CHAPTER ELEVEN
DRAGO STRODE ACROSS the Dragon’s deck, toward the helm. He almost stopped at the abbey after Mass for a final farewell to the children. The thought made him shudder. His visit would have provided another opportunity for the twins to beg and plead to accompany him, which would have been more than unpleasant. The unpleasant stuff would’ve been the begging, not the actual accompaniment, which in all honesty he might have enjoyed under any other circumstances.
He braced his stance wide against the subtle rock of the Dragon. The wind had picked up from the Northeast, a good sign. That and the current through the Yucatán Channel should speed their journey.
“Oy, Captain Gampo, sir!”
Drago’s attention shifted to the wrinkled, grizzled, form of Mr. Harvey, as the man limped in his direction. Although the curmudgeon regularly threatened to quit Drago and the sea, he usually appeared when it was time to hoist the anchor.
“Good morning, Harvey.” He shouldn’t take on the old sailor again. The man had a nice little hut situated among a grove of mango trees, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what brought the old salt back. He claimed he gave up seafaring after being awarded a king’s ransom for helping Sauvage family find a treasure hidden by an ancient relative--a famous female pirate named Anne Bonny.
The old man wasn’t content to stay off the water and live out his days in sated leisure. Drago had tried to persuade him to remain in Jamaica this time, but the stubborn mule wouldn’t listen. Even likelihood of danger wouldn’t sway him. He insisted he go along and make sure “...that squid-brained son of a one-eyed cur” meaning the twins’ Uncle Bernard, “kept his arse outta harm’s way.”
The friendship the two old men developed during the harrowing sail from South Carolina to Jamaica a few years ago, was one worth protecting, it seemed. Admirable, but what in the hell did the old dog think he could do among an unorganized New Orleans population of fewer than ten thousand Americans?
Take out half the number to account for women and they were down to five.
Eliminate the children and the sick or elderly as well, and the city had, at best, two thousand healthy men.
Against fifteen thousand combat-hardened soldiers fresh from the battle of Waterloo.
It would be a bloodbath.
How many Americans understood basic warfare? His guess: very few. Some didn’t even own or know how to fire a gun. If he was feeling generous, which he certainly was not, he might agree half of the two thousand men might know how to both fight a war and use a gun. However, how many of the rest knew how to persevere in an organized campaign? Or even a disorganized one?
He was sailing into disaster, and quite probably his death unless he could make it out of there before the British arrived.
At least the children were safe.
“Is the crew all accounted for?” Drago finally asked Harvey. “Did the Guirauds boarded yet?”
“Aye, sir, the Frenchies be in the first cabin.” He tilted his head up, one eye squinted nearly closed against the dawning sun. “I expected to see those two heathens running about. Don’t tell me the little skirt is still feelin’ poorly.”
Drago clasped his hands behind his back and inhaled a lungful of the fresh ocean breeze. There was something about the dawn of setting sail that always set his blood on fire. Men steadily and methodically checking rigging and belaying pins, adjusting spars, joking, laughing. He shot a pained scowl at him. “Jacqueline’s much better, but I’ve left the twins with the nuns.”
Harvey snorted. “I’m sure they weren’t happy about that.”
He winced. “Not a bit.”
Harvey scratched his stubbly chin. “Will we be takin’ on any more cargo? I noticed the hold ain’t quite full.”
Freight would slow them down. “No time. We must arrive well ahead of the British and get in and out of New Orleans as fast as we can.”
A flash of black and white caught his eye. He whirled. Was that...? No...it couldn’t be.
Harvey followed Drago’s gaze and snatched the worn cap from his noggin as Sister Beatrice bounced toward them with that tottering gait of hers. She stopped short of the stair leading up to the helm, clasped her hands in front of her and lifted her head up, stoic and determined.
Drago groaned. Perhaps he should have visited the abbey. He glanced past her, expecting the novitiate in white robes on her heel but curiously there was no sign of her.
“Where is Sister Eva?” An uneasy sensation seeped into his stomach. He didn’t want the woman on his vessel that was certain, but there was something almost alarmingly wrong with her absence.
Sister Beatrice’s determined expression stuttered to one of wary confusion. “She’s...with the children, of course.”
He narrowed his eyes. Still not relieved. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Sister Eva and the twins hovered at the old nun’s elbow. In fact, he half expected they’d be here somewhere and had intended to sweep the decks for stowaways prior to departure. The elder sister’s information saved him the trouble. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence on my boat, Sister Beatrice?”
The nun inhaled deeply, giving the impression she carried a great burden on her shoulders. “I am in most desperate need of your assistance, Captain Gamponetti. As you are aware, Sister Eva has discovered a plot to steal our relics from the Saint Louis Cathedral.”
He nodded. Of course, he was aware; the solemn oath he made was never too far from his mind. So was the inevitable betrayal. Between the sugarcane fascines and the relic mission, Judas seemed like an innocent babe.
Sister Beatrice inflated her rather expansive lungs once again. “Captain Gamponetti, I should like to sail with you to New Orleans. We, the other sisters and I, decided we must alert the order personally.”
“I already offered to deliver the message,” Drago said curtly. Evidently, his word to do so wasn’t enough. He mentally shrugged. Nor should it be.
Harvey’s expression soured. “We don’t need that kinda bad luck,” he muttered under his breath, drawing a severe glare; she was well within earshot, apparently. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sister.” He gave her a slight bow but still sent Drago a sideways glower of warning.
He didn’t share Harvey’s dark superstitious sentiment in this particular situation. If the nun accompanied them, he’d be keeping his oath, because it would mean he made an attempt to prevent the theft. Would it not?
“I’m happy to accommodate you, sister. There is a vacant cabin you can use.” He swept his arm to indicate the activity. “However, as you can see, I’m in the process of preparing to depart, and I can’t delay more than an hour or two since the high tide is already past. I’ll send an escort along, to carry your things unless you have them with you?” Her empty arms indicated otherwise, but he felt obligated to ask.
Sister Beatrice shook her head. “I fear I didn’t take the time.”
“My cousin Manuel will help you retrieve your trunk.”
“You are most kind.”
Drago smiled. “Think nothing of it. My hope is that your prayers for a safe crossing will travel to God’s ears much quicker than ours, and be given much more consideration.”
His last comment got Harvey’s attention and the old tar straightened as much as his bony frame would allow. “Kindly give me the honor to offer me own services to ye.” He scurried down then stopped at her shoulder before nodding to her to follow.
Sister Beatrice gave him a quick perusal, confusion evident in her stare. Before she could voice a response, Harvey cupped his mouth with his hands and bellowed, “Manuel, git yer arse to the mizzen, ye blighter!” He cringed and spun to face the nun again. “I apologize fer me language, sister.”
“Oh...of...well...”
So that was how to silence the woman. Apologize before she had a chance to chastise. Drago would store that little snippet of information for later.
Manuel lowered a bulging sack from his shoulder like a mountain might let loose a boulder, propped it against a cluster of barrels and lumbered over. “Aye, Mr. Harvey?”
The grizzled sailor jerked his chin toward the ramp. “C’mon, we’re heading fer the abbey to git the sister’s things.”
Manuel nodded and stepped with him to the gangway entrance, where they bumped shoulders as each tried to step on first. Well, more like he ricocheted off a wall of muscle and bone much like a bullet off a rock.
He staggered against the rail, almost careening directly into the water. The big man flinched and grabbed Harvey’s collar and settled him. Hat jolted askew and now covering one eye, Harvey snapped. “Git offa me ye thick, lumbering sod!” He swung an elbow, which bounced off Manuel’s hip. “Unmph!” He paused to rub the bone. “Damn yer arse,” he grunted. “It’s like hitting a granite horse.”
“No touching,” Manuel muttered, stepping back.
An intrusive cough froze both men. Sister Beatrice stood calmly behind them, her hands tucked under her open-sided tunic.
Manuel’s eyes widened and he hopped to the side, an impressive feat for one of his size. Harvey managed to look embarrassed as he sidled next to Manuel in an invitation for her to pass first, which she promptly accepted.
Manuel fisted his hands and knocked them together. “Is she mad at us?”
“Ain’t no tellin’. Harvey heaved the words from his gut as if they weighed ten stone. “Them nuns are always scowlin’ ‘bout somethin’.” He righted his hat. “Best not ter agitate ‘em.”
Manuel gave the sister’s departing back a wary perusal. “Maybe you should go next, Mr. Harvey.”
“Ye yellow-bellied coward,” Harvey groused. He shoved his thumbs into the waist of his britches, then fell in behind the nun. Although his steps stuttered just a little.
Drago muffled a laugh. A more unlikely trio of characters would never walk the streets of Port Royal.
“I’m no coward,” Manuel mumbled. “But women scare me.”
Harvey’s voice drifted up the ramp. “Then don’t go stirrin’ one up. Yer more likely to keep yer bollocks that way.”
In Harvey’s seventy-one years, he’d never spoken truer words.