower. Prins, that bloody slaver, must have his whole crew up there. I want his head and won’t leave Port Royal without it.

Should I press on ahead and get Tiny out? Winter asked.

Tiny McAllister had volunteered to evacuate their spy, Glenda, the barmaid at the Swiftsure Tavern. Before they were able to make good their escape, both were arrested. This didn’t concern Rook, as they had men inside the prisons, ready to attack. No, we can’t get to him now. Take hostages and occupy the market.

Winter gave him a cold stare.

It’s just the way it is. We’ll get him back. We can’t take Fort Carlisle without backup. Where’s our support?

There’s one more thing. Winter stopped him. "Bloody Mary is docked by the Wherry Bridge. Slasher Al is here and under a King James flag. Him and Ginger both."

What the bleedin’ hell? Find out who hired him and send someone to find the bastard. The rest of you with me. Keep low and hold out for backup.

Rook wanted a confrontation. The entire plan was shot to hell. His grip tightened around his cutlass. When a runner returned with news, Rook and his men were led to the Crown and I Tavern.

A crooked sign marked its entrance. A list of rules indicated no cockfighting, no flea-bitten tramps, and no duels by cutlass or pistol inside. Within, drunken pirates filled the wooden benches, raising their mugs and bellowing, A ship was sailing from the east and going to the west, loaded with silks and satins and velvets of the best. Some had passed out on the stone floor, snoring beside the fireplace.

What is this? Rook sensed a bitter tang in his mouth as one of the pirates vomited into a barrel. Get up. Who’s your captain?

Captain Slazerelli, mate. A pirate belched, expelling a gust of stale ale.

But we ain’t seen him, said another.

You been in here the whole time? Winter asked sharply.

A drunken pirate looked up. What’s the name of this place?

Um, the Crown and I, methinks, another replied, raising his mug. I claim this here tavern in the name of King James!

Cups were raised. Hear, hear!

Rook spat in their direction. Kill them all and seize their prisoners, now.

Oi, ’ang on, a pirate uttered.

Rook stormed out as Winter and the men aimed their guns. Shots sounded, followed by the thud of dead bodies hitting the floor. He didn’t know who had double-crossed him, but he vowed to find out.

Miles Gladstone could smell the smoke of the burning city through the slit of a window in his cell in Marshallsea Prison. He patted his perspiring brown forehead and exhaled.

Two days ago, he and Alban Jones had allowed themselves to be taken as prisoners. It was an old buccaneer trick to get behind enemy lines. To help liberate their friends and family, he and Jones were risking their lives by diving into the middle of the great pirate raid on Port Royal.

Gladstone tiptoed over to the barred window to see the boat-infested harbor. It’s a nest of vipers out there.

Aye, it’s makin’ it look like a paradise in here, Jones said.

Fire in the hole, someone yelled, followed by a grenade explosion, coupled with footsteps and slamming metal.

Take hostages and slaves, free the prisoners, another voice said.

Over here. Gladstone waved through the bars. Help, over here!

A bit more pirate-like, lad, Jones said.

Arr, we’re down here, arr!

A squad of pirates entered the corridor, shooting the guards. A red-haired pirate wearing a kilt grabbed the keys and unlocked the doors.

Gladstone knew it was none other than Red Legs Greaves. Much obliged, Mr. Red Legs. He and Jones were reunited with Cymru’s crew.

You know what to do, Jones told them. "Get the rest of the lads and make for the ship. It’s a bloody war out there. Cymru is at the prison dock; she’ll never be closer."

I’ve got to find the Capitaine’s men, Gladstone said. I swore it. And I’m not leaving without Ekene, right?

Well, off to Hell for us then. Right.

Gladstone led them further down into the prison where a mixture of sweat and blood hung in the air. They came to a gate where pirates had already broken in.

Isn’t this where they keep people who belong in prison? Jones pondered.

Gladstone took the torch from the wall and held it out front. They followed the sound of a French dialect down a corridor. An emaciated, dirt-encrusted man unlocked the cages of his peers. He paused to stare at Gladstone and Jones.

Are you with the Capitaine? Gladstone asked.

Jones tapped his shoulder. The code word.

"Uh, la lune de miel?"

The man continued to stare. "La lune de miel?"

Jones grimaced. I pray to God we’re not saying anything romantic.

Capitaine? The man gave them a look of acknowledgement.

Oui, the Capitaine, Gladstone said.

Capitaine has come for us! the man called to his crewmates.

I’m Gladstone, and this is Alban Jones. We’re here to get you out.

Beaumont. He indicated to another sickly crewman. Poivre.

"Witte Lam is waitin’ in the harbor, lads." Jones assisted a pale, feverish man to his feet.

Where are Mr. Picard and Louis? Poivre asked.

Down there.

Jones motioned to the stairs. After you, Mr. Gladstone. I insist.

Gladstone entered the blackest, most cheerless hovel he’d ever set foot in. A man hung from shackles, his arms above his head, while his body slumped partially on the ground. Rags hung from his chest and upper thighs, while the bones of his bloody kneecaps were exposed.

François? Beaumont knelt beside him. Monsieur Picard?

Le Picard tried to lift his head. I have looked better.

Relieved, Beaumont unlocked the shackles. We’re getting out of here.

Gladstone entered a stone chamber. Another crewman was strapped into a wood and iron chair, his limbs trapped in a crushing vice. Gladstone gagged, then vomited in the corner.

Once le Picard was liberated, Beaumont carried him. Another crewman entered. Delacroix, help us with Martel.

They watched helplessly.

"Mon Dieu, Louis! Get him out of it," le Picard ordered.

Gladstone examined the device, shuddering. He couldn’t get the stench of putrefying flesh and blood out of his nostrils. Aye, we’ll get ya out. It’s just where to begin, is all.

Hurry, le Picard said.

I gotta figure out how first. We could make him worse, or even kill him.

Kill me, Martel uttered.

We’ll get you out, mate, hold on, le Picard said.

This is gonna take awhile. Emotion drained from Jones’s face. The Capitaine said to get you out first. He met le Picard’s eyes. This delays things. Help Mr. Picard to the ship and we’ll follow shortly.

I’m not going without him.

Beaumont lowered le Picard beside the chair.

Get the men to safety and report to the Capitaine.

Beaumont and Delacroix departed.

Gladstone released the pressure from one of the arm vices.

Martel shrieked.

He’s been like this a long time, Jones remarked.