The following day, at seven o'clock in the morning, Katelyn Hart had been urgently summoned to the Admiral's mansion by his guest Renee Ash; an event witnessed by many. The call had been made concerning an alarming state of his health. The nurse, generally praised by the public and greatly respected by military, had done her best to determine the cause of the rapidly worsening illness; however, the fever had progressed to a shortage of breathing, which three hours later had resulted in a painful death.
Lieutenant Phillip Gillette, the last to speak with the Admiral prior to his passing, described the awful scene in tragic terms with the tears in his eyes. Shocking news filled the town at first with disbelief and then gloom. Ugly rumours that a man at the peak of his physical and mental strength could not have passed away so suddenly, weaved underlying paths in the conversations. The people whispered that the Admiral had been poisoned. Morale fell low. Some citizens went to his home to show appreciation and grief for the popular leader, others began to pack their belongings in fear of the dangers surely to follow the death of their protector. The town was covered in a blanket of depression.
The enemy didn't delay. It was on the third day of the ill fated news that the lookouts detected two war vessels heading towards Port Royal. The militaristic formation and refusal to respond to the signal from the fort indicated hostile intent. The port lay vulnerable. Captain Peterson, who temporarily stepped in to take over the Admiral's duties, had received a distress message. Seeking to eliminate nearby pirate activity, he took three ships away. Remaining HMS Silver went out to face the danger; however, two formidably armed ships met her with a daunting firepower, forcing her to retreat under the protection of the fort walls.
The intruders sailed in an arc towards part of the town that lay outside the fort's protective ring, dropped anchor close to the shore and lowered the boats. A party of eighty men landed under command of a richly dressed man. Tall and with piercing black eyes he maintained unwavering control over his subordinates. He arranged the men into a strict defensive formation and marched towards the fort, staying close enough to the shoreline to keep his ships in sight, but at the edge of the town with the risk to civilians, thus ensuring he wouldn't be fired upon in the open.
The Port greeted intruders with a dead silence who marched on without a soul in sight. One might have thought the town was deserted. It didn't alarm the leader. He didn't expect resistance, believing the defenders would take an advantageous position closer to their stronghold. His calculations proved wrong. Half way to the destination, his progress was obstructed by a barricade protected by a dozen men, judging by a number of rifles visible beyond the barrows. Garcia ordered his men to a halt. A flimsy obstacle gained his disdainful regard. His men could overrun it in one charge, significantly outnumbering the defenders.
A British officer appeared on top of the barricade. The Spaniard raised his hand in a silent command to hold fire, albeit tempted to take the risk as he found the emerged figure to be highly irritating. The man struck quite a pose with one leg on top of an elevation, lifting his chin higher than was comfortable to regard men below.
"Good afternoon, Gentlemen," he yelled, tucking his hands into a belt that looped his waist and raising a millet eyebrow. "Lieutenant Phillip Gillette. At your service. Taking your tense composure into consideration and a few rumours spread by the kakadus, you're suffering a certain distress. I've taken the liberty to deduct that you're lost. As a senior officer, I feel responsible to step in and notify all newcomers that any armed groups marching through Port Royal streets, aside from the troops assigned by His Majesty, must be taken to jail. Should you kindly choose to retreat down this street and take a right turn, you will ultimately get there."
The defenders laughed, well hidden by the barricade, appreciating the flaunts and flops of that peacock. The Spaniard regarded him with an expression full of contempt in spite of having to look up. "You are mistaken about my advancement plan, Lieutenant. Not prudent when you are dealing with an enemy." His manners indicated a well educated nobleman who spoke a foreign language smoothly, having first learned the basics from a tutor and advanced it through experience. Relatively young, he fought many battles and rarely lost. Many English sailors went through imprisonment on his ships. "I am Contraalmirante Fernando Diaz de Garcia-Iglesias, Rear Admiral in your words. I hope my accommodating English is smooth because your intelligence is not high, but I strive to be understood."
That had momentarily wiped a self-satisfied smirk off Gillette's face before it was reinstated full force. "I feel obligated to repay your kind advice," he stated, flailing his arm outward to encompass intruders, "as to own no favours, Contraalmirante, though I cannot offer a cup of tea along with it. It isn't wise to underestimate your enemy."
"Thank you. I will bear that in mind whenever I'll meet an enemy I'll be in danger of underestimating," said Garcia with an unyielding confidence, barely hiding his irritation. It was insulting to argue with a man he considered to be far below him.
"I'm delighted to be of service." Gillette forced a smile, determined to hold ground in a squabble that was doing no favours to their mutually growing dislike. "In case this exchange of wisdom is all you have sailed half way across the Caribbean for, I would like encourage you to accept my kind invitation to the jail. Otherwise, please state the reason for your intrusion."
"You insult me by offering to serve as a mediator when the fate of this port is to be decided." The frivolous tone was gone, replaced by a calculated mockery, meant to add a nail to the coffin. "How strange, for an important location I expected the British to send a qualified man such as an Admiral, but I do not see one coming forth to speak with me. Your rank is not high enough to conduct negotiations on this level, Lieutenant, unless the British Crown shows negligence by sending you, thus demonstrating it has less value for this port than for a handful of seaweed."
Mocking his leader's death should have been enough to eliminate the smug expression from the lieutenant's face. This knowledge allowed Garcia to be confident that he will get the better of the British in this exchange. However, when the lieutenant at last fumbled for words a new voice rose to support him.
"Your informants need to demonstrate greater diligence, Contraalmirante Fernando Diaz de Garcia-Iglesias. But, it seems you do not have a great selection of loyal and competent traitors who can behave less conspicuously than a whale in a fishbowl."
The Spaniard's face turned dark. Every syllable of his name was pronounced with a clear, slightly dragged out intonation that simmered with irony by a man who stepped up beside the ever irritating lieutenant. Garcia was no fool, having studied and seen the man he intended to destroy – Norrington who appeared before him. Either the informant had been caught and gave them away or the Admiral was lying that they caught him, but then his informant had been fooled into thinking that their murder succeeded. Either way, that man deserved to be punished for supplying him with the false information. Garcia didn't care whether the British would arrest his informant or he'll have to shoot him. Rear Admiral chose to attack the Port based on an expectation of the weak leadership.
"I never expect the traitors to be loyal," Garcia scowled. He added as much ire as he could into the name of the man who dared mock him, "Admiral James Norrington."
"Whereas, I expect you will have no further objections to these negotiations," Norrington replied coldly. "I believe my Lieutenant's question has a far greater merit than your crusade."
"Colonel Rogers seems to keep you well informed about my plan, but I will be kind enough as to explain it myself in case he is once more mistaken," Garcia revealed his informant. "I have a fair proposition for you, Admiral. Surrender the fort. I will allow you, without bloodshed, to take your soldiers, get on your ship, and sail back to England to be demoted below a doormat."
"I dislike sleeping on the floor."
Garcia clutched his weapons, barely refraining from shooting the men on the barricade, hesitating only in choosing the one he wanted to kill first. These Englishmen were an insolent lot. Keeping them alive after they surrender would be a mistake. Fair was fair. Supposedly dead man should be dead.
"We are no longer joking. I may not have the power to take over the fort, but my ships will level the town with the ground. There is nothing you can do to stop me."
"I'm disinclined to agree. The only thing more humorous than your proposition is your belief that it will succeed. I hope you have an alternate plan of action to convince me."
"I won't have to," Garcia promised. "The English have proven that they are incapable of protecting the port. How long will your citizens suffer the power that taxes them regularly that's incapable of protecting their homes? More so, under East Trading Company how many of them have been hung, how many robbed and tortured, how many families have been separated, husbands from their wives and mothers from their children. One does not forget easily. Even their hero cannot make them forget, and once they discover that you are just as worthless as the rest, the British influence will come to an end. Choose. Surrender the power to me or be responsible for many deaths and destruction. After this failure, the citizens will overthrow your tyrannical control."
"So it seems that your plan is entirely based on one threat," said Norrington with an unmistakable duality of amusement and surprise. "Could it be that you are speaking about the ships I intend to claim from you in the name of His Majesty?"
Behind his back, Garcia sensed his men stir in disquiet and heard whispering that grew louder. He shouted at them to be quiet as he turned in the direction of the distressed glances where lay the sea. The three ships that should have been following a false pirate trail were closing in on the two Spanish vessels that stalled momentarily before their Captain chose to accept the battle. HMS Silver abandoned cover to join the attack.
"You are surrounded."
It was too late to return to his ships. Soldiers, all dressed in red, poured onto the street behind them. More and more were appearing from their hiding places ready to catch the enemy in the crossfire. He'd been betrayed twice. Captain Peterson informed Groves about his ploy. The ships merely pretended to leave, instead setting up an ambush. Garcia recalled a peculiar signal sent from the fort. It had not been a greeting sent to him.
"Surrounded by toys," he spat through the clenched teeth. The fight involved sides nearly equal in power. Only HMS Providence was a match for each of the two Spanish ships.
"I can wait for the outcome of this battle," Norrington issued calmly. "These aren't the only ships at my disposal."
"You're lying! You have no reinforcements."
His flare of tempter was matched by an ear shattering blast. In place of the Santa Rosa, that tacked to cut off the Silver from completing the attacking formation, a column of flame and smoke was swirling up from the sea into the sky.
"Silence!" Garcia snapped at his men, forced to repeat the order. The steel discipline instilled in his crew helped him maintain control. Pride fought common sense for the safety of his men no less fiercely than the raging naval battle.
"Perhaps you should apply to the Holy Inquisition to scourge your soul, Admiral. You are a magician, arising from the dead, summoning ships and making your fort fire from an impossible range."
"You may blame your loss on magic should it take your guilt away, but it was a structural change in the defences that extended the cannon's range," said Norrington.
Garcia ignored him glumly, suspecting he'd fall into another trap by answering. He directed his attention to sea where the Galicia was fighting. She was magnificent, anticipating all moves to surround her and her guns blazed to keep the smaller ships away, but she was doomed to never break the net she'd been captured in. His heart surged with pride and regret.
"They will fight to the death," he said calmly.
"What about you?" Norrington asked him.
"As will I. But, I will do you a great disfavour and surrender, on your word that no unnecessary harm will come to my soldiers and me."
"You may have my word. I believe negotiations with your country could be arranged for your release."
"I hope to speak with you about the man you must contact as soon as possible since neither of us wants to keep each other company longer than necessary," said Garcia.
The Spanish placed their weapons on the ground at his command in grim contrast to the victorious cheers he witnessed after so many battles. He had to call the surrender for their sake, but Garcia was far from beaten. Under a calm façade lay a fiery desire that accompanied him his entire life, to make the impossible possible. Bitter defeat grew closer with each step Lieutenant Gillette took towards him to cast him in irons.
"You are not an exception, Contraalmirante. Surrender your weapons," Gillette ordered.
Garcia parted with his sword reluctantly, but not with his pistol when a thunderous explosion shook the shore. HMS Adventure sustained a powerful blast from the Galicia's port. The lieutenant's focus momentarily lapsed. He glanced at the sinking ship that collapsed like a card house and went underneath the waves rapidly.
Garcia moved with a quickness of a large predator. He threw one arm over Gillette's throat and pulled out his remaining weapon.
The pistol barrel never reached his hostage's temple. A shot fired from the barricade was lost in the roar of the cannons. Only a puff of smoke and Norrington's raised arm explained a red dot in the middle of Garcia's forehead that expanded like a bleeding star. Garcia collapsed on his back. His dark eyes remained wide open like he could see his soul disappearing in marred by the smoke, dark blue sky.
"You may step aside and let his men say their prayers for him, Lieutenant," said Norrington. "It's all over now."