Sign of the Cross
By JeanTre16
Chapter 13
Maiden Voyage
With the shoreline of France quickly receding in the background, Jacqueline's maiden voyage had gotten off to its precarious start. The young woman, still dressed in the Calais port master's clothing, realized that the entire discussion d'Artagnan and she just had about meeting his uncles was no longer relevant. They were now on a ship bound for British soil on an unstoppable collision course with the king of England, Scotland and Wales. Regardless of who might come looking for them, they needed a contingency plan and they needed it quickly; they were about to be discovered by the ship's crew.
Eventually, the cargo hoist leveled with the deck. And there, sitting among the crates, were two Frenchmen, or what looked like two Frenchmen, one actually being a woman in disguise. The roughened sea dog cranking the hoist stopped mid-heave—more amused than surprised. He had just gotten his oxen-like body leveraged for another good spin on the large wheel when his eyes caught sight of the two stowaways. Turning his head toward the helm on the upper deck, he bellowed, "Cap'n!"
A well-barreled man with long dark curly hair and a crude presentation of air, hollered back, "What is it man? What's all this yelling about? I told you to get those goods on board!"
Without a word, the beckoning sailor gestured in the direction of the hoist. Holding the crank where it froze the moment he laid eyes on their guests, he eagerly awaited his captain's response.
Descending the steps, the master of the English vessel approached. Spanning in to graze his peculiar cargo like a fully gunned warship, he drew up his embellished coat collar and stiffened his posture. His hair, dark as night, and skin, weathered as rawhide, framed and matted his prominent facial feature—his large tale-filled, yet intelligent eyes. One could imagine that as a youth he had seen impressions unfit to leave the confines of a ship, and having done so, his orbs had swollen to their enlarged visage and remained permanently in their state of self-contained nightmares. Still young and on the rising side of his career, he fastidiously built his acclaim on his apparel and mannerisms. His attire was expensive and decorative—flaunting his success. Yet, to the first-time beholder, he unquestioningly signified a capable man of the hardened life at sea.
Loosening his grip on one of his lapels, he bid his live goods to step forward from the hoist with a motioning hand. In a distinctly English accent, he impatiently sounded, "Come here…haven't got all day. Let me see the likes of you. And pray, tell, why is it that you are among His Majesty's freight?" His gravelly, baritone rumble boomed out to be heard over the roaring sounds of the sea.
D'Artagnan and Jacqueline rose slowly to their feet and stepped off the wooden platform to stand before the summoning leader. Having foreseen their discovery, they had hastily stashed their rapiers amid the stacks of cargo in hopes they could claim them later. With their bulkier weapons off their persons, they put forth the outward appearance of two unfortunate souls caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Inwardly, the trained soldiers assessed their opposition. Although the pair saw that this autocrat was younger and most likely not as experienced as their captain, they both knew to underestimate his influence within this barnacle-cloistered colony would be a mistake.
Disembarking the hoist from behind his wife, d'Artagnan's hidden position allowed him to whisper, "He may be able to be swayed, but we'll have to walk the line carefully."
To the gathering crew's amazement—and to Jacqueline's—the dark-haired Frenchman unexpectedly strode to the forefront of his comrade and returned the captain's words to his face. "And what, pray tell, are you doing with all that cargo that hasn't made it through French inspections?" As d'Artagnan challenged the head man, he gestured toward the hoist behind him in his un-intimidated manner.
'So much for walking a careful line,' Jacqueline thought, gasping at her husband in wide-eyed disbelief. She felt the hair on her neck stand on end as it occurred to her that they'd most likely be walking the plank if he kept on his present course of action.
Along with the shock of the covert female, the whole deck of sailors oohed at the nobleman's bravado. Murmured bets passed amongst them as they pressed around to witness the show-down between their stalwart leader and this cocky Frenchman. Their wagers weren't who would come out of top of this match, but how badly the over-confident noble and his accomplice would fare in the outcome.
The stone-faced sea captain sized up his challenger and answered, "Let me guess. You're here to represent the Calais porter and make the inspection?" While his words made light of the nobleman's defiance, his glare was meant to pierce through this man who had the nerve to stand up to him.
Relieved laughter waved through the deck hands once again. Apparently, they inferred their captain was in the mood for sport, rather than vengeance.
With eyes still locked on the outsider's un-intimidated stare, the captain dodged d'Artagnan's directness with a politically glossed over response. "Let's just say, we're a part of His Majesty's commercial expansion on the seas." He matched the Frenchman's ante with a raised brow and grin. Then, he factitiously turned to grace his good-humored audience with a sporting smirk. Yes, he would keep this light for the moment, he decided, until he found out more about his dubious passengers.
Continuing to eye them cautiously, the rich, but motley clad man made introduction. "I'm Captain Morgan, and this—" he gestured about him as if presenting them to his ship "—is my lady, the Maiden Castle." Dropping the pretense of pleasantries, he moved in with a nod of his black-tasseled head and gravely asked, "Now, the question is, who are you?" With his teeth grating and his eyes darting to and fro, he paused in consideration.
Behind the mask of sporting fun, d'Artagnan and Jacqueline could see he was dead serious. They did not have to be forward thinkers to equate that Captain Morgan's job was one of a commandeering pirate. Like the cargo they had been hoisted with, the couple knew that they would also have to present themselves in some rough terms of worth if their lives were to be spared. Both doubted that revealing their d'Artagnan name would be an asset, but rather they concluded it would rally the Englishman's hostility toward the relations of a renowned French soldier.
Even Jacqueline, who had logged no previous hours at sea, knew that prisoners aboard privateer vessels were reputedly treated with a lack of civility. Fretting over the possible value they held in which to salvage themselves with before these hungered onlookers, she guardedly moved back-to-back with her husband. It didn't help calm her nerves to know that even their own country had a price on their heads. On a long-shot, the only leverage she could place to their favor was their remote acquaintance with England's king. And the precariousness of that connection made her shudder. She would not play that bargaining chip unless it was absolutely necessary.
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, than d'Artagnan concessively doled out, "Why don't you tell these boys that you personally know their king…Charles." His nonchalant demeanor had suddenly turned to one of nervous laughter.
Jacqueline spun around to shoot him an incredulous look, only to gasp at the sight of a pistol being pointed their way. From beyond where her companion recoiled with his hands up, a well-bred, no doubt, high-ranking shipmen indifferently awaited his captain's blessing to fire. D'Artagnan was right, she exacted; it was absolutely necessary to use her leverage. And she knew he was thinking along the same lines that she was by the way he had addressed her. Looking from her husband to the captain, she began, "I don't think you realize what you're doing here." She took a shaky step forward for emphasis.
"Oh?" The captain's interest was raised. He amusedly moved closer to scan this, until then, quiet companion of the forward nobleman.
"No, you don't," d'Artagnan supported his male-clad associate's words, while keeping his hands in the air. Until she revealed herself to be a woman, it was his hope to take any attempted hostility toward her upon himself. At the same time, he wanted to protect her from the harassment she could receive once she told them she was a woman.
But his concern was unwarranted. The captain appeared obliged to play their game. "And may I ask, why not?" His piercing eyes paused on the soft looking Frenchman, taking note of the inconsistency of his appearance. Perceptively, he propositioned, "I suppose next you're going to tell me you're a French princess." He was dead serious at his inference to femininity, while sarcastic in his label.
With that, the entire group of unruly onlookers roared with laughter.
Flinching at the crew's response, Jacqueline tried to find her courage and replied, "No." It wasn't the deriding ridicule of these henchmen that made her feel intimidated; she had experienced her share of that from the Cardinal's men in the past. It was their confinement aboard a sea-bound vessel that pinched her nerves. The two reluctant passengers had nowhere to flee; thus, keeping the balance in their favor for the duration of this cruise, depended upon how well she could maintain her spurious connection with King Charles.
Gathering all the zeal she could muster, she asserted herself. "But, I do know your king personally." She emphasized her speech by stepping forward while letting her hair loose from her queue and hesitantly raising the other hand to point a finger at the captain. "And I don't think he'd be too thrilled with you if he heard you were responsible for harming the woman he proposed to." It was the half truth, she surmised as she stood there with her wavy hair accentuating her womanly features. She didn't have to tell them she had turned him down.
D'Artagnan himself raised an eyebrow at his wife's presentation, impressed at her courage and wondering where she would take her subterfuge.
The captain's face contorted with mixed amusement and disbelief—his eyes widening as though assimilating a new memory. "I'll give her this," he said, and looked about at his gaping men. "The woman's got spirit." Everyone laughed—even Jacqueline and d'Artagnan laughed along with them, albeit nervously.
Morgan approached d'Artagnan. "If King Charles proposed to her, then who does that make you?" he asked, raising a brow. While scrutinizing the nobleman's attire and affronting stance, he tried to make out the dupe's role in this scenario. "…Her handmaid?" he speculated, derisively.
Peals of laughter rose from the surrounding hands on deck at the captain's verbal abasement.
Unmoved by the ridicule, d'Artagnan flinted his face and replied, "Let's just say, I have a devoted interest to see that no harm comes to the lady." With a continued glint in his eyes, he held his self-assured ground before the captain.
Captain Morgan stepped in to position himself with casual dominance over the Frenchman and matched his glare. "You'd do well to remember that the next time you're tempted to speak up so freely," he sternly warned. Morgan's threat was aimed to validate to all that the pitiful show of theatrics by this self-acclaimed foreigner would not be tolerated on his ship. Conjointly, something unspoken held the captain off from taking drastic measures. He wasn't sure he wanted this man dead—at least not yet.
Turning his attention toward Jacqueline, Captain Morgan looked her over and lightened his mood. "I can't very well take you before His Majesty of England looking like a Joan of Arc now, can I? An English king wouldn't be very receptive of a likened lady warrior, would he?" A smiling captain stepped in closer toward the woman and lowered his gravelly taunt for her audience, while scanning his on-looking men. "And I don't have to remind you what happened to Lady Joan now, do I?"
Jacqueline's recent close call in Rouen with Mazarin's men was only too fresh on her mind for his arbitrary choice of words to ring hollow. Delivered in the privateer's grating voice, his mode of contention had the desired chilling effect on the masculine dressed woman. How she was beginning to regret 'borrowing' the port master's clothes she had on. Hesitantly, Jacqueline drew courage and seized the slander to her favor. "If you'd just let me change, I do have my dress in this bag," she suggested, lifting the tote she had slung over her shoulder for him to see.
The captain's curiosity roused again and he considered her request. Motioning for a crewman to check the bag, he stepped back and waited.
The sailor opened the sack and examined it. Scanning its contents with his eyes, he then reached in to withdraw a fan to display for the amusement of all. The grinning man received his due reward of laughter from the deck hands. Then, he gave his captain a blank look, as if to say, the bag contained exactly what the lady had said it would.
Jacqueline exhaled with relief that the sailor hadn't thoroughly looked through the fabric layers. Her pockets still held some of Siroc's inventions, which would have, no doubt, landed them in bigger trouble than they were in already. The fan, in fact, was the very one that the inventor had crafted a dagger blade into its handle cavity.
She slowly moved forward to reclaim her possessions while keeping an eye on the captain, careful not to provoke him. She reminded herself that if anything happened to them here, out on the open sea, no one would ever know what became of them. D'Artagnan and she had to make sure they reached dry land before taking any chances. Until then, they had to play it safe and stay alive.
"All right," said the captain in his salt-worn voice, nodding his head in approval. "Kidd!" he called aloud over his shoulder, all the while keeping his watchful eyes on the trouser-clad Frenchwoman.
A boy of about ten, who had been standing near the center mast, came timidly forward. "Sir!" squeaked his youthful voice.
Morgan beckoned impatiently, "Come here, lad." Then gesturing at Jacqueline, he commanded, "Show our lady guest down to my cabin so she can grace us with her feminine apparel." Morgan gave one last enlarged playful eye of her physique along with a smile before relinquishing her to his cabin boy.
Jacqueline shot d'Artagnan a reassuring look. She knew he was experiencing mental unease at the treatment his wife was receiving; yet, she hoped he kept it in mind that it would be best if no one perceived they were married. His wife languished for him, but understood that their training as Musketeers included rolling with the punches for the sake of the crown. Regardless of their present standing on Mazarin's account, they were loyal soldiers. Giving d'Artagnan one last nervous smile, she followed the boy below deck to the captain's cabin.
"How did you come to be on this ship at such a young age?" she asked, picking up conversation. In part, she talked to calm her nerves. Her last several days had been anything but restful, and now things seemed to be only worse. Besides, she knew she'd be worried about her husband until she was back at his side. At present, her standing before the captain was better than his, but she knew that wouldn't stop d'Artagnan from doing something rash if given the opportunity. And if he deemed it necessary to take action, their chances were always greater when they were together.
"I ain't got no family, if that's what you mean, Milady," the boy answered. "Me father died when I was but five."
"I'm sorry to hear that—" Jacqueline paused, affectedly. "My father died too," she finished, feeling compassion on this child. "What's your name?" Her attention conveniently refocused to this poor sea-waif who had been caught in the midst of circumstances just as much as she had.
In a heavy English accent he took satisfaction in his answer. "William. But mostly everyone calls me, Kidd. Most of 'em think they're jus' callin' me a kid, but that's me real, giv'n name…with two 'd's," he blurted the final reflection with enthusiasm. Then looking past her port master's clothing to examine her feminine facial features, he added, "My mum taught me t' always take pride in that." Self-conscious of his mother's mention, he changed the subject. "You mind me ask'n your name, Milady?" His shifting eyes showed traces of innocence that had been called to mature beyond their years.
Mindful of his childlike curiosity, she couldn't help feel there was also somewhat of an awe in the way he looked at her. He eyed her as though she were almost a mythical creature. She wondered if that would be the side-effect of the boy having lived on a ship void of a woman's presence, with nothing but roughened sailors about to raise him.
"Jacqueline," she answered, thinking of all the names she had gone by lately. "But people call me a lot of things too, without realizing who I really am," she added. For that matter, she herself had recently wondered about her true identity and felt bothered that her own origin seemed mysteriously unknown. Arriving at the cabin, she smiled at the boy for his friendliness and hinted for him to leave so she could change.
When the enacting courtier emerged from the cabin transformed from the port master's clothing to her own, the boy's admiration was even more pronounced. Fumbling for words in her presence, he interjected, "Cap'n Morgan's on his way to England to marry his cousin, Lady Mary." Since he had no idea what would interest a woman, he spoke as though he carried important news that she would find noteworthy.
Jacqueline smiled at his divulged gossip and suggested that they return to the top deck. Possessing this knowledge gave her newfound confidence that even in these dire circumstances, God's divine intervention was at work on their behalf. Being that Morgan was about to take his own wife, he might treat her with more respect if he believed she was a potential bride for his king. With an uplifted heart, she filed this bit of news away for later use.
Leaving the stifling smells of the lower deck, they resurfaced to the salty, but fresh air of the open sea. The sight of the shapely, dress-clad woman on deck brought many eyes up from their assigned tasks, but none were foolish enough to risk negligence of duty on her behalf. All hands kept busy.
"I'll be leav'n ya to your escort, Milady," Kidd said, gesturing toward d'Artagnan. Then, bowing with unpracticed civility, he explained, "I've got me duties to tend." An awkward moment passed as if he had more to say, but he chose to keep it to himself and suddenly sped off.
"Yes, my escort," she replied to herself as the boy bolted off. She wondered how far she'd have to take this charade. But upon seeing d'Artagnan, her fears were momentarily alleviated.
Unhurt, relaxed and perched on a crate, he was preoccupied in chewing on a morsel he had somehow acquired. Although he sat unguarded, the ever-present swarming about of the deck hands was enough to remind him that he was severely outnumbered.
It was in this mode of assessment and in weighing their options of escape that she came alongside him. "So, what do you think our odds are?" she asked.
Biting into the sour rind of a lime, he savored his wife's feminine outline. Holding the citrus up to her face, he offered, "Want a bite?" while conveniently ignoring her question.
Distracted from her worries, she pulled back at the offensive sight. "Ew, no!" She made a face at the thought and sight of him stomaching such an acidic fruit by itself. "How can you eat that?" she asked, with a disgusted face.
Grinning at her reaction, with one leg casually propped up on the crate and the other dangling over the side, he shrugged and said, "It's not the best tasting, but once you get past its tartness, it's actually not that bad." He held it out to her again with a teasing smile.
Rolling her eyes at his childish behavior, she said, "I'm sure Ramon would have found it tempting." The impromptu thought of Ramon, made her wonder how their friends were doing and if they had made any headway in either clearing their name or exposing Cardinal Mazarin. Even though apart, she knew the brothers-in-arms would be working toward their common goal—to uncover Mazarin's evil plot and to fight for justice.
Glancing once more at the sight of d'Artagnan eating the repulsive lime, Jacqueline shuddered and leaned up against the crate next to him. Her eyes roamed to the captain, who was currently speaking to his first mate up on the helm deck. "What do you suppose they're discussing?" she asked, knowing that he had been studying their 'hosts' while she had been changing.
"It's hard to say, but judging by the harried looks on the sailors faces, and by the flurry of their activity, I'd guess that they're more concerned about getting caught with the cargo they've got here, than about what they're going to do with us." As he made his statement about the contraband, he slapped his hand down on the crate beneath him. Below where his hand rested, the stamped label revealed, 'French Naval supplies.'
"In fact, since the crew has been so engrossed, I didn't bother asking permission to snoop around for myself," he informed Jacqueline, with his quirky grin. Keeping his expression non-cluing for studying eyes, he added a quick interjection for her information. "Don't look now, but I've relocated our rapiers to the barrel behind me." Getting a nod of acknowledgement, he redirected the conversation with a wit of irony. "What a surprise to discover a horde of food provisions originally destined for the French Navy." Once more, he displayed the fruit before her with a piqued expression to illustrate his point. "All of which have been conveniently re-routed by our friendly servants of, Yours Truly."
In jimmying open only a few barrel lids, he not only had taken the liberty to conceal their rapiers more secretively, but he had discovered enough fresh citrus to ward off the vitamin deficiency of scurvy for the entire crew for months; thus, the source of his bitter lime he was eating. Aside from the foodstuffs, he could ascertain there were several crates containing ammunition and armament. King Louis' Navy would surely suffer for this robbery.
D'Artagnan knew this was the way of dominance on the sea between countries. He had heard his share of inside stories from his father and uncles. Unsure of how much his first-time sea voyaging wife knew of naval politics, he posed a question, "Are you familiar with the lettres de marques?" Without waiting for her answer, he went on to explain, "It works a lot like the lettres de cachet that our own, beloved Cardinal used for our current arrest warrant. It's given to captains at sea and serves as an open order for certain…private parties, like Morgan, to seize foreign assets as a service to their crown. It's clearly an act of hostility. And I think we can safely assume that Captain Morgan possesses his English king's blessings in this enterprise." He eyed the man on the upper deck with distaste; yet, his enmity was aimed past him to the self-bent man on the English throne. "It seems to be a pattern of the royal Englishman to attempt heists on French goods," he scoffed, reminiscing how the domineering man had almost made off with Jacqueline at one time.
Jacqueline was familiar enough with the letters de cachet to understand that the lettres de marque was probably a maritime variation of the same thing. But she was also aware that the problem with the lettres was that it didn't always work under the condoning eyes of the crown. Appearing more like the soldier, Jacques, than Jacqueline, she argued, "I don't think King Charles would have willingly condoned the piracy of French goods. I mean, why would he want to jeopardize his relationship with France?" The deep lines in her brow showed her intense disagreement with d'Artagnan. "No doubt these privateers took action on their own initiative," she concluded, uneasily.
Wearing a marveled expression, he replied, "Why are you so reluctant to believe your English friend may have given orders to heist these French goods? How could you even put it past the self-seeking, manipulative man?" It greatly annoyed him that she could still have a soft spot in her heart for the man who had lied to her before. Under the advice of Captain Duval, the Musketeer usually took care not to express his political bend, but this was his wife and he had personal reasons for disliking the man on the English throne.
"That's not being fair, and you know it," Jacqueline protested. Crossing her arms, she leaned heavily against the crate. "And I don't like the way you're accusing me of taking sides with him. All I'm saying is that we really don't know if he's aware of what's going on here or not." The tension in her face was obvious, and it hurt her feelings to know that he was still sore about her short-lived relationship with the former exile. After all, she had married d'Artagnan after turning down His Majesty; that should have spoken for itself on how she felt about the two men.
"But that doesn't give us an excuse to sit here and do nothing about it," he spoke bitterly between clenched teeth, clearly riled on either count—in the case of his wife or the goods he sat on. After all, Jacqueline and he were French and obligated to defend their country and crown. Keeping a distasteful eye on the steering deck, he addressed his spouse as a fellow Musketeer. "The question is: What can we do about it?" he hypothetically asked, while chucking the remains of his lime overboard.
ooooooo
D'Artagnan could not have been more right about maritime war incentives being behind the presence of French goods on the Maiden Castle. Yet, Jacqueline had also been right about Morgan's loose interpretation of the letters de marque. And at the time of the Musketeer's consideration, Captain Morgan and his first mate had been engaged in an embittered disagreement on the validity of that very point.
Taking his captain aside, First Officer Tucker, quietly, albeit arguably, spoke up, "Captain, if I may speak frankly. The king did not expressly condone France as a source of pillage."
Distractedly fingering the brass-plated telescope he had been frequently scanning the horizon with, the captain's irritation became visible at hearing his first mate's words. Avoiding visual contact, he curtly cocked his head in the man's direction. "He never said 'no' to French supplies, Tucker," Morgan's harsh rasping voice corrected, obviously unmoved by the challenge.
But Tucker kept at it. Holding his pressing poise, he articulated his speech in hushed tones. "We've been at sea for a fair amount of time, Sir. Relations could have changed. King Charles may be trying to forge an alliance with France for all we know. And if we show up with his prospective bride alongside a cargo hold of French loot ..."
"If! Mister Tucker, if!" The greatly annoyed captain impatiently cut off his officer's reproof. "All you've done is speculate. And I won't be making my command decisions based on speculation. Is that clear?" Dismissing their conversation, his glare turned to catch the eyes of his protégé. "Besides, what would you have me to do? Toss either the goods or the dame overboard?" Shoving the eyepiece at his first mate's chest, he concluded, "Now, I'm sure you have duties to tend to, Mister Tucker. And I assure you, I'll tend to mine." His face glowed red, with his wide, dark eyes ready to pierce anyone else who dared to question his actions."
Morgan was fully aware that King Charles II had not denoted the lettres' application to France, or any other country in specific. He had merely implied that in preparation for England's impending war with the Netherlands, English privateers were being counted upon to provide the militia and Navy with supplies. Thus, Captain Morgan was using the document as his methodology of securing food and ammunition in service to his country.
And of course, Morgan was also aware that any wartime assistance to his country would be richly rewarded—such was the life and motivation for those willing to take the risks as he did. If his first mate did not see that now, surely he would when he was counting his precious pounds in London. Aside from his crew's monetary compensation, one of Captain Morgan's benefits included—as Jacqueline was now aware—the convenience of taking a wife. An advantageous marriage was every respectable sea captain's privilege, and this captain was more than content to oblige. In reaching England, the re-fitting of the Maiden Castle, pertinent marriage and his anticipated re-commissioning to the Caribbean Sea would mark the length of his stay. If all went as planned, events would tick off like clock-work.
ooooooo
But the clock was not ticking according to schedule. The Maiden Castle had encountered a snag. While d'Artagnan and Jacqueline were still discussing what to do about the French contraband onboard, and Morgan was counting his reward, the sailors spotted a threat.
"Captain!" the watchman called. Bridging the distance between Morgan and him, he handed his scope over with urgency and pointed to the ship's aft.
Morgan took the lens and peered through it. "French." He spat. Turning to his first mate, he ordered quietly, "Appoint a guard to take our guests to the lower deck and place them in the cell." Making his statement, he accompanied it with finger point to clarify. "Don't lock it. If we have to abandon that deck, we don't want to be looking for the key." Turning to the confused couple who had noticed the commotion, he cordially called out in his roughened sea voice, "Tucker will see you to your accommodations for the duration of this scuffle. It's not the finery of Buckingham, Milady, but it should keep you alive." With that, all pleasantness left his countenance as he turned on his heel to bark out orders in preparation for the upcoming conflict.
Perceiving the issue at hand, d'Artagnan jumped off the crate to his feet. "Wait!" he yelled to raise Morgan's attention. "You're making a mistake if you plan to stop and fight that ship." The Musketeer had no idea which kind of vessel was in pursuit, but he was not about to be jailed below without first making an effort to put things right for France.
An angry-faced captain turned to rail back at him, "I don't have time for you, Frenchman." Then turning to his men he sneered, "Take 'em below."
As several seamen grabbed the prisoners by the arms to shove them toward the hold, d'Artagnan made one last attempt to gain the ear of the privateer. "It doesn't take a genius to know this entire operation is based upon the safe delivery of these goods to King Charles…am I right?" he appealed as he was being dragged away.
Turning to aim a stern finger at his resisting captive, Morgan reasserted his position. "Watch it Frenchman. Your life is worth very little here."
"Just hear me out—" his speech was interrupted by a blow to his temple, dished out by his escort. But d'Artagnan was determined to be heard and continued to plea his case as two more sailors came to the assistance of those dragging him below. Something in the way they were being escorted off the deck in such a hurry convinced him he was right about his hunch. Regaining his composure, he decided to play his bluff and called out, "You know you're no match for that French ship…"
At this, the captain spun on his heels, raising his hand to halt the prisoner's leave from the deck. With his sight burning down on the emboldened man below, he wondered how he could have possibly known the pursuing ship was French.
The skilled Musketeer didn't wait for the befuddled Englishman to comment, but he plunged forward with his reasoning. "You're weighted down…possibly outgunned and outclassed. Yes, there's a chance you may come out on top in a confrontation, but how heavily damaged?" He paused, allowing time for his opposition to calculate the odds and visualize the outcome. Then, with the precision of an expert swordsman, he thrust his steeled speech between clenched teeth with penetrating coldness. "Then there's the risk that you'll lose it all. There won't be a single pound to be made on whatever's sitting on the bottom of the ocean."
Morgan twitched his upper lip, causing his long, curled moustache hairs to flicker. "Answer me." He tarried, and then asked, "How do you know so much? And who are you?" He too, considered he was being played by the nobleman. But with the recent spat between his first lieutenant and him, he suddenly had the gall to listen.
"Who I am doesn't matter at present. But what I have to say is true, and you know it is." D'Artagnan's face was taut with determination as he pulled against the firm grips of the men on either side of him. "Just listen to me. I know a way that you'll be able to shake the French vessel and make it to England, intact and still bearing enough cargo to earn you a hero's welcome and a handsome reward." The Musketeer spoke directly to the captain, but he knew the listening ears of this hired crew would also take into account the mention of compensation.
Suspect of the Frenchman's genuine concern for his profit, yet intrigued by his tactical understanding, he relaxed his stance and granted, "You have one minute to explain yourself."
"Let the French have their goods," he stated, shaking free from the hold of the hired ruffians. In declaring his plan, he knew he was opening a door for the French to find the hidden rapiers in the barrel. And with that discovery would accompany the knowledge of their whereabouts by those searching for them—both good and bad.
"No tricks," warned the captain, pointing sternly at d'Artagnan. "My first officer will put a bullet through that pretty Mademoiselle's head if you take one step out of line. Am I understood?"
Straightening his jacket, d'Artagnan served Morgan a cold reply, "Understood." He looked worriedly at Jacqueline, who nodded her head in reassurance that she was keenly aware and in agreement of his plan. Glancing sharply at the guardsman, he added, "No harm better come to her." Then he briskly began pointing out his instructions. "First, you'll need to fill these longboats with the French cargo. Lower them in view of the approaching vessel and set them adrift…"
D'Artagnan's proposition was interrupted by the boatswain, "But, Captain, we cain't set these longboats a sea! We need these boats, Sir."
Captain Morgan, without so much as an acknowledgement to his petty officer, commanded, "Do what he says. Load these longboats." He gave a surrendering glint to Tucker. Although he disagreed as to the reason, his first lieutenant had been correct—both bride and goods could not remain onboard.
"Blast!" he muttered under his breath, as he saw the longboats being lowered. Though disliking it, Morgan knew the Frenchman's tactics were sound. Without the foreign goods aboard, King Louis' Navy would have no justification to pursue their vessel. The English captain glared momentarily at his adversary. He wanted to know who this man was, but that would have to wait. The Maiden Castle was in harm's way and his 'lady' came first. Looking around at his hesitant crew, he yelled, "Move it! I want this French cargo out of my sight. Now!" As an afterthought, he ordered his guards, "Bailey, Drew, take our voyagers below. We can manage without them loafing about." For now, the vexed man wanted everything French out of view.
D'Artagnan and Jacqueline shared one of their looks that spoke volumes, and on their own accord, they followed the two men to the lower deck. Both knew that if Captain Morgan had even suspected his two passengers were Musketeers, he would have handled things much differently. Once again, the mishap-stowaways accredited their civilian clothing to their favor for their role playing. A courtier and her aide would not be expected to take action surrounded by such odds. As long as they could maintain their cover, all they had to do was wait for an opportunity to present itself.