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 cabinet. Opening its glass doors, he pondered his choices. ‘Brandy’, he thought. He poured a glass. Returning to his desk, he sat, sipped the brandy, and set the glass on the desk. He picked up Garret’s letter, unsealed it, and began reading.

Isla Tortuga

29 October 1599

Dearest Thomas,

I am afraid I may no longer be the woman you hopefully remember so fondly. Nor may William be the same man. All that has transpired since we last met in Cardiff could well have stained our souls. It now seems unclear whether we shall ever again be permitted to enter England freely.

I shall attempt to explain. I hope that by the time you have finished reading this letter, you will understand how it is that life can take you to places you never imagined, and shape you in ways you might once have thought impossible…

I

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

De Graaf walked toward the normally quiet, dingy tavern in Santo Pedro. Having been here twice with Harker, he was surprised at the mass of people pressed beyond the entryway and onto the dusty street. He wondered what could have drawn so many here to this tiny place in this decrepit little village.

Some who saw the large man coming made way. He pushed through the rest, ignoring their grunts of annoyance. Entering the tavern, the memory of his deceased partner flashed through his mind. Though he missed Harker, he recognized this was a new era. It presented an opportunity to claim his partner’s throne.

Watts and Dodd shared a small wooden table near the door of the heavily congested tavern. They came to Santo Pedro only when they had no choice; it always offered the lowest price for their fish. Still, it generally purchased whatever they had left to sell.

“Bloody crowd,” complained Watts. “Not a damn server in sight.” His warm, watered-down beer was near gone.

Dodd nodded in agreement, “The chatter suggests the locals were drawn here by news of that bloody pirate’s death. The one named Harker.” He spat on the floor as though Harker himself lay there.

“We heard that news a week ago,” smirked Watts. “These blockheads are just now finding out?”

“So it seems. One claims he once saw Harker here in this very tavern.”

“Your table,” growled De Graaf.

Watts looked up and down at the dark-skinned man, judging him to be over six feet tall. Broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, he was dressed entirely in black from his bandana to his new calf-covering boots. ‘This beast seems born of the damn shadows of the night,’ he thought. The long, greasy hair and full, black beard only served to darken the beast’s hardened face. The scars on it evidenced a history of savage combat. His piercing eyes threatened violence.

Watts rose. Dodd followed. They left both table and tankards. Watts watched as the beast sat, downed the contents of a tankard, and began scanning the room.

The crowd flowed as bodies moved and pressed. Some of that was intentional, as women known to oblige patrons with certain physical favors made openly delightful contact. One inebriated sailor stumbled backward, landing hard against the beast’s shoulder. The man’s beer showered the table. The beast rose instantly, grabbing the offender by the hair and whipping his dagger to the base of the drunk’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 drunk lurched forward, slamming into the two rugged-looking sailors he was with, both of whom were muscled and leather-skinned. 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 grasping the hilts of their cutlasses. The beast retook his seat.

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

Watts was intensely curious to see how the beast would react. Surprisingly, the dark man didn’t flinch or even look at the two Frenchmen, let alone respond. Slowly, deliberately, the beast sipped his beer with his right hand. Watts noticed him gripping the handle of his dagger with his left, beyond view of the sailors.

“Sur tes pieds, cochon noir!” yelled the larger Frenchman. His words generated a bustling shuffle of feet as several patrons pushed back. Voices hushed in a sweeping wave. Watts watched the beast rise, keeping 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 concentrated violence, 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 front 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, altering the shape of his skull. His body went limp. Silence suddenly prevailed.

Watts glanced at the Frenchman who’d been impaled by the dagger. He was on his knees, eyes wide, staring into nothingness. The beast withdrew his dagger from the man’s throat. Blood coursed through the opening. A back-handed fist to the temple toppled the dying man to the floor. The beast bent to wipe his blade on the Frenchman’s shirt—one side, then the other. Rising up, his beady eyes studied the stunned crowd. Watts averted his eyes, feeling himself shake involuntarily. One man who had vomited was pushed away by another, slipping on his own bile.

The beast retook his seat as though nothing of significance had transpired. He dragged the blade of his dagger back and forth along his thigh before raising it and looking it over. It gleamed even in the dim light. He ran his finger carefully along the edge. Watts and others watched in silence until the dagger was sheathed.

Two men moved forward, Their hands were 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 were dragged out the door. Slowly, the tavern rediscovered its voice, though the energy had been sucked out of it.

“Damn,” whispered Dodd.

“Thank God we gave up the table,” replied Watts.

“And our beer!”

Discussions within the crowd shifted, from the demise of the infamous Harker to the event they’d just witnessed. No one seemed to connect the beast with Harker. They were unaware he’d been with the dreaded pirate when he was skewered, or that he’d sworn to take revenge on Harker’s killer—Captain Garret Connachan.

II

Two weeks earlier…

The deep-pink blush spreading slowly across the horizon drove a free-ranging rooster to shatter the sleepy village’s calm. A dog barked in response, suddenly alert to the smell and distant voices of a handful of men rowing their longboat toward a ship anchored in the harbor of pirate-infested Isla Tortuga.

“Harder,” ordered the young and 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 named 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 the Pandora, where Garret was staying. He knew only two others were on the ship with her. One was a former street urchin named Scorpio. While the rest of the crew resided onshore during construction of their temporary quarters, Garret preferred keeping the girl onboard Pandora, beyond reach of the town’s poisonous culture.

The other person onboard Pandora was Spanish Viceroy Jorge Valdez, 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 knew Garret was also highly skilled in military arts.

“Hail, Pandora,” William yelled as his longboat came 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 arm; it was partially covered in dried blood. She walked past Musa and Caber. 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 pirates. He and his men aimed their pistols at the rail in case shots answered his call.

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

The crew secured their longboat 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 next to a canvas bag sewn loosely over what could only be a body. Coming near, he decided against reaching out to hold 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, 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.

William looked down in sadness at the heavily bloodied canvas covering the lump representing his departed friend. He asked 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 wasn’t here.” William’s mind quickly sought to put the pieces together. “Why just kill the Viceroy and leave?”

Caber stepped forward, “None left willingly.”

“How so?”

“By the time Musa and I arrived, the Cap’n and the Viceroy had taken care of all but one. We threw the dead bastards overboard, so they might wash ashore and send a message to the rest of Harker’s crew.”

“Including Harker himself?”

“I ended his life,” interjected Garret.

“Truth be told, Cap’n, he was still hangin’ on when we reached him,” explained Caber. “We weighed him down in chains and then threw him overboard. Thought it best he experience the horror of the sea’s wrath.”

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

“We did.” Caber paused. “It wasn’t all together.”

William was aghast. “Damn,” he yelled.

“His ear was missing. His arm was in pieces.”

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

“So, he was the one who escaped?” asked William, seeking confirmation.

“Yes.”

“And he 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.

“It was his dying wish.”

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 had ultimately become lovers. He marveled at her composure in dealing with it all. He placed his hand softly on her shoulder. “I am so, so, 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

The beer was warm; the hands nursing his tankard were moist. De Graaf’s ruminations on killing the Frenchmen had yielded to those regarding 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 enabled Harker to outmaneuver all other pirate captains. But now that he was gone, the door to the pirate crown was open. Though others would seek to claim it, De Graaf knew that inheriting Harker’s relationship with the Phantom would give his sails more wind. Still, he was worried. The only two times he’d met the Phantom, Harker 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 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 the Frenchmen.

Ortega was dressed down to avoid being perceived as anything other than an old seaman. 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 often included exclusive 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 beyond that, organizing outright thievery of some merchants’ cargo. He chose to arrange operations of that nature in small, out-of-the-way ports—a nondescript man in a nondescript village.

He'd met with Harker twice before in Santo Pedro, providing information and funding to help the pirate find and plunder sea-borne Spanish treasure. The return on his investments was significant. But, given Harker’s demise, his next best choice was the pirate’s half-Dutch, half-Black accomplice.

The bodyguards waited outside as Ortega entered the once-again raucous tavern. Taking a moment to scan the crowd, he spotted De Graaf. Neither man acknowledged the other. Ortega simply turned to De Graaf’s table and pulled back the open chair. “So, The Patch is gone,” he said, referring to Harker, who wore a blood-red patch over his dysfunctional eye.

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

“No doubt.” Ortega looked around. Not seeing a server, he pondered the left-behind tankard before him. He chose to pass.

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

Ortega had no interest in a discussion of revenge. He was here strictly to advance his financial agenda.

A young, half-caste girl came by, placing a pewter tankard of beer on the table. Ortega slid two pieces of eight her way. She reached for them. He caressed the back of her hand, gently. She smiled at the generous payment, leaving her hand until the shoddily dressed but well-groomed seaman withdrew his.

“Such a smooth hand,” the girl noted, seemingly surprised.

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 Spaniard from Inagua?”

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

“He shares a home with The Patch.”

Ortega wondered how he’d missed such important news. Had Governor Acuña known of the man’s death and buried any word of it?

De Graaf looked around. He reached inside his black doublet, withdrawing a small moneybag, looped at the top. He loosened the tie, reached in, and carefully slid something toward the Phantom under the palm of his hand. Ortega casually placed his own hand next to De Graaf’s, palm down. 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. It was similar to one worn by Governor Acuña. Initials were engraved on the inside. He couldn’t make them out in the dimness. He closed his hand and reversed the swap, saying nothing.

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

“It has only modest value,” Ortega sneered. He hadn’t come all this way simply to buy a gold ring, even if it did carry Philip’s image.

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 any actions he wished to take.”

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

De Graaf frowned, returning the moneybag to his doublet pocket. Ortega took another sip of beer, his mind processing the information. He relished the principal advantage he had over others—high intellect and quick thinking. He set his tankard on the table, continuing his thought process. De Graaf sipped his own beer.

Ortega leaned back. “There may well be opportunity here.”