Pyrate Crossover

Buckland Abbey

Devon, England

1600

He rubbed his hand softly on the seal. Garret’s seal. This was as close as he’d been to her in more than a year. Though his trepidation over the letter’s contents ran deep, it was at least confirmation that his beloved friend was still alive—at the time of its writing.

He placed the letter on his desk, rose from his seat, and walked softly across the thick Persian rug toward the dark, cherry-colored cabinet. Opening its glass doors, he pondered his choices. ‘Brandy’, he thought. He poured a glass. Returning to his desk, he sat, sipped the gold liquid lovingly, and set the glass on the desk. He picked up Garret’s letter, unsealed it, and began reading.

Isla Tortuga

Southern Seas

29 June 1599

Dearest Thomas,

I am afraid I am no longer the woman you may remember so fondly. Nor is William the same man. I have heard it said that some events in your life carry the potential to stain your soul. It seems all that has transpired since last we met has done precisely that. As things now stand, it is unclear whether we shall ever again be permitted to freely enter England.

I shall attempt to explain. By the time you finish reading, I trust you will understand how it is that life can transport you to places you never imagined, and shape you in ways you never thought possible…

I

Being infamous was both good and bad for Harker, thought Yauggan De Graaf. The good—Harker’s legendary reputation as the most feared of all pyrates was now secure. The bad—he was dead.

Approaching the tavern in Santo Pedro, De Graaf recalled his prior visits here with Harker. The place was always quiet. And dingy. He frowned at the mass of people now pressed beyond the entryway and milling on the dusty street. ‘What could possibly draw so many here to this decrepit little shack in this nondescript village?’ he wondered. Their presence threatened his desire for privacy in the matter at hand.

Those who saw him coming gave way. He pushed through the rest, unmoved by their grunts of annoyance. Entering the smoke-hazed tavern, his deceased partner’s image flashed through his mind. Though he missed Harker, he recognized this was a new era—an opportunity to claim his partner’s throne.

Watts and Dodd shared a rickety wooden table near the door, oblivious to the fetid mix of sweat, stale grog and smoke permeating the faltering old shanty. Santo Pedro was generally their last resort since it only ever offered the lowest price for their fish. Still, it always purchased whatever stock they had left to sell.

“Bloody mob,” grumbled Watts, gazing into his tankard at the dregs of his beer. “No damn passage for the tavern girl.”

Dodd nodded. “Seems the locals were drawn here by news of that bloody pyrate’s death—the one called Harker.” He spat on the floor as though Harker’s body lay there.

“That news be a week old,” smirked Watts. “These bilge rats are just hearing it now?”

“So it seems.” Dodd sipped his beer. “One of them blokes claims he once saw Harker right here in this shanty.”

Their table jerked violently as a knuckled fist smashed hard on its top. “Your table,” growled the fist’s owner.

Watts looked up and down at the tall, dark-skinned man. Broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, he was dressed entirely in black, from bandana to calf-covering boots. ‘This beast was born of the damn shadows of the night,’ he thought. The long, greasy hair and full, black beard only darkened the beast’s hardened face. The scars on it evidenced a history of combat. His piercing eyes and scowling brows promised imminent hostility.

Watts rose, backing away. Dodd followed suit, abandoning table and tankard. Watts looked back as the beast sat, sipped from Dodd’s tankard, and scanned the room. He avoided the beast’s eyes.

The crowd flowed as bodies moved and pressed. Some of the pressing was intentional—women known to oblige patrons with physical favors offered openly provocative rubbing. One inebriated sailor stumbled backward, landing hard against the beast’s shoulder. His beer showered the table. The beast erupted from his chair, grabbing the offender by the hair and whipping his dagger to the base of the drunkard’s neck. “Lose your head again,” he snarled, “and you shall find it searching for the rest of your worthless body.” He shoved the man away, planting a heavy boot firmly on his buttocks. The man lurched forward, slamming into the two rugged-looking sailors he was with, both well-muscled. Watts could see they didn’t take kindly to the beast’s treatment of their friend, nor to the spillage of their beer that his collision caused. He watched them approach the beast’s table, hands on the hilts of their cutlasses. The beast had retaken his seat.

“Vous paierez pour vos actions, cochon!” announced the larger of the two sailors.

Watts waited excitedly for the beast’s reaction. But the dark man didn’t flinch, or even look at the two Frenchmen. He drained Dodd’s beer with his right hand….slowly. Deliberately. Watts saw the beast grip his dagger with his left hand, beyond view of the two would-be combatants.

“Sur tes pieds, cochon noir!” shouted the larger Frenchman. His words ignited a bustling shuffle of feet as patrons pushed away. Voices hushed. Watts watched the beast rise, his dagger hidden. ‘These two Frenchies are about to pay for calling him a black pig,’ he thought.

The larger Frenchman began drawing his cutlass. The beast thrust his left arm forward with aggression, hurling his dagger at the man’s throat. The penetrating blade entered up the full length of its spine, causing the man’s blood to bubble onto the bolster. His accomplice, stunned and frozen, was hammered across the bridge of his nose by the beast’s elbow. The crunching sound caused Watts to cringe as the man’s head spun to his left, spewing blood. He crumpled to the floor. The beast’s boot hammered forcibly onto his temple, re-drawing the shape of his skull. His body went limp. Silence smothered the tavern.

Watts glanced back at the Frenchman impaled by the dagger,

now on his knees, appearing to stare into nothingness. The beast withdrew his knife from the man’s throat. Blood coursed through the opening. A fist to the temple toppled the dying man to the floor. The beast bent down and wiped his blade on the Frenchman’s shirt. Rising up, he scanned the stunned crowd. Watts again averted his eyes, feeling his body shake involuntarily. A young man who’d vomited was pushed away by another and slipped on his own bile.

The beast retook his seat as though nothing had transpired. He dragged the blade of his dagger back and forth along his thigh before raising and inspecting it. It gleamed even in the dim light. He skimmed his finger carefully along the razored edge. Watts and others watched in silence until the dagger was sheathed. Two men moved forward, hands raised to indicate they were no threat. The beast nodded and watched as they grabbed the fallen Frenchmen by their armpits. Blood smeared the hard, earthen floor as the two bodies were dragged out the door. Slowly, the tavern rediscovered its voice, although its energy had been sucked dry.

“Damn,” whispered Dodd.

“Good we surrendered our table,” Watts whispered back.

Discussions among the crowd shifted from the demise of the infamous Harker to the beating they’d just witnessed. The two events were actually connected, Harker and the beast having been partners. But no knew this beast had been alongside the dreaded pyrate when he was skewered…or that he’d sworn to take revenge on Harker’s killer—Captain Garret Connachan.

II

Weeks earlier…

The deep-pink blush spreading slowly across the horizon drove a free-ranging rooster to shatter the calm. A dog barked in response, suddenly alert to the smell and distant voices of a handful of men. They were rowing their boat toward a ship anchored in the harbor of pyrate-infested Isla Tortuga, off the northern coast of Hispaniola.

“Harder,” ordered the young, virile captain, William Tovery. He worried for the safety of his commander, Garret Connachan. She’d sent him to a pre-dawn exchange with a man called Prince, at a secluded location. But while he was there, the distant crack of pistol shots emanating from the harbor drove him to cut the meeting short. He was rushing back to Garret’s flagship, Pandora, where she was staying. He knew only two others were on the ship with her. One was a former street urchin she’d rescued, named Scorpio. Garret preferred keeping the girl onboard Pandora, beyond reach of the village’s poisonous culture, while the rest of her crew resided onshore during construction of their temporary quarters.

The only other person onboard Pandora was Spanish Viceroy Jorge Valdez de Barragan, a lauded military commander and fierce soldier. Originally their prisoner, he’d long since earned Garret and William’s friendship. ‘Surely he and Garret together would be able to defend themselves,’ thought William. He’d witnessed many times just how highly skilled Garret herself was in military arts.

“Hail, Pandora,” William yelled as his longboat drew alongside. Dogs barked in response. Pigs snorted. The village’s natural alarm clock was now fully engaged. “Is anyone onboard?”

High above, on Pandora’s deck, an exhausted Captain Connachan was startled awake by William’s call. Scorpio, asleep at her side, stirred. Garret moved the girl’s head, placing it gently on the blanket she stuffed beneath it. Scorpio shifted her body.

Garret rose slowly, grabbing her sore arm; it was partially covered in dried blood. She walked past Musa and Caber who had earlier come to her aid. They, too, were beginning to rise.

“Hail, Pandora. Captain Tovery here. Declare yourselves.” William shouted it with authority, now fearing the ship might well be occupied by pyrates. He and his men aimed their pistols at the rail in case shots from above were to answer his call.

“I am here Captain Tovery,” Garret called out. “And safe.”

The crew secured their boat and followed Tovery up Pandora’s side. Their boots clopped along the wooden deck as they avoided the still-slick splatter of drying blood. William saw Garret and the others standing next to a canvas bag sewn loosely over what could only be a body. Coming near, he decided against reaching out to hold the young, auburn-haired Garret in his arms. She was his commander; it would have been out of place. He looked at her in sorrow. “Are you alright, sir?” he asked, properly acknowledging Garret as his superior.

“Everything appears to be in working order,” she smiled, grimly. “Scorpio is unharmed.”

William nodded toward the canvas-bound body, fearing the worst. Garret, on the verge of tears, sniffed and looked away, “The Viceroy,” she said, her voice stuttering. William looked down in sadness at the heavily bloodied canvas covering the lump representing his departed friend. He prayed silently for God’s blessing of the man’s soul.

Scorpio was now up. Garret patted the girl’s head. William turned to them, “What bloody Hell took place here?”

“Harker and several others assaulted us after you left.”

“I am sorry I was not here,” William unnecessarily apologized, his mind quickly seeking to put the pieces together. “But…why just kill the Viceroy and leave?”

Caber stepped forward, “Only one bastard left on his own.”

William looked around at all the blood. “So it would seem.”

“By da time Musa and I come aboard, the Cap’n and the Viceroy had kilt all but one.”

“De Graaf,” specified Garret.

Caber continued, “Threw seven dead bastards overboard, we did. They be washin’ ashore soon. It be a proper message to da rest o’ Harker’s crew.”

“Harker too?” queried William.

“I ended his miserable life,” interjected Garret.

“Truth be told, Cap’n, he be still hangin’ on when we reached him,” explained Caber. “We laid chains on ’im and threw ’im overboard. Thought it best he taste the sea’s wrath.”

Garret had nothing to add. William looked to Caber, trying to complete the puzzle, “You sewed up the Viceroy’s body?”

Caber nodded. “Both pieces of it.” He shook his head, slowly.

William was aghast. “Damn,” he yelled.

“His ear be missin’. ’Twas his arm was in pieces.”

“De Graaf took Jorge’s ring as well,” added Garret.

“So De Graaf slew the Viceroy,” William uttered in disgust.

“Not exactly,” replied Garret, her eyes now watering. “Jorge was barely alive when I found him. He pleaded with me to end his misery.”

“My Lord”, gasped William.

“His dying wish,” added Garret.

Thoughts and memories of his fallen friend weighed heavily on William. He could only imagine how Garret must have felt. Originally commissioned by Queen Elizabeth to eliminate the Viceroy, she and Jorge eventually became lovers, or so it seemed. He marveled at her composure in dealing with it all. He placed his hand softly on her shoulder. “I am so very sorry.”

Garret turned to Caber. “Let us prepare for the Viceroy’s burial. Now. His death must remain a secret. We cannot afford to have King Philip learn his friend was slain onboard an English vessel.”

III

Though the beer was warm; the hands nursing the tankard were moist. De Graaf’s ruminations on killing the two Frenchmen had yielded to those concerning the upcoming meeting with his partner’s investor. He recalled Harker’s words, ‘Little goes on in and around Cartageña that the Phantom doesn’t have his hands, eyes or ears on.’ That included the flow of cargo-rich merchant ships to and from Spain. The Phantom’s information had proven immensely valuable to Harker, enabling him to outperform other pyrate captains. But with his partner now gone, De Graaf needed to secure the affiliation with the Phantom. After all, the door to the pyrate crown was open. Many would seek to claim it. Gaining the Phantom’s trust would give his own sails the wind advantage. Still, he worried—both times he’d met the Phantom, Harker had led the discussion. He now faced negotiating a deal as a half-Black man in a white man’s world.

Felipe de Heredia y Ortega and his two bodyguards muscled through the crowd outside the Santo Pedro tavern. Ortega, known to some only as Fantasma [the Phantom], stepped over the two bodies lying on the ground, where the crowd had yielded space. Almost an hour had passed since De Graaf dispensed with them.

Ortega was dressed as a seafarer, to avoid being perceived as anything other than that. In reality, he was wealthy beyond measure and politically well-connected. Some who were close to King Philip II of Spain drew on him for intelligence regarding activities in Cartageña and, more broadly, the Southern Seas. In return, they provided advance information on the movement of merchant ships. That was often accompanied by exclusive first rights to purchase goods being shipped to Spanish settlements on the Main and throughout the islands. But Ortega saw no harm in using the information to further his financial interests in covert ways—organizing outright thievery of some merchants’ cargo. He chose to arrange operations of that ilk in small, out-of-the-way ports, a nondescript man in a nondescript village. Ortega’s only concern these days was King Philip’s death. His son, Philip III, was young and had no relationship with him.

Santo Pedro was where Ortega chose to provide Harker with information and funding to help the pyrate find and plunder sea-borne Spanish treasure. The return on those investments was significant. But given Harker’s demise, Ortega’s only choice was the pyrate’s half-Dutch, half-Black accomplice—De Graaf.

His bodyguards waited outside as Ortega entered the once-again raucous tavern. Taking a moment to scan the crowd, he spotted De Graaf, approached his table and pulled back the open chair. “So, The Patch is gone,” he said, referring to Harker, who’d taken to wearing a blood-red patch over his dysfunctional left eye.

“It was a brave ending,” De Graaf responded.

“No doubt.” Ortega looked around. Not seeing a server, he pondered the leftover contents of an unattended tankard before him. He chose to pass.

“The score will be settled. In time,” offered De Graaf.

A young, half-caste girl approached, placing a tankard of beer on the table. Ortega slid two pieces of eight her way. As she reached for them, he gently caressed the back of her hand. She smiled at the generous payment, leaving her hand until the overweight and shoddily dressed, though surprisingly well-groomed, seaman withdrew his.

“Such a smooth hand,” the girl noted.

Ortega smiled back. “Bless you, child.” He turned to De Graaf as the girl left, “You asked that we meet.”

“You know of the missing Viceroy from Inagua?”

Ortega sipped from his tankard and set it down. “Valdez.”

“He now shares a home with The Patch.”

Ortega wondered how he’d missed such important news.

De Graaf looked around, reached inside his doublet and withdrew a small moneybag. He reached in and then carefully slid something toward the Phantom under his palm. Ortega placed his own hand next to De Graaf’s. The swap was executed smoothly. Ortega slid back his arm and moved his hand below the table. He turned and opened it, revealing a ring bearing the King’s image. He closed his hand and reversed the swap, saying nothing.

De Graaf discreetly returned the ring to its bag. “The Vicroy’s,” he noted. “Does it interest you?”

“It has modest value,” Ortega sneered.

De Graaf pressed his case, “It has value far beyond the gold itself. The holder might use it to feign the King’s endorsement of certain actions he wished to take.”

“I am no fool,” Ortega retorted. “Such actions could well lead to the holder being outed and imprisoned.”

De Graaf frowned, taking another sip of his beer.

Ortega quietly processed the information. He relished the principal advantages he had over others—high intellect and the ability to transform information into gold. He sipped his own beer and then set his tankard on the table. He leaned back. “There may be some opportunity here.”