Swift Reprisal In Marseille - Z.A. Angell

Swift Reprisal In Marseille by Z.A. Angell

Book excerpt

Marseille, France – August 1688

“The concept of respectable society stretches rather far back in Marseille,” Batiste Bradforde silently mused as he regarded the man approaching him. Black Caesar might be a successful (that is, profit-turning) merchant, but his dealings were, to phrase it delicately, heavy-handed and unscrupulous.

“Bradforde, how come you turned landlubber?” Black Caesar greeted him. “Have you had a falling out with the Knights of St. John?”

For a year, Batiste had been sailing for that glorious militant order, but he and the Knights had hit a shoal of disagreement. They wanted him to join their brotherhood, but he was not keen on the idea. His best future was to become a successful and independent marine merchant. The world was large, he was young, and his life was ahead of him - but he needed money to acquire his own ship.

“I have a compelling reason to remain on shore.” Batiste parried the provocation despite a nagging voice that insisted loitering on land accomplished nothing toward his aim to secure his future.

“How much do they pay you per voyage?” Black Caesar persisted.

“None of your business.”

“That is your loss, Bradforde,” he grunted with an odd inflection. “I could have made you an offer to sail on the Moonlight.”

The recently built brigantine was built for maneuverability and speed, and she was indeed idling in the harbor. Her firepower was limited, but that could be remedied… “I never transport human cargo,” Batiste said, bringing his thoughts to order.

Black Caesar’s blood-shot eyes shifted to the other side of the room to Santina. She had favored Batiste over Black Caesar; it was no wonder that Batiste’s extended stay in Marseille rankled the dejected man.

“No slaves on this voyage,” Black Caesar said brusquely. “But why don’t we raise the stakes for your employment with me, Bradforde?”

The presumption grated on Batiste’s nerves. “I have not accepted your proposition,” he asserted.

“Will you sail for me or not?”

“It depends,” Batiste said, testing the waters. “Why you are so desperate to hire me?” He was no stranger to dealing with corrupt men. If the wages were adequate and the deal was legitimate, he had no reasons to pass on the opportunity to sail such a magnificent ship.

“I need a navigator.”

That carried a ring of truth. Navigation in open seas was both a science and an art; it was a learned and practical skill, and experienced navigators were in demand.

“I undertake commissions only when I am both captain and navigator,” Batiste stipulated. In his previous life as an officer in His Majesty’s Navy, he had received plenty of idiotic orders; circumnavigating them was often quite a challenge.

“The Moonlight already has a captain,” Black Caesar snapped.

“Then it is your loss.”

Shapely Santina chose this moment to sashay toward them. “Are you discussing business, Messieurs?” She artfully fluttered her eyelashes.

“Bradforde refuses to cooperate,” Black Caesar complained.

“Why, Batiste?” She placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “I would very much like you to transport my investment.”

Batiste led her away. “You are a marvelous woman,” he whispered. “But why are you conspiring to be rid of me?”

“This is silly.” She tossed her head back. In the candlelight, the locks of her henna-enhanced hair seemed to glow like polished copper. “Are you jealous, Batiste?”

“Should I be?”

“Not at all. My dealings with Black Caesar are purely business.”

“Have you dealt with him before?” Batiste asked.

Santina licked her lips. “He made a fortune in shipping goods. Did he make you a fair offer? Or are you negotiating a higher price?” She pulled him into a small alcove and wrapped her arms around his neck. “He desperately needs a navigator, and I recommended you. Does it mean I am now your agent?”

“Are you?” Batiste held her tight. “How would you like me to express my gratitude?”

“Give me a quarter of your earnings,” she murmured after a passionate kiss.

“You drive a hard bargain. Half of a tenth and you will have to convince me into accepting the partnership with him,” Batiste countered.

“Have you lost your mind?" Batiste’s younger brother unblinkingly stared.

Francis was a cherubic-looking child in leading strings when Batiste went to sea. The brothers had seen each other only occasionally over the years, and their reunion a year ago bewildered Batiste: the boy had surpassed him at that age in recklessness and cleverness. Francis was now fifteen years old and he looked like it, but his unbridled deviousness made him almost a match to Batiste’s twenty-five summers.

"What devil possessed you? Were you drunk?" Francis easily twisted out of Batiste's half-hearted attempt to slap him on the head. “Allow me to contemplate the sheer idiocy of this enterprise.”

“Do not over exert yourself, oh disrespectful brother of mine. The Moonlight is a dream ship, the compensation is excellent, and – hallelujah! - I won’t have to deal with you for weeks.”

Batiste was in no mood for any further debate. He and Black Caesar had haggled over the contract for hours before agreeing on the terms. The Moonlight’s latest acceptable day of return was reasonable, but an unexpected delay, even by one day, would mean that Batiste would relinquish his wages for the voyage and pay the equivalent amount to Black Caesar. But if the trip was shortened by a week, Batiste’s remuneration would double. Apart from his monetary reasons, greed had turned Santina’s disposition so unbearably sulky and tedious that a voyage was a welcome reprieve from listening to her whining.

Francis effortlessly balanced his boot knife on his fingertip. "Do you trust the crew?”

“Half of them.” When Black Caesar had insisted on providing the crew, Batiste balked. After exchanging extended mutual insults, they had settled on splitting the task of hiring the men.

“How many of his ferocious lackeys will accompany you?” Francis demanded.

“None.”

Black Caesar alleged that he controlled the souls of his fanatical guards, and it appeared so for all intents and purposes. Without his command, these creatures made not a single move, never spoke a word, and never left his house after dark. Black Caesar claimed they were part of a race of warriors who felt no pain. Only a fool would believe that such a tribe existed in the New World, but the world was full of fools.

Francis' dark blue eyes focused on an invisible object far away. "How does Black Caesar influence these wretches?"

Batiste suppressed a groan. Francis never asked idle questions, but telling him, “Don’t mess with this bastard in my absence” would only encourage the young cutthroat.

“On second thought, why don’t you sail with me?” Batiste offered. As proven on previous voyages, adding his brother to the crew would be both a headache and an advantage, but the benefits usually outweighed the hassle.

“Regretfully, I have other commitments,” Francis said unhappily.

***

The Pearly Gate Tavern was famous for the arranged card tourneys, where participants paid an entry fee and then played elimination games against randomly chosen opponents. The winner took it all; the spectators placed wagers on every game. Francis never missed a tourney, and today was no exception. Black Caesar’s unusual presence had not bothered Francis beyond reminding him to take care when leaving, but then Black Caesar sought him out.

“See that man in the patterned vest? He needs to win the pot tonight.” Black Caesar kept his voice low.

The man in the patterned vest was Francis’ opponent in the next game. “He advanced that far, so he has a fair chance,” Francis said blandly.

“Make certain, wastrel, to lose the game.”

Francis quickly sorted through a dozen replies swirling in his mind. “Are you suggesting that I cheat?”

His bluntness produced the desired effect. While Black Caesar hesitated on how to respond, Francis sauntered away, noticing that the aforementioned man wore his patterned vest over a shirt with suspiciously long sleeves with pleated cuffs.

Francis’ long and varied experience had taught him to spot tricks. Soon after the game commenced, two cards disappeared into the cuffs. Francis kicked the man in the shin. Two cards fell onto the table.

The spectators and players roared with righteous indignation. Their ribald shouts almost drowned Black Caesar yelling, “You will regret this!” He stormed out ahead of the patrons of the Pearly Gate, who promptly dragged the swindler into the street and rolled him in every rancid puddle they found on the ground.