Free HF - 03 - The Devil's Own by Christopher Nicole

whispered. 'Preparing for an armada.'
    'They'd not survive their first gale of wind,' Kit said contemptuously.
    'But the storm season is over,' Jean pointed out. 'Why, it is all but Christmas.'
    'I wonder what we must do,' Bart whispered, half to himself, 'to announce our arrival. Port Royal is but the seaport. There is another place somewhere on the mainland itself, where the Governor resides.'
    'Spanish Town,' Kit said. 'I have heard of it.'
    'It must be over there.' Jean pointed at the north-eastern end of the bay, where the roofs of houses could just be seen. 'But it seems we have to worry less about visiting them than having them visit us.'
    They looked after his finger. A barge came towards them from the mainland shore. It was propelled by twelve oars a side, each manned by a half-naked, sweating Negro. Amidships and forward were a guard of a dozen soldiers, wearing long, red coats and wide, flat hats, and armed with pikes and swords. And in the stern were two gentlemen, from their dress; above their heads a gigantic Cross of St George floated in the breeze.
    'You'll gather, lads,' Bart bellowed. ' 'Tis being visited by the authorities, we are.'
    The boucaniers formed two lines on deck. They were still sufficiently elated by their victory of two days before to obey their leader without question. And they looked more like men, now. Most had shaved; Kit and Jean indeed had removed all the hair from their faces, but many of their companions had retained at least moustaches. And they wore velvet breeches and cambric shirts. One or two sported coats and one hardy soul even insisted on wearing a breastplate, despite the heat. Their heads were bare, the occasional one boun d up in a brightly col oured bandanna; their feet were also bare. But they had armed themselves well, and no one could possibly mistake them for anything less than fighting men.
    Nor were the two visitors likely to make any mistakes in their judgements. First in the g angway was a small man, with narrow features, a perpetual frown to suggest that he was shortsighted, but none the less with piercing, inquisitive eyes. He did not uncover as he gained the deck, but instead stared aft and then up at the rigging, seeking a flag and finding none. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, blue with a gold trim, and his coat was also dark blue, edged with gold lace. His breeches were white buckskin, which made a startling contrast. His stockings were also white, and his shoes black leather. But most amazing of all, he was unarmed and carried only a cane similar to the one Kit remembered in the possession of Philip Warner.
    'By God,' he remarked. 'As villainous a collection as even I have ever seen. My name is Thomas Modyford, and I am His Majesty's Governor of Jamaica. Who is master of this ship?'
    Bart stepped forward, looking unusually nervous. 'I have that privilege, sir.'
    'A boucanier,' Modyford said, in tones of contempt.
    'As are my followers, monsieur.'
    And whence came you by this ship?' The question was asked by the second man, who now appeared at the top of the ladder. He was altogether bigger than his companion, although not tall, heavy-set, with powerful shoulders and wide thighs, suggesting an enormous physical strength. His face was round, with full cheeks and a big chin, decorated by a carefully trimmed wisp of brown beard, as his moustache was also carefully combed and curled. The marks of the dandy extended to his clothes; his coat was of gold-coloured cloth, and open, to show the lace in his shirt front, and his red breeches vanished into cavalier boots which clumped on the deck. His sword was a Spanish rapier, hanging from a wide, crimson velvet baldric, and he wore a leather belt at his waist, ostensibly to carry two pistols, but more, Kit thought, to pull in his belly. He sported a diamond ring on each of the fingers of his left hand, and smelt of pomade. He might easily have been mistaken for a fop. But there was a habit of command in his voice, and his