Chance the Winds of Fortune Read Free

gentleman of leisure.
    â€œAye, that he is, and don’t you be doubtin’ it, young sir,” was Houston Kirby’s short reply to Alastair’s comments. “Although there do be some who question the gentleman part,” Kirby had continued, his tone of voice leaving little doubt what his opinion of his captain’s detractors was. “But the captain ain’t one for standing on much ceremony, exceptin’ when it comes to sailing his ship; then he’s the captain, and no one else. You do as he says, and you’ll be all right.”
    Alastair had taken heed of Houston Kirby’s advice and had never regretted the results. After close to an hour of conversation with the enigmatic man called Dante Leighton, during which time he felt as if he’d bared his soul to him, he had been asked to join the crew of the Sea Dragon . Alastair still swore to this day that there had been a twinkle in the captain’s eye when he’d asked if Alastair had ever thought about going to sea—voluntarily, of course—and then said that since the Sea Dragon was undermanned they could use a good hand. With the enticement the conversation had been concluded, leaving Alastair’s aching head spinning with more than just the cudgel’s bite. This condition was not lessened when the captain casually informed him that the Sea Dragon would be under sail by the end of the week. It had been no easy decision to make, and Alastair could still feel the sadness of standing on the quarterdeck and watching the familiar shores of England fade as the heavily armed brig caught the offshore breeze and sailed out into the English Channel toward what he’d thought at the time was an uncertain future. But then, at that time , he hadn’t known Dante Leighton very well.
    Now Alastair felt an insistent tugging on his sleeve and glanced down, blinking his eyes to clear them of the past as he stared into Conny Brady’s young face. The cabin boy’s eyes were as wide and blue as the sea. “Yes?” Alastair inquired, momentarily confused by the penetrating heat of the West Indian sun beating down on him instead of the cold drizzle of that winter’s rain eight years ago in Portsmouth.
    â€œThe cap’n says for you to tell me, Mr. Marlowe, about how he found that treasure map,” Conny repeated slowly, as if explaining to some dull-witted stowaway. “You know, Mr. Marlowe, sir, the clue to the map.”
    Alastair flushed slightly, wondering if the captain had been aware of his temporary lack of attention. “’Twas in a card game on St. Eustatius. There was the captain, the Dutchman, I think,” Alastair said, trying to remember the faces around the green baize table that night. “Bertie Mackay was there, I know that for certain, and a planter gent out of Barbados. But ’twas from the Danish slaver that the captain won the document. The captain had been having a good run of luck, and the Dane hadn’t, and so the Dane hands this yellowed piece of parchment across the table to the captain.”
    â€œThat was to cover his bet, Mr. Marlowe?” Conny interrupted, bright eyes aglow with the thought of the captain sitting at the card table with a winning hand.
    â€œAye, although ’tisn’t looked upon with much favor anymore,” Alastair continued dryly. “Too many forged treasure maps have been palmed off on too many gentlemen for them to take kindly to being hoodwinked. But to the other players’ surprise, the captain, after looking it over, agrees to accept the paper in payment if he wins, which he did,” Alastair concluded, as if there never had been any question that the captain would not.
    â€œWhat was written on the parchment, Mr. Marlowe?” Conny demanded and waited breathlessly for the supercargo’s answer.
    â€œâ€™Twas the last will and testament of some old Spanish foretopman. He’d been a member of the crew on