Free Mad Morgan by Kerry Newcomb

curse their father for valuing his trifles more than their lives.” Morgan lowered his voice. “And that will be a kindness compared to what the Black Cleric will do.”
    Vega gulped—summoning his failing courage, gathering what was left of his dignity—and stiffened his spine and folded his arms across his bare chest. If his people suffered, so be it. “Never! Do you understand? This port is under my protection. Never will I assist you in any way!
    Morgan nodded. The pirates to either side of the general grabbed his arms. Morgan drew a pistol from his belt, cocked the weapon, and stuffed the cold gray barrel down the front of the general’s long underwear. Vega’s eyes grew wide as saucers as the large-bore iron muzzle jabbed into his scrotum.
    â€œNever?” Morgan asked, his finger curled around the trigger.
    â€œSeñor, por favor,” Vega said changing his tune. His features went slack. “What was I thinking, my friends? Welcome to Maracaibo!”

5. “We will meet again.”
    T hree days after the capture of Maracaibo, a skiff flying a white flag of truce from its single mast left the protection of the fortress on Pigeon Island and skimmed across the bay toward the port. The occupants of the skiff—three soldiers, a boatswain, and Don Alonso del Campo—hardly spoke during the crossing. The boatswain was busy with line and rudder; Don Alonso was lost in his own sour thoughts; and the soldiers rode in glum silence with no wish to share their opinions of the governor who they were forced to accompany on this damnable excursion beyond the safety of the castle walls.
    The boatswain brought the skiff smartly about and trimmed the sail, allowing them to drift with the tide approximately a hundred yards from the waterfront. Knowing full well they were under the scrutiny of the cutthroats in the town, the Spaniards waited for the buccaneers to respond in kind.
    They didn’t have to wait long. Henry Morgan, with Sir William Jolly and half a dozen buccaneers, scrambled aboard a johnnyboat and rowed away from the pier. His crew put their backs into the work, plunged their oars into the tranquil surface of the bay. In the distance, a school of striped mullet broke their watery bonds and shot upward, gleamed silver in the sun, then landed with a slap and a splash, returning to the aquamarine sea. Morgan reveled at the sight, finding kinship with any animal yearning to be free.

    â€œKeep your eyes wide and your powder dry,” he cautioned.
    â€œPull, you beauties. If the work be too hard for you, perhaps you should have stayed back in Jamaica. I am sure Sir Richard Purselley could find you some suitable duties, swabbing out the governor’s chamber pots or tending to milady’s combs and ribbons!” Sir William exhorted. “Pull on them oars. Sure, and you’ve had enough practice pulling on ’em when the women weren’t about.”
    â€œCome and give us a tug, you old bilge rat,” one of the buccaneers retorted. “After the puta I bedded last night, you look pretty good.” Rafiki Kogi was a strong, rangy African, an escaped slave who years earlier had found emancipation among the Brethren. Naked to the waist, he displayed ebony flesh that glistened with sweat.
    â€œThere now, Mister Kogi, she was no doubt comely enough for the likes of you,” Morgan said with a chuckle. He was burned almost as dark as the African. The captain of this rough crew was simply dressed now, in butternut-brown breeches and a blousy shirt open to the wide leather belt circling his waist. He was armed with a pistol and a wicked-looking dagger whose curved blade resembled a steel claw, a weapon befitting the man called el Tigre.
    â€œComely … Mtu huyu ana wazimu —I swear she had a face like a barnacle!”
    Morgan and the others dissolved into laughter at Kogi’s expense. The African glared at them, finding not a trace of