Forced Luck

By J. Allan Dunn

"Forced Luck" by J. Allan Dunn. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Dec 8, 2020
• ISBN: 4064066428686

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J. Allan Dunn

Forced Luck

Published by Good Press, 2020

[e-mail]

EAN 4064066428686

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

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THE flame of the fire leaped high, rocketing sparks into the air, fighting against the cold white moonlight. It checkered the brushwood in black and scarlet and painted the lower trunks of the palms that soared up from the heavy-scented bush. The moonlight frosted their plumy crowns and, beyond the fluctuating ring of firelight, changed the highlands of Tortuga del Mar into a mystery of ebony and silver. 'The narrow strait between Tortuga and Hispaniola and the broader scope of the Windward Channel showed like spilled mercury. On a rocky headland gleamed the orange lights of the fort where the governor, M. le Vasseur, held the island against the Spanish.

Over a second fire of charcoal, kept fierce by palm-leaf fans, the figures of the cooks attending to the broiling of two pigs that lay on wooden frames over the vermilion coals, were splashed by the same vivid hue as they passed to and fro. The gutted bellies of the pigs were kept open by sticks, the cavities stuffed with partridges, packed about with crushed pimientos and citrons, seasoned with salt and pepper. The savor of it broke down the fragrance of the bush, making the nostrils of the men who lounged away from the direct heat twitch with anticipation and their mouths water.

Half a hundred dogs, pendulous-eared and long-headed, part mastiff, part bloodhound, descendants of those imported by Columbus to hunt Indians, lay with their red tongues sliding eagerly back and forth over their white teeth, too well-trained to offer at a morsel uninvited, even though they had made the kill themselves.

The men were in three groups. The hunters, the actual boucaniers, kept apart from the engagés—their duly indentured apprentices—by right of caste and authority. The Indian guides stayed in the deep shadow between the boucans, the smoke-houses where the sun-dried meat was curing on wicker frames over fires of charcoal augmented by the fat, bones and skins of the cattle. Sphinx-faced, imperturbable, puffing at their pipes, they preferred to be alone.

The central fire was burning for light rather than heat. The tropic night was warm, and the buccaneers were almost as thinly clad as the Indians. They were all to leeward of the smudge that discouraged the attacks of mosquitoes. Some smoked, some drank as the bottles passed.

The moon’s overhead and no sign of him. If he’s stayed to eat at the tavern, hang me if I don’t carve it out of him. My belly’s wedded to my ribs. The voice was half-surly, half-jocular.

"The pork’ll give you an easy divorce. I’d be careful how I tackled ‘Lucky’ Bart. He’s a rare hand with knife and cutlas

. As for pistols, he can split the lead on a knife-blade at ten paces. He’ll be here, and in good time, never fear. He sent the same word to all of us. He was boucanier before he became filibustier

.

What of it?

"So he knows by instinct when the pigs will be done and he still likes porc boucanée better than any other meat. He’ll be coming up-wind, mind you, and he’ll march in on us just as the crackling is ripe. He’s a knack of arriving at the right minute, has Lucky Bart."

Aye, he’s been lucky enough, so far.

"He’s not the only one. Did you hear what King Louis did to Pierre le Grand when he reached France with the galleon he took off Cape Beata? The word came last week by the captain of the Celestine."

Took the gold away from him, like enough. It would serve him right for not spending it on Tortuga. We were not good enough for him to drink with, it seems.

"Peste! You are jealous as well as surly, Pierre. The king made a knight of him. Aye, and they rang the bells for him at Notre Dame de Bon Secours in Dieppe and held a high mass in honor of his victory over the Spaniards. Pierre is no outlaw. When he won from Spain he fought for France and the winnings were his. Bars of gold to the tune of a hundred thousand pistoles, to say naught of the value of the ship. But twenty-nine to divide it.

"There was a bold stroke for you, to sink his own boat and climb aboard the vice-admiral’s ship! Better than sweating in the bush and sweltering in the boucans for a few pieces of eight. So Lucky Bart comes in from sea with his pockets so full of gold it rolls out on the floor when he sits down. The women will not look at a boucanier while Bart and his men are in port. They say he chases men while we hunt cattle."

There are getting mighty few cattle left to hunt of late. And it takes three years for a calf to grow to meat.

A sudden clamor rose as every hound gave tongue, baying in bell notes, racing forward toward an opening in the bush and standing reluctant as their masters shouted at them.

A band of men came swaggering into the clearing. They were gaudily dressed with silken sashes beneath their broad leather belts, with silken kerchiefs binding their heads beneath the wide-brimmed, feather-decked hats. Each wore high boots of Spanish leather with the bucket-tops turned down to show hairy legs or silk hose beneath the wide, short breeches of striped patterns.

All carried pistols in belts and slings, all had cutlases, naked or in sheaths, according to the fancy of the owner. Earrings gleamed golden. Rings twinkled and a gem or two flashed in the firelight. They ignored the dogs which slunk back again, recognizing folk who understood them, if not actual friends.

Am I late, bullies all? I trust, at least, the pigs are not overdone. I like to see my stomach well-filled, as well as my purse.

A shout of laughing greeting went up from the buccaneers who crowded round the newcomers.

There are two hampers of wine close behind us, said Lucky Bart. As an aid to digestion. Tell me, are the pigs cooked? They smell like a breath of heaven.

Done to a turn.

The cook came up.

A dozen partridges to each porker. The gravy has oozed through the skin and the crackling is crisp and sweet as a palm-cabbage.

Good! Here comes the wine. Let’s fall to before we talk.

He was easily the dominant figure among his followers and the beef-smokers. Not over-tall but big without being clumsy. His gay raiment somehow became the man, though the others