A Pirate Flag for Monterey E-Book

Lester Del Rey

• Herausgeber: Thunderchild Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 149

Beschreibung

In 1819, the bustling colony of Monterey, California, faces an unexpected threat when Hypolite Bouchard, an Argentine corsair, sets his sights on the settlement's bountiful riches. Determined to strike a blow against Spain's New World possessions, Bouchard plans to sack and burn the town, claiming its gold, jewels, and food stores for Argentina.

Young Miguel "Mike" San Lucas Obanion y Boronda and his uncle, Captain Roger Obanion, learn of the impending attack while returning from the Orient aboard the merchant ship "Boston Belle." Racing against time to warn Monterey, their journey takes a perilous turn when they become prisoners of the pirates.

Based on true events, this gripping tale weaves together the lives of real and fictional characters, painting a vivid picture of California during a tumultuous period in history. As Mike and Captain Obanion struggle to break free and lead the resistance against Bouchard's invading forces, readers are transported to a land on the brink of change, where the actions of a few brave individuals can alter the course of history.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

A PIRATE FLAG FOR MONTEREY

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

DEDICATION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

A PIRATE FLAG FOR MONTEREY

LESTER DEL REY

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 1952 by Lester del Rey (renewed 1980).

Published by arrangement with Wildside Press LLC and John Gregory Betancourt.

All rights reserved.

Edited by Dan Thompson

A Thunderchild eBook

Published by Thunderchild Publishing

First Edition: May 1952

First Thunderchild eBook Edition: April 2015

Cover illustration by Howard Pyle.

DEDICATION

To

Helen Knight

CHAPTER 1

Fire in the Hold!

The wind was rising and the waves were growing rougher. The sails of the Boston Belle gave out a deep slapping sound as a sharp gust of wind filled them. The ship seemed to do a rough dancing step that rocked her masts from side to side. Then she settled down and began cutting through the Pacific toward California, leaving a boiling wake behind her.

The boy in the crow’s nest atop the mainmast lowered his telescope and braced himself more firmly against the rolling of the ship. Miguel San Lucas Obanion y Boronda hardly looked strong enough to carry his name. He was tall for his age — sixteen in another month — but almost too slim. Only the confidence on his alert, pleasant face showed that the slimness was matched by a wiry toughness that was better than any amount of heavy muscle. He brushed the light hair out of his blue-gray eyes, lifted the telescope, and again began scanning the horizon.

From the deck, busy sounds reached him, and he looked down once more. Men stood beside the capstan, leaning against the iron bars stuck in it; they were waiting for the mate’s orders to begin walking around it, winding it to lower the sails. His uncle, Captain Roger Obanion, stood studying the sails, figuring whether a strong wind was coming up that would make full sails dangerous.

Finally, the captain’s voice lifted, showing just a hint of worry. “As she goes. And hold her east-east by sou’-east.” He made a megaphone of his hands as soon as the orders had been repeated by the mate and helmsman and turned his face up to his nephew. “Ahoy, Mike. What sign of the pirates?”

“No sign of a sail, sir,” Mike called down. He swept the horizon to the west with his telescope again. Then, at a motion from his uncle, he came sliding down to the deck, while another sailor climbed up to replace him. “It looks as if we’ve outrun him.”

“Don’t you be counting on it,” Captain Obanion warned. He was a firm, heavy man, with a warm Irish face, thin, red hair, and huge, but gentle hands. “When we had a light wind, we could show his heavy Argentina a clean pair of heels. But he has the advantage when it starts to blow. Maybe, though, since we’ve lost him and night is coming on, we can reach Monterey before him. At least, it’s for that I’m hoping.”

He turned into his cabin with Mike behind him. Captain Obanion dropped into a seat before his desk and reached for the ship’s log. The page was open at the latest entry, dated for that day, November 13, 1818. Now he began adding details, the goose-quill pen leaving words behind as firm and strong as he was. But his face grew more worried as he wrote.

“If it was just the Boston Belle, now,” he said, “I’d head a point north to fool him, and we’d be safe enough. But it’s Monterey that’s worrying me. Not knowing of Bouchard’s coming — the poor fools are just sitting ducks for any freebooter with guns who comes along. Lad, we’ve got to get to Monterey before he does — we both know that; and that means I’m bound to head straight there — right along the course he’ll be taking.”

Monterey was Mike’s home, and his own worries had been growing for hours. Monterey held his mother and his friends. He had been thinking of that far more than of the ship. “But Bouchard wouldn’t hurt us, would he, Uncle Roger?” he suggested doubtfully. “You’re flying the flag of the United States, and he’s supposed to be part of the Argentine navy. Argentina isn’t at war with the United States — just with Spain.”

Captain Obanion sighed heavily. “No, lad, Argentina wouldn’t sink a merchant ship of the United States — but Bouchard would. He was always a pirate, and no new flag will change that. Besides, he’ll be knowing we may warn Monterey, and that he cannot permit. If he sinks us all without a trace, who’s to know of it? He can go on and loot your Monterey in comfort then.”

There was a knock on the door of the cabin, and a tall, lean-faced young man entered. Padre José Serra, distant relative of the priest who had first built missions in Upper California, was showing the same worry that the others felt. His ankle-length robe of dark wool seemed to hang on him unhappily, and his hands fumbled with the rosary that hung about his waist. He bowed his close-cropped head until the shaven circle on top showed baldly.

Captain Obanion shifted at once to Spanish that was nearly perfect, except for a faint Irish accent. “Buenos días, Padre. Our luck is holding up. The Argentinean pirate ships are out of sight.”

“My prayers have been answered then,” the young padre said, but the worry did not leave his face. “God has confounded the pirates as he must confound all who wrongfully try to rebel against the will of the rightful King of Spain. I heard your words, Captain. Pirate or not, what difference? The traitors who have mocked the King with their talk of freedom and founding an independent republic are not to be trusted.”

Obanion lifted an eyebrow. “We Americans rebelled against an English King who didn’t do right by us, and I think God was on our side. It seems to me, you trust us too. I have no use for Bouchard and his men, but why shouldn’t Argentina throw off the heavy yoke of your King Philip’s mistreatment? Why shouldn’t every honest man or colony have freedom?”

“Because Spain is the mother of Argentina, as she is of Alta California and Mexico. Without the wise rule from the mother land, we would be nothing; we would have no law or peace, only savagery and chaos!”

“Sure, now!” Obanion spoke in English, then switched back to Spanish. “Wise rule, indeed! Your missions are taxed until you nearly starve. You’re forbidden to trade with outsiders, and you padres have been forced to smuggle goods — against the law of your King, too — to such vessels as mine. Your colonists have been picked from the criminals of Mexico City, your soldiers are unpaid, and Spain cares nothing for you, except to take your riches and laugh at your troubles.”

“A misunderstanding. When the King learns the facts …” Padre Serra began.

But Mike was no longer listening. It was an old argument he had heard often before. He knew they were talking only to try to forget the present troubles.

The long night and morning of fearing seizure by Bouchard’s two ships had left no time for sleeping, and he was too tired to listen to the argument. It was still several hours before mealtime, and his eyes were too heavy to keep open. He stood up quietly, with a questioning look at his uncle. When Captain Obanion nodded, Mike went out of the cabin to his own little one across the passage.

But when he was stretched out on his bunk, sleep would not come. Now that they were so near Monterey and his mother, he was excited, even without the pirates.

As a boy, he had never even heard of Monterey. Mike’s life had been spent between Boston and Mexico City, so that he spoke English and Spanish with equal ease — as well as a little French the padres had taught him in school. Then, five years ago, when his Irish mother returned from a visit to her old Boston home aboard her brother’s ship, the Boston Belle, Mike’s Spanish father had announced that they were moving from Mexico City to Monterey on a mission for the Governor of Mexico. Captain Obanion had heard of the rich trade in sea-otter skins between Monterey and China. While they made ready, he worked his ship down South America, through the dangerous passage around the Horn, and picked them up at a Pacific port to carry them to their new home.

Monterey had become their real home almost at once, and they had no wish to return to Mexico. Even when Mike’s father had been killed by a snake-crazed horse three years before, they had stayed on with his distant relatives, the Soberanes family.

Then Mike’s uncle, Captain Obanion, had come back, suggesting Mike make the next trip with him. Padre José Serra had come along, partly to continue Mike’s schooling, but mostly to carry papers from the Mission of San Miguel to the missionaries in Manila in the Philippine Islands.

It had been a good trip, and a fast one. The cargo of sea-otter skins and tallow packed in bladders had been exchanged for China silk and beautiful handmade objects of art. They had touched Manila, and stopped at Honolulu on the Sandwich Islands to restock with water and provisions. There the double blow had fallen.

Another Boston ship was just in from trading at Monterey, against the King’s law, but necessary for the very life of the people there. Captain Obanion had visited it, and had come back with the news Mike’s mother was ill — there were no details, but she seemed to be quite sick. That had ruined Mike’s pleasure in the trip and had set Obanion to a feverish loading of stores to head for Monterey at once, at the fastest possible pace.

Then they had heard that two of the ships in the harbor were those of the pirate, Bouchard — the Argentina and the Santa Rosa. The colony of Argentina had rebelled against the Spanish King two years before, set up its own congress, and declared itself a free republic. It had beaten Spain at the Battle of Chacabuca a year before, and was now recruiting a navy to seize control of the sea from the mother country.

Among other ships, Bouchard’s two had been given letters of marque which gave them the right to sail as privateers in the service of Argentina. They were notorious as pirates, and this new legal right to loot and ravage was made to measure for them. Bouchard was taking on provisions to sail for Monterey and seize that city and Santa Barbara, with all the riches the pirates believed they would find there.

Obanion had made it clear what that would mean. It would be no military campaign, but an orgy of murder and theft and destruction, with absolutely no mercy. Unprepared Monterey might be wiped out completely.

They had taken off from Honolulu with the double need of warning Monterey and getting Mike to his mother. They had crowded on all canvas and used every trick to gain speed, but it had not been enough. Yesterday, only about three days from Monterey, the lookout had spotted the sails of two ships that looked like Bouchard’s. When Obanion had changed course, the pirate ships had followed.

Weather and Captain Obanion’s skill had saved them once. But now would it all be undone?

Mike pictured his mother, sick and crying for him. Then he saw visions of pirates and savages chasing her out, burning the house, threatening her life with knife and gun …

He groaned, and gave up. He could not sleep. He had to get up on deck where he could watch the ship cutting the waves and try to force her on faster by sheer will power. Mike sat up and began dressing. It was nearly mealtime now, and he picked up dress clothes he had brought with him, since Captain Obanion insisted he wear them part of the time instead of the rough sailor’s clothes. Mike was not to lose the feel and habit of clothes that suited a gentleman of Monterey. And Mike had to admit that they looked better on him than sailor’s clothes, even if they weren’t as comfortable.

There was an open-necked shirt of China silk, softly yellow, with wide sleeves, that buttoned close at the wrist. Over that he drew pantaloons with a slit from knee to ankle at the side of each leg, and with a heavy sash of pure white silk around the waist. He slipped his feet into soft broadcloth shoes, and pulled on a short jacket of heavy blue silk. He was just reaching for a hat with a wide, flat brim and low, rounded crown when a sudden yell sounded from above, followed by a sudden rush of feet hitting the boards of the deck.

“All hands on deck!”

Could Bouchard have caught up with them so quickly?

Mike dropped the hat and jumped into the passageway, behind the figures of his uncle and the second mate, Hawkins. They swarmed up the steps and through the hatch onto the deck, where men were rushing about in wild action.

Mike noticed that the sun was now showing it was already late afternoon, but he could see no sign of a sail. Then his ears caught the ugliest of all words on shipboard.

“Fire! Fire in the afterhold!”

Captain Obanion rushed forward, and Mike could see where the men were clustered.

Thick smoke was oozing up from the deck where the hatch was being attacked by men with axes. It was white and heavy-looking, with the acid smell of a fire burning with too little air.

“Hold!” Hawkins’ voice rang harshly through the yells of the men.

Obanion echoed it. “Hold with the axes! Leave the hatch sealed until we get buckets going!”

But it was too late. The big ax in the hands of one sailor came down, knocking the whole corner off the battened-down hatch. Smoke rolled up in a choking cloud, and a tongue of fire burst forth, reaching for the air that was now entering freely. The smoke odors were a mixture of wood smells and the stench of burning silk.

Obanion’s orders were beginning to bring some order out of the chaos. “Bo’sun, get men working on the bilge pumps — knock holes overside and into the hold below. Mr. Hawkins, get a bucket chain going. You — grab one of those buckets!”

The last was to a man who had suddenly turned to dive over the rail. Obanion’s hand wrenched the sailor back and tossed him twenty feet along the deck; Hawkins caught him with one hand, and shoved a full bucket at him with the other.

“Mr. Millard, get those sails down before the fire reaches them,” Obanion ordered the first mate. “Cut one up and get sailmakers to sewing canvas buckets out of it. Mike…!”

He saw that Mike was already in one of the chains, passing the heavy buckets down the line. The strongest men stood by the rail, dipping the empties into the sea and hauling them up with ropes; the filled ones moved from hand to hand until they were emptied into the hold and passed down another line. Hawkins was feeding two lines, and two other men each lifted for a single line.

Mike’s arms were aching in a matter of minutes. In a few more minutes, they seemed to be coming out of their sockets. Then numbness crept in, and the process became automatic. His hands jerked as the buckets moved on, but he could hardly feel it. Still Hawkins went on lifting two out of the sea for each one Mike passed along!

After what seemed like hours, the second mate’s voice snapped out sharply to them. “Full and empty lines exchange places!”

It helped some, but even the empties required too much movement of sore muscles. And the fire kept growing. It was now sizzling up too high for men to be near it, and the end men were forced to throw the water at it from a distance.

“Someone a-smoking where he ain’t no business being, that’s what must of done it,” a voice beside Mike kept repeating. “Someone a-killing us all in our beds, that’s what.”

The bo’sun suddenly erupted out of the forehold, reeling toward Captain Obanion, with his crew at his heels. Smoke was drifting off their clothing, and all looked nearer to death than any living man should.

“Spreading below, sir,” he gasped. “Smoke’s too thick — can’t man the pumps.”

“Tallow!” Obanion spat the word. “Those half-tied bladders that melted out when we were marooned. It’s in the wood, makes it like tinder. Get some air, Bo’sun, then get another bucket line going.”

Mike remembered the bladders that had been ruined in the hot days when they lay becalmed on the way to the Orient. Grease had seeped into the wood, and now was spreading the flames everywhere.

The buckets went on, but now the fire was too hot — most of the water was missing the burned-open hatch, and being wasted. Men couldn’t get close enough.

Obanion stepped back last, his face bitter with loss and defeat, but his voice as calm as if issuing routine orders. “Prepare to abandon ship!”

The buckets stopped coming, and Mike looked up, surprised to see the padre two men down from him, with sweat running off his shaven head in streams. Obanion caught Padre Serra’s arm and dragged him close to Mike.

“Mike, you and the padre go with Mr. Hawkins.”

Mike’s voice was a hoarse croak. “And you?”

“I go with the last boat,” Captain Obanion said. “Get to your station!”

The flames leaped up, hiding his uncle’s back as Mike followed Mr. Hawkins toward one of the frail little boats that were their only hope.